During this series, I’ve brought you stories of poltergeists, residual hauntings including sightings and auditory phenomena, all of which I’m at a loss to explain. (Don't worry if you've just stumbled here, there are links to previous posts at the end of this one!)

The other thing I mentioned was an intense sensation of being watched. Scrutinised by invisible eyes that left me with little doubt that my presence was not welcome.
 
One day at the Royal Oak (and not at the Hotel where I experienced that feeling), my parents were alone and got a very similar feeling. Enjoying the experience about as much as I did when I felt the same thing many years later, they decided to go out. As they were about to climb into the car, my uncle, the DJ in the nightclub, returned from an errand.
 
“Don’t mention anything,” dad quickly whispered to mum. “We’re just going to the shops to buy a newspaper, would you like anything?” he asked my uncle.
 
The reply came in the negative and off they went. When they returned some thirty minutes later, my uncle was sitting outside, alone.
 
“What are you doing out here?” dad asked, innocently.
 
“I’m not going in there,” my uncle replied. “There’s somebody in there.”
 
Another bizarre event at the pub took place when dad was upstairs and mum nipped downstairs into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She suddenly heard a very familiar and distinct sound: my grandmother shouting my dad’s name. The only issue was my parents were alone: my grandmother was on holiday in Scotland.
 
My mum was shaken (naturally), when my dad came downstairs you’d imagine that it would calm her a little. And I’m sure it would have, had my dad’s first words not been “You won’t believe what I’ve just heard…”
 
Of course, he reported the exact same thing.
 
As haunted as the Royal Oak was, in all the time I was there, I only ever personally experienced one event. At the bottom of the stairs, where the brass-topped table sat, I heard the distinct sound of footsteps coming from upstairs. The highwayman. At the time, the only other person at the pub was my mum, and she was in the kitchen next to me. Naturally, I fulfilled the classic horror movie trope and headed upstairs to investigate. Of course, there was nobody there.
 
In my experience when it comes to stories like this, people tend to fall into three distinct categories:

1. Those who are convinced that whenever something weird happens, it must be paranormal: they already believe, and the story you’ve told further confirms their belief.
2. Those who are convinced it is not paranormal: the people telling the story are either confused, exaggerating or dishonest. Or they take the story at face value and try to explain the events away, sometimes using more implausible reasoning than the events of the story itself.
3. Those who have a genuine interest in realistically coming to a satisfactory explanation of the story: they find the story fascinating and would like to do nothing more than satisfy their own curiosity.

 
Category 1 are believers. Category 1 people annoy those from Category 2 who see themselves as rational. Sceptics. Not taken to flights of fancy and living in the land of the fairies. People from category 2 annoy those from group 1. Group 2 will be sad to hear that they annoy those from group 3 as well. The reason being those from category 3 are the true sceptics.
 
If you’re category 2, you’re a debunker. I’m sorry to tell you that you can come across as deluded, almost as much as those folks you love to mock in group 1. If you’re from category 2 you try to shoe-horn the story you’ve just heard into a box where it doesn’t fit. Making the story fit the science and not vice versa. Every slamming door is a gentle breeze and every UFO report, swamp gas and weather balloons. Weather balloons that cross the night sky in a zig-zag pattern in a matter of seconds. Poltergeists are earthquakes. Earthquakes that only affect one item in one room.
 
Coming to these conclusions is unscientific, and rather than solve the problem, you skip over it, missing an opportunity to genuinely come to an understanding that wasn’t previously considered.
 
There have been studies that show low-level sound frequencies can bring about the fleeting sense of movement in peripheral vision, and even feelings of revulsion and dread. Tested. Repeated. That is science. If these feelings had been written off as delusion, that would be something undiscovered.
 
Low level sound doesn’t explain stories of disembodied footsteps, or situations where loved ones have heard the voices of a family member holidaying in another country.
 
As it stands, we have no explanation for that. And that suits me just fine.

Just in case you've read these posts out of order like some massive weirdo, here's the links for the rest of the series! The Royal Oak...
Part One: The Room
Part Two: The Highwayman
Part Three: The Bar
Part Four: The Cellar

The Hotel...
Part One: The Flat (1)
Part Two: The Flat (2)
Part Three: The Kitchen
Part Four: Reception

This is the moment where if we were watching a movie, you’d get a montage. Don’t worry with why they want me, I’m getting there. So, montage. Three months of training. Driving with Sadie. Stunt driving around/through the hangar in the cars and the van. Fitness and combat with Dax in the corner gym. Weapons with Iggy. It all goes well. Ups and downs. I get a six-pack (can you believe that shit?!). I teach them to navigate their way around a computer. That doesn’t go so quick. Dax is pretty good. Iggy is fucking hopeless. I’m a lousy shot, so we’re even. Anyway, Dax wants us all to be able to step in, do each other’s shit, in case we get in trouble. Trouble-trouble.

Now, Mr (or Mrs) Impatient, the why. You asked, I’m telling you. But it ain’t nice. Dax told me one dark night in the dim confines of our cold living space, rain pounding off the hangar roof, and when he did, I threw up. I’m not ashamed to tell you that. If you really want to know, read on.

There are some fucking sick people in this world, and in my humble opinion, we’re dealing with the sickest. Not those greedy fucks that kill people who develop alternative energy which would break our reliance on the fossil fuels that are fucking up the planet. Yes, that really happens. Don’t be so fucking naïve. Look it up. Not those disingenuous pricks who tell us that Country X is bad, or that Leader Y has to be removed ‘for democracy’ or to ‘preserve our national security’, so that we send our bright young things to kill someone they’d otherwise have no beef with. Yes, those people exist, both in government and in media. Christ, read a book once in a while. And shut of your TV, that fucking thing will poison your mind till you can’t tell up from down.

No, as much as I’d like to, we’re not dealing with them. We’re dealing with worse.

So we all get these birthmarks, right? The birthmark tells us in which year of life we will die. It helps us plan things. Like Last Parties. It helps us deal with bereavement. There are actually a lot of positives. Just like any other positive shit, a small group of people fucking ruin it for everyone else, because people are assholes.

Picture this delightful scenario: somebody goes missing. The cops put a lot of effort into finding that person. A lot. But if two people go missing, one with a lot of time left and one with a little time left, who do you think the cops focus on? Sucks, I know, but in the harsh reality of the real world, it kinda makes sense in its own perverse way. If somebody has twenty, thirty plus years of life left, they’ll put more effort into that person’s recovery. Sure, there’s a strong argument, a Hulk plus Superman strong argument that those with less time should get more resources spent on their recovery, but we’re talking harsh reality now. This is dark. I warned you. I feel sick telling you this, but if a kid goes missing, and that kid only has a year or two left… They are almost society’s forgotten people. It’s heart-breaking, but it’s real. The cops tell you it ain’t so, but you meet enough cops who can’t take it so they commit a slow alcohol-related suicide that’ll tell you otherwise.

Because of this shitty part of our reality, young children with single-figure birthmarks are targeted for kidnapping. A lot. The statistics are out there, but nobody likes to see them. It’s ignored like the vanishing inventors who don’t want us to kill the planet, and the wars we fight because we’re (and here I mean YOU’RE) brainwashed into thinking it’s right. Taken by who, for what purpose? I don’t know for sure, but your mind kinda jumps to the worst fucking possibility.

This is what Dax told me before my training. Motivation. Hence, six-pack.

“So what are we doing? And why do you need me?”

“The people who take the kids aren’t the ones who use the kids.”

The word ‘use’ makes me want to throw up again.

Iggy pipes up, “We kill the kidnappers, that’s great, but there’ll always be more of those ready to step in and replace them.”

The kidnappers are those with short-expectancies wanting to leave something behind for their families. Fucked up. I’ve seen where they’re going, don’t worry.

Sadie says, “But if we follow them, we can get names, faces. Information.”

And that’s where I come in. “So you want me to find out how high up this shit goes? And then what?”

Dax smiles. “Then, my brother, we take them down.”

Read Part Five of INFINITY (where our heroes get down to business) here!

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Last time at the Royal Oak, we talked about the bar. The busy bar was almost the full length of the far wall of the large open space. Behind the bar were two doors. The first led to the kitchen. The other was an old wooden door which led to the cellar. Inside the door were two stone steps leading straight into a square room with only one other entrance: double doors to the left where beer deliveries were received. The remote location and need for security meant these doors were always locked unless there was a delivery (the cellar was also where expensive bottles of spirits were kept, so it would be a quick way to lose a lot of money quickly if left unlocked).
 
One thing of the first things you’d notice on entering the cellar, besides the large barrels and chilled air, were electrical sockets. One by each barrel of beer. To help thirsty customers get their hands on ice cool beverages ASAP, the bar was fitted with electric beer pumps. Place a glass under the tap, flick a switch and a half a pint is poured. Flick it again and Hey, Presto! a pint. Ideal when the round was a mixture of beers and spirits. Leave the glass under the tap and mix a double Jack and Coke or whatever. Because it was so busy it common to see several of the taps going at the same time.
 
In the middle of the chaos of a Friday night shift, the place is packed, disco music is pumping, dancefloor jumping, and of course, beer is flowing.
 
That’s when our night in question takes a turn for the weird.
 
The music is still playing. The dancefloor is still jumping. The problem is the beer. The flow has stopped. All of the pumps have stopped at exactly the same time. The music is still playing, so it’s not a power cut. So what is it?
 
Several bar staff desperately start flicking the switches up and down. Nothing. So the problem must be in the cellar.
 
Upon entering the cellar, everything seemed normal. Nobody there. Kegs all aligned in their usual ‘L’ shape along the walls, no bottles missing, and those all-important double doors still locked. Then they see it.
 
Every plug to those electric beer pumps, spaced over a distance of a few yards, has not just been switched off, but completely removed from the wall. At the same time. Unplugged.
 
Every. Single. One.
 
After a few moments nonplussed, the plugs were reinstated to their working positions and normal service resumed. A problem easily solved. But to anyone working that night, it was a problem not so easily forgotten.

Have you experienced anything spooky yourself? Seen a ghost? UFOs? Let us know in the comments! As always, I’d like this to be a serious discussion, so no jokes, memes, etc. And please be respectful of others!

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