Psychometry

Life had not been sweet for Rosie Sinclair. She was intelligent, and her early academic skills hinted at a brilliant future for the girl. The University lecturers, who gloated over her to strive for the ultimate achievement, had encouraged her in her advancement. She could have anything she wanted, they had relayed to her, but Rosie was not so ambitious. All she ever wanted was to be an ordinary woman, with an ordinary husband, with ordinary children, and living an ordinary life.

    What Mother Nature had so generously bestowed on her was negated by her unnatural and uninvited gift. The gift, as it had been portrayed by countless qualified psychologists, psychoanalysts and psycho anything else you can care to name, was like an albatross around her neck. Psychometry they called it; the ability to see things through given objects.

    As a child, Rosie was ignorant of her powers. Were not all children like this, she used to ask herself? Occasionally, she would pick up a child’s ball or toy for instance, and be able to visualize that child’s occurrences from the past. She was mocked by other children, rather than acclaimed, and branded a freak.

    After word had spread about her gift, the media circus and the so-called therapists moved in, and she became a celebrity overnight. The police took the opportunity to exploit her talents. and recruited her, in order to solve numerous crimes. She had become the human bloodhound.

    Rosie, one day decided she wanted out of London. She wanted to blend into society; melt away from the prying hypocrites and glory-seeking specialists. Her parents, though distraught at her decision, understood her reasons for leaving.

    Her new life would begin shortly after her twenty-second birthday. She had an aunt in Cornwall, who was recently widowed. What better place to secrete than the wide expanses of Cornwall? Her aunt welcomed her and promised never to mention the gift.

    In Trewithian, Rosie was just another ordinary girl, a welcome addition to the normal, everyday life in this small town. Rosie was now happier than she had ever been. She had met a local lad, and she cherished every spare moment that she had with Ronnie. True, she still had the visions, but the lives of these gentle, cultivated people offered her no threat, as the apparitions were of trips to the seaside and jaunts in the countryside.

    Rosie had found work, not as a doctor or a scientist as her lecturers had hoped, but as a barmaid. She soon established herself in this tranquil community, and for the first time in her life, she was glad to be alive. Rosie's popularity was expanding with everyday, as she had become a sort of agony aunt of the Golden Pheasant. The punters would bring over their uncompleted crosswords to the bar, or perhaps their tax returns for Rosie to fill in for them.

     “You be too clever for this job, missie,” they would say.

    Rosie was plain looking in every way. Some say her hazel eyes were too close together and her nose was too wide. Rosie had promised that one day she would have her crooked teeth straightened. One feature she was proud of was her long, straight-auburn hair. Before going to bed, she would make a point of passing the hairbrush through it one hundred times.

    Yes, Rosie was finally content. She had acquired her obscurity from the inquisitive, uncaring society. However, her tranquillity did not last for long. A chance encounter with a customer was about to change her life forever.

 

    It was a glorious summer evening, and Ronnie, this strapping farmhand with long, dark hair had captured her heart. He was sprawled across the bar, in deep conversation with Rosie, attempting to woo the city girl.

    A scruffy looking man entered the Golden Pheasant and was standing looking around the bar, as people turned their heads away from him. He was an odd-looking, chubby character, cock-eyed and with protruding teeth. His pale face was riddled with so many freckles. He was wearing an old combat jacket, a soiled white tee shirt and tattered jeans.

     “Oh no,” exclaimed Ronnie, when he saw the reflection of the character through the mirror behind the bar.

    Rosie frowned as she watched the forlorn stranger shuffle towards her. “And what can I do for you, sir?”

The stranger wiped his runny nose and smiled, not the smile of someone with an ounce of acumen. “A glass of cider.” It was a demand, rather than a request.

    Rosie poured the cider and placed the glass on the bar. “That will be two pounds and thirty pence please.”

    The bemused looking man picked up the cider and emptied the glass in one greedy swallow.
    Ronnie tried hard to not laugh as he watched Rosie.

She wondered what was so amusing, and frowned at her boyfriend. The stranger turned away and shuffled towards the exit.

    “Excuse me please… Excuse me!” shouted Rosie.

    The odd-looking man turned to her.

    Rosie repeated her request. “Two pounds and thirty pence please?”

    He smiled at her, a pathetic smile. “Oh, I'm so sorry. “He removed his wallet and fumbled inside for the money. A multitude of coins fell to the ground and Ronnie giggled loudly.

    Rosie tried to contain herself, realising the joke. This must be the village idiot. He scrambled on all fours, collecting the coins and mumbling to himself. Eventually he struggled to his feet and looked at Rosie, a blank stare on his face.

    “Here, let me help you,” she said, holding out her hand for the wallet.

    A surge of power ran through her body when she grasped the wallet. She gasped and stepped back, knocking some of the bottles over.

    “Rosie, are you all right?” asked Ronnie, rushing to her aid.

    Vivid-coloured, flashing lights had invaded her peaceful sanctuary. Rosie saw children’s faces, intermittently paraded in her thoughts. She slumped to the ground holding her head, She was now in a large circular room; a room with a red light projecting sporadically on the white walls. She moved around the room, her eyes fixed on several objects that were set out on the rickety shelf. She edged closer towards the objects and saw that they were bowls; tiny bowls with lighted candles inside them. The flickering flames blended with the red light, giving off an aura not unlike Santa’s grotto, only this was not Santa's grotto.

    She was now standing just inches from the bowls, and the horror crept in uninvited, like a stab in the heart. She made out the tiny faces adorning the bowls and screamed. When she came round, several people were standing over her.

    “Rosie, are you okay?” asked Ronnie.

    She was passed a glass of water and drank thirstily. She looked at the wallet in her hand and realised that her nightmare had begun once more.

 

    Rosie was unusually quiet that night, as she sat by the fireside, sipping her cocoa. Her Aunt Helen left her gazing at the television and made her way to bed, content in the fact that Rosie had recovered from her blackout.

    Rosie's eyes were attracted to the gyrating flames of the coal fire, and she shuddered at the afterthought of the images. The strange man had left the Golden Pheasant unnoticed, and without his wallet.

    Her attention was distracted by the reporter on the television, telling of yet another child abduction in Cornwall. The photograph of a ten-year old boy was projected onto the screen, and Rosie gasped, crying loudly. It was one of the children she had seen in her vision. Eight children had now vanished from Cornwall in the last two years.

    Rosie closed her eyes and tried to envisage the gruesome scene again, but without the wallet, she was helpless. Ben, the landlord of the Golden Pheasant had placed the wallet in his safe, until the man decided to return for it.

    Rosie did not get much sleep that night. She acknowledged that she could not overlook her ordeal. Rosie reported for work that next afternoon, insisting that she was fine. Her thoughts were divided, and she was in conflict with her emotions. Should she go to the police and report her findings, no doubt projecting her back into the public spotlight, or should she ignore it, and feel the guilt, as another young victim was added to the macabre shelf? Rosie decided on a third option. She would find this house of horror herself.

 

    “Are you sure you be okay, Rosie?” asked Ben, cleaning a glass.

    “I'm fine, Ben… Tell me, that man last night…the one who left his wallet. Who is he?”

    “You mean Barney Chapman? Oh, he’s harmless enough. Not all there though. Not firing on all cylinders, if you get my meaning.”

    “Where does he live, Ben?”

    “Oh, he lives with his brother, George. They have a small farmhouse in St Austell.”

    “So why does he come in here?”

    “He be an attendant at St Anthony’s.”

    “St Anthony’s?”

    “Yeah, the lighthouse. You must pass it everyday on the way to your aunt’s cottage.”

    “A lighthouse!” She saw in her mind the rotating, red light. “Ben, give the wallet to me. I'll drop it off on the way home this evening.”

    “The lighthouse is closed to the public, Rosie. It’s been closed for many a year now.”

    “Is there access to the lighthouse from the land?”

    “Aye. There’s a footpath leading up to the lighthouse, but there’s a restriction on it, due to foot and mouth disease... Besides, Barney is only in the lighthouse occasionally. It’s automatic you know.”

    Rosie was adamant. “I'll drop the wallet off, Ben. If he’s not there, I’ll give it back to you first thing in the morning.”

    “Well, if you be sure, Rosie?”

    “I've never been so sure in my life, Ben.”

 

    The sun was low in the sky, as Rosie struggled against the strong sea breeze. The gusty conditions attempted to prevent her from making progress along the rocky footpath, which led towards the lighthouse. She tasted the saltwater on her lips, as she ducked beneath the foot and mouth warning sign. The shrill scream of the pristine, white seagulls and the breaking of the tide on the rocks accompanied her on her way.

    Rosie stopped at another sign, warning of no access to the public. She looked up at the giant, white structure, protruding from the rocks, like an enormous, phallic symbol. When she saw the waves crashing against the lighthouse, she wished that she had checked the tide times, as this was the last place on earth she would wish to be stranded.

    She gripped the cold iron railing and looked up towards her destination, before advancing cautiously. Rosie climbed the steps, trying not to look down, her fear of heights forgotten for now.  Her legs ached with the long climb, and at last, she reached the door to the lighthouse.

    She fumbled in her shoulder bag for the can of mace, and for some foolish reason she shouted. “Hello, Is anyone at home?” She waited for a reply that was not forthcoming. Her upbringing and polite nature compelled her to shout again. “Hello. Anybody?”

    She tried the door, half expecting and hoping that it would be locked, but it was surprisingly unlocked. The coldness of the interior of the lighthouse was the first thing she noticed, and then the rotating, red light that was being reflected around the room.

    She closed the door and advanced cautiously, experiencing a feeling of deja vous. The musty and putrid odour of the white room was not pleasant to her, as she covered her nostrils with one hand and held the mace at the ready with the other. Her eyes traced where she had looked the day before, and knew what was to come. The room was dimly lit, but there was no mistaking. The rickety shelf with the candlelit bowls would not leave her thoughts.

    She smiled slightly, as if to reassure herself. Perhaps they were novelty candleholders. That's it! She would have a closer look and no doubt laugh when she realised her mistake.

    Rosie advanced towards the objects, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, as if she was walking a tightrope. She swore that she could hear her heartbeat accelerating when she was standing inches away from the bowls, her lips quivering uncontrollably. Her cold hands reached out for one of the candleholders and she felt the fleshy substance, as she brought it close to her face. It was the face of a young child…a girl. The eyes were open and appeared to be pleading for help. Rosie sobbed, noticing the rough-cut marks, where the top of the head had been hacked away. She replaced the skull on the shelf carefully, as if not to hurt the child.

    She sobbed uncontrollably, imagining the sad chorus of the lifeless victims joining in. The red light lit up the faces intermittently, as if introducing each child to Rosie. The shadow on the wall interrupted her mourning, and she felt a warm trickle running down her leg. She heard his breathing, and her hands trembled, when she turned to face a grinning Barney Chapman, the saliva hanging from his lips.

    She shook her head and was rendered speechless, attempting to focus on the cock-eyed, drooling monster.

    “Why have you come here, missy?” quizzed Barney.

    “I’ve b-b- brought your wallet back,” she stuttered.

    The conversation, she realised was pointless. She had ventured into his den of horror, and she had to react swiftly if she wanted to leave there alive.

    The obese Barney took a step towards her, and she instinctively sprayed the mace into his face. He screamed loudly, a childlike scream. He fell to his knees and Rosie ran for the door. She heard Barney whimpering when he struggled to his feet and made after her, his hands vigorously rubbing at his stinging eyes.

    Rosie heard herself breathing heavily; as she jerked open the door, the welcome air refreshing her. She slipped on the grimy surface and looked back to see Barney squinting, his red eyes trying hard to focus on her.

    “Bad, bad lady… You hurt Barney!”

    She scrambled to her feet and kicked out, Kung-Fu style, connecting with his midriff. He lost his balance and fell backwards, hard against the railing. Rosie watched in shock, as the big man toppled over the railings, disappearing from view. She dashed to the railing and peered down at the rocks, in time to see Barney’s once menacing frame crash against the rocks below. She gazed at his lifeless body as the sea around him turned red, before he was washed away to the depths of hell.

    Rosie was confused. Her options now did not appeal to her. If she reported the incident, she would no doubt be asked how she knew of the lighthouse. She felt that she owed it to the children, but her apparent crime made her hesitant. She pondered, watching the battered body being thrown around by the angry sea.

    She realised that she still had the wallet, and decided to return it to Ben, with the excuse that nobody was at the lighthouse. She felt devious and cold-hearted, acknowledging that Ben would no doubt have to visit the lighthouse and experience the horror of what she had witnessed. Her mind was made up.

    Three days has passed since the death of Barney, and Rosie had been living on the edge. Her nerves were suffering, as every time there was a news flash, she expected the worst. Barney’s body had so far not been found, and Rosie wondered if that was a good thing or not. She had erased every trace of her being at the lighthouse, carefully wiping the door handle. She had hinted often towards Ben to return the wallet, hoping that she was not making it too obvious. His response was always, “I'll get round to it.”

    Ronnie had noticed a change in her, as she tried without success to behave in a normal fashion. She had been unable to sleep, and the bags beneath her eyes bore testament to this.
    It was quiet in the Golden Pheasant that evening. Rosie was relaxing on the barstool, her mind in another galaxy. The door opened, and she felt the cool breeze against her face, bringing her back to reality.
    A large, stocky man, who was wearing a flat cap and donkey jacket with soiled trousers, entered the bar. His face looked familiar to Rosie. He took off his cap and coat, hanging them carefully on the peg. He approached the bar and Rosie stared into the not so handsome, freckled face. His lank, greasy hair was combed back, Teddy Boy style, and looked like it was in serious need of a conditioner. He had a slight turn in his eye, and his yellow teeth when he smiled, reminded Rosie of a piano.

    “I'll be having a pint of cider, missie please?”

    The request never registered with the starry-eyed barmaid.

    “Excuse me, is anyone at home? A pint of cider please?”

    Rosie proceeded to pour the cider and heard a voice behind her. It was Ben.

    “George, long time no see. How are you doing?”

    “Okay, I suppose, Ben. Listen, have you seen our Barney recently? The shit hasn't been home now for three days.”

    “Yes, he was here earlier in the week. In fact, I was coming out to the lighthouse. You see, Barney left his wallet here.”

    “The bastard,” growled George.

Rosie pretended to ignore the two men as she cleaned a glass.

    “Is something wrong, George?” asked Ben.

    The large man focused on the wallet. “The fat bastard! It wasn’t his wallet… I wondered what happened to it… Let me take a look?”

    Rosie began to shake violently, feeling her legs turn to jelly.

    George smiled. “Aye, that’s mine all right. Just wait until I get my hands on him.”

    As if in slow motion, Rosie dropped the glass, shattering into a thousand pieces. She looked towards the scowling man, and screamed at the top of her voice, before collapsing to the ground, her body falling amongst the shards of glass.

    George Chapman looked down at the girl and shook his head. “She ought to eat more iron, Ben. She’s so bloody skinny.”

He finished his cider and walked to the coat peg, leaving Ben to try to revive Rosie. He wrapped himself up, whistled a nameless tune and exited the Golden Pheasant.