The Late Night Visitor
This journal was the only surviving article found in the smoking remains of Room 326 of The Lacuna Hotel, Hastings Beach, Hastings, East Sussex, England on December 1st, 2010. Its author, Francis Billingham, is reportedly still missing.
Evening, Friday, November 28th 2010
Arrived at The Lacuna in the morning. Train ride from London was only about two hours but certainly felt more like four. Though I’ve ridden it a thousand times before, still not a big fan of the tube. I was the only one who got off at Hastings Railway Station and it was then another hour’s journey to The Lacuna along Hastings Beach.
When I finally got to the reception, I was told that my room was still being prepared and to come back later. The concierge was an elderly gentleman with a kind smile by the name of Henry, who seemed to fit in with the rustic look of the place. The Lacuna was definitely not one of the nicest hotels around but it was affordable. I asked him if there were any attractions around the area that would be worth visiting for a photographer. He happily obliged by writing out a list on a small scrap of loose paper, which he then handed to me. Grateful for his assistance, I thanked him before leaving the hotel with just my camera and sunglasses.
Hastings Beach is a long stretch of sandy shore with a row of densely packed hotels on one side and the sea on the other. The beach acts almost like a clear divide between the two save for a single solitary pier, whose boardwalk extends several hundred meters into the sea and supports several small structures right to its end, where a large pavilion was built to play host to performances, concerts and the like. It probably used to be a pretty sight, especially at night with its bright lights casting a multitude of rainbow colours on the dark sea around it, like a welcoming beacon steadfast against the waves and the winds. It now stands defunct and in ruins, the result of a massive fire that reduced it to nothing more than a charred skeleton of its former self. The ruined remains of Hastings Pier was not on the list that Henry passed to me, probably because he felt that its loss to the community was not one to be celebrated, let alone recommended to the entertainment of tourists. However, I made a mental note to explore it in the near future, knowing that it was definitely a location ripe with great photographic opportunity. I was in no rush anyway. This was my holiday. At least it’s supposed to be.
From the entrance of The Lacuna, Hastings Pier was but a thin brown line in the horizon stretching from land to the sea. I turned away from it and headed further down south towards the first location on Henry’s list: Hastings Fishermen Museum. Formerly known as St. Nicholas Church, the building suffered heavy wartime damaged and after falling into disuse, the building was eventually refurbished as a maritime museum dedicated to the history of the seaside town.
Apparently, it was one of the most popular tourists attractions in Hastings, but I wouldn’t have known if Henry didn’t tell me that himself. The small Gothic Revival-style building was completely deserted. I pushed my way through the front doors and immediately realized how small the museum was. The rectangular room was jam packed with glass cases filled with all sorts of ornaments and other maritime paraphernalia, while the walls were covered with framed pictures, stamp collections, old maps and the like. There was little sign that the place used to be a church saved for a single pane of stained glass that depicted Jesus Christ and the Apostles.
I walked around slowly, my eyes roaming about, never settling on one thing for more than the few seconds it takes to understand it. Crouching slightly and with my camera raised in front of me, I was about to snap a picture of a large model of an old war galley when a voice behind me made me jump.
“Magnificent, isn’t she?”
I spun around to face its source, who was stepping out from behind another large model ship. He was wearing an old brown tweed coat over gray cargo pants.
“Oh, hello! You gave me a bit of a start there,” I said, after getting over the initial shock.
“Apologies! Didn’t mean to scare nobody. Name’s Bernard. I am the curator of this here museum. Who might you be?”
“Ah, I see,” I said, as I stood back up and straightened out my clothing. “My name is Francis. I’m from London. Just thought I’d come up here for a couple of days to get some fresh air and kind of…escape from it all, you know.”
“I do. I do. This is a good place to wind back. The sea air will do you good,” he replied, smiling broadly. “Have you been around much already?”
“Not really, I just arrived actually. I’m staying up at The Lacuna. It’s a nice place in a…dainty sort of way, I suppose.”
“Ah, I know it. Yes, sir. A…Mr. Henry Anvil used to work there I believe?”
“Yes, he still does. As a matter of fact, I am only here upon his recommendation.”
“Ah, splendid! A fine fellow, he is. Yes. We used to be closer, he and I, back in our salad days. A long time ago to be sure,” he said, bursting into a hearty laughter.
“Yes, he provided me a list of things that I should take a look at during my stay here,” I added, passing along the small scrap of paper to him.
“Ah, yes…” he said, taking a moment to squint at the piece of paper, before handing it back to me. “Yes, well this does seem like the best that Hastings has to offer. How very considerate of him.”
“Yes, quite,” I said, stuffing the piece of paper back into my pocket. “I was wondering though…about the pier?”
Bernard seemed to take a moment to register this before continuing. “Ah, yes! The fire! What a shame! Unfortunate business that was. What about it?”
“Well, it’s not on his list and I would very much like to go out there to take some pictures.”
“I’m afraid you can’t, they’ve closed off the pier. Much too dangerous on the boardwalk after the fire. There’s no telling how stable those remaining structures are. They could collapse anytime.”
“Do you know what happened?” I asked.
He took another moment before answering this question. “Officially? Arson. Mmmhmm. Some young hooligans with too much time and energy.”
I waited awhile after this expectantly but when he added nothing further, I decided to probe deeper. “And…unofficially?”
“Do you know of the Battle of Hastings?” Bernard suddenly asked, after a brief pause.
I struggled to remember my history lessons but found my memory all fuzzy at best, especially being put on the spot like that. “Uh…,” I began.
“In 1066, after the death of King Edward of England, there was a power struggle for the crown. When William “The Conqueror”, then Duke of Normandy, crossed the English Channel and invaded England, he managed to capture the ‘spiritual advisor’ to his competitor, Harold Godwinson. It was with her counsel that Harold was able to defeat the invading Viking army previously. Believing that Harold had broken a sacred oath by usurping the throne after King Edward’s death, William was able to secure the support of the Pope, who excommunicated Harold and condemned him and his supporters to Hell. William therefore believed that Harold’s ‘spiritual advisor’ was a witch, a servant of darkness, and promptly burnt her at the stake. Harold eventually fell thereafter to William’s forces.” Bernard stopped at this point to catch his breath and fetch a drink of water from his desk.
“OK…well that’s all very interesting. But…what does that have to do with anything?” I asked uncertainly.
“William planted a stake far out into the sea so that when her body was burnt to ashes, the waves will scatter it far from the shore,” Bernard said. “At the very end of Hastings Pier, where the Grand Pavilion used to be and where the fire broke out…that was where the stake was planted.”
Afternoon, Saturday, November 29th 2010
I left my room after a quick breakfast (scrambled eggs on toast with a glass of fresh orange juice). The room is nice enough. A queen-sized bed, modest furnishings, carpeted floor, toilet complete with bathtub and shower, a small work desk where I can unload my pictures onto my laptop at the end of each day. Can’t complain, really.
I had initially planned to continue on with Henry’s list and visit the Hastings Museum and Art Gallery this morning however I must admit that Bernard’s cryptic words has haunted me since the moment he uttered them yesterday, even managing to steal a couple of hours of sleep from me last night. I therefore decided to set out early this morning to take a closer look at Hastings Pier and scratch that itch of curiosity.
Much of the sky was still dark and the air was barren of all sound save the rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore and the occasional cries of hungry seagulls. I didn’t meet anyone on my way out of The Lacuna. The small hotel lobby was brightly lit but there was not a soul to enjoy its illumination. Well, there was one man, but he was fast asleep on a couch by the entrance, with a pen in one hand and a piece of paper in the other, head lolled back in silent bliss.
The beach stretched in front of me far out into the distance, dark and mysterious, inviting at certain angles, foreboding at others. Hastings Pier lay silhouetted against the dimly lit sky, like the bones of some ancient dinosaur that spent its last few moments gazing out at sea. The sand was soft and yielding, making each sinking step seem as though the Earth itself was sucking me closer towards the pier. The cool sea breeze kissed at my skin, soft caresses that beckoned me onward.
I finally reached the entrance of Hastings Pier. Stretched out in a line in front of it were warning signs atop red metal poles. “Danger-Beware of Falling Debris” and “No Entry To Public”. Perhaps what disturbed me more though were the two large banners on either side of the pier that read “YOU CAN SAVE ME!”
My worst fear was confirmed when I realised that the entrance was boarded up. If I wanted to reach the Grand Pavilion at the far end of the pier, I would have to find another way around. It was a good thing then that I was a strong swimmer. Always have been since young.
I held my camera above my head as I waded out against the dark waves, the icy water stinging my skin and causing a tight compression in my chest. Before my body even had a chance to get used to the water temperature, I was already lifting myself out, climbing up the rotting wooden beams that made up the foundations of the pier and in the space of only a few minutes since I was standing in front of the entrance, I was already on the other side of the barrier.
The moment I looked up to take in my new surroundings I could tell right away why the pier was closed off. It was like a ghost town, the buildings burnt down to their naked foundations, stripped away of all but the barest trace of its former glory. Amidst the ruined and blackened walls, I spotted remnants of charred posters advertising long-forgotten performances and events, faint echoes of better times.
As I moved along the creaking boardwalk taking pictures, Bernard’s words start creeping back to me. The King’s Witch. The Harpy of Hastings. The Devil’s Daughter. Apparently, she accrued many such titles over the centuries, her true name being forever lost to the annals of time. A black-robed priestess with a face paler than the moon and eyes redder than the blood that streamed down from them. I know not how much is true and how much is fantasy, but right then, in the decrepit ruins of Hastings Pier, I had to admit that my body was shivering from more than just the cold.
Upon nearing the end of the pier, I noticed the remains of what must have once been the Grand Pavilion. The dome-shaped roof had completely caved in, chunks of debris and metal littering the floor below it. All that was left of the once spectacular hall were fallen chandeliers and charred remains of wood, glass, cloth and stone. There was also something resembling a stage of some sort but most of it was burnt beyond recognition save a single solitary spot near the front. I found this extremely peculiar so I took pictures of it from several angles. More than once, I thought I heard the sound of creaking footsteps or shifting furniture, but I suppose my overly stimulated mind must have been ‘making somethings out of nothings’.
As the sun’s rays grew increasingly stronger and shafts of light shone in and reflected off the multitude of surfaces within the Pavilion, the hall took on a somber sort of look, like a half-finished song, forever silenced and in pieces. I took my last few pictures before turning to leave.
Nothing much to report thereafter. I stole away from Hastings Pier as clandestinely as I had stolen aboard it. I did take one last picture of it from afar. I don’t know if it’s simply some trick of the light or maybe it was just a part of the silhouette of the ruins but when I was taking the picture, I thought I could make out a figure atop the pier. When I looked up from my camera or double-checked with the photo however, the figure was gone.
Night, Saturday, November 29th 2010
Very frustrated and yet I don’t know how this could be. I’ve been going through the photos that I took aboard Hastings Pier and while most of them are fine, those that I took in the Grand Pavilion are completely black images. There is absolutely nothing visible in those shots at all; they are quite simply shot after shot of blank images. This is ridiculous! Sure, it was a little dark, but not to the point of pitch-blackness! And I made sure that I had the right settings on my camera in order to ensure proper exposure. I even made sure to check that the images were satisfactory before leaving! I guess this means I would have to make another trip down to Hastings Pier tomorrow if I want to replace those images and perhaps send my camera into a shop thereafter for servicing. What rotten luck!
4.30am, Sunday, November 30th 2010
It is now 4.30am and I am wide-awake. Something…odd just happened. I fell asleep, or at least I believe I did. And then, sometime in the night, there was a knocking on my front door. Softly at first, at least I assume so, for I was still asleep then. I assume so because the knocking seemed to slowly increase in intensity, so much so that by the time it woke me up it was more like a pounding upon my door.
Stumbling about my room half-asleep, I made it to the still-knocking door but when I opened it, there was no one there. I stuck my head out into the corridor, ready to wallop the little brat that had the nerve to be playing tricks on me at such an hour but found myself staring down the ends of two completely empty corridors!
At the time, I was still shaking off the cobwebs and was feeling more annoyed at being woken up more than anything else. However, clear of mind now as I am writing this, I’m still struggling to understand what exactly happened and my lack of explanation fills me with a very uncomfortable feeling. No doubt I shall raise this issue up to Henry in the morning and see what he makes of it.
Evening, Sunday, November 30th 2010
I’m ashamed to admit that I rose late today. There go my plans to revisit Hastings Pier I suppose. I was actually awoken yet again by the sounds of knocking upon my door. Half awake and half-alarmed, I sat up tensed in my bed, hoping the knocking would cease. When it didn’t, I made my way cautiously to the front door and yanked it open. I’m embarrassed to say that I gave the maid quite a fright and, after apologising profusely, allowed her in to clean up the room.
It is surprising that though I thought I was not to get any sleep after my late-night episode with the door, sleep apparently came to me just as the sun was rising. I fell into a deep slumber and had such an unusual dream, the details of which are lost to me now unfortunately, as is the case with most of my dreams. The only thing I do remember, and even then vaguely, is a large green field and the sounds of people cheering. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a dream. The recent events must have excited my imagination more than I thought.
I broke my fast on snapper pie and a small bowl of oatmeal. After that, I made my way down to the reception and informed Henry of the odd incident that occurred last night. He seemed genuinely surprised and assured me that he has never had any such complaints from guests before. He even jested lightly and hinted at the supernatural implications of such an unexplainable occurrence but quickly corrected himself when he realized that I wasn’t amused. However, Henry was only speaking aloud what was already starting to ferment in my mind, a disturbing idea that I dared not entertain lest I should take full leave of my senses.
I retired to my room thereafter and remained there for the rest of the afternoon. The lost of the Pavilion pictures and the disruption to my normal sleep cycle took away much of my enthusiasm for exploration. Drinking straight from a bottle of Galway Pipe 12 Year Old Grand Tawny that I picked up from a liquor store nearby, I sat at my desk editing photos until the sun went down.
I must have fallen asleep because I woke up with a sharp pain on the side of my face that had been pressed down against my keyboard for the better part of an hour. Wiping off my saliva, I checked my phone and realised that I received several text messages from an unknown number. Must have been the work of some prankster or a circulating virus because all the text messages were simply blank images. I didn’t like to entertain any other alternatives…
It is now about dinnertime and I feel like I need to take my mind off things for a bit. Perhaps I shall visit the local watering hole and find some distraction there.
4.13am, Monday, November 31st 2010
It has happened again. The knocking at my door. I fear I might be losing my mind. Yet again, I am at a complete loss for words to explain the phenomenon. Perhaps writing it out clearly here will help elucidate the mysteries of my situation.
Last evening, I left The Lacuna after having a quick dinner and made my way over to The Sinking Sally. The waterfront bar was situated with a great view of Hastings Beach and was packed with people. Apparently, there was to be a fireworks display that night.
I sat at the bar tossing back beer after beer and chatting up this French lady that I had just met called Danielle. We got along really well and, several drinks on both sides later, we were standing up and heading back to my room at The Lacuna. We left just as the fireworks were starting.
It’s odd, and I never gave much thought to it then, but as the fireworks were going off in the sky and with the setting sun casting everything in a warm, orange overcast, I chanced a cursory look over at Hastings Pier and it seemed as though the entire pier was on fire! It was the most remarkable thing, it looked so real! I almost wanted to call out to everyone else, to ask them if they saw it too. I even thought I spotted smoke rising from the pier but when I took subsequent looks back I realised it was probably just a trick of the light. It was a pity I didn’t bring my camera!
I brought Danielle back to my room and, needless to say with that much alcohol in both of us, it wasn’t long before we were both in bed. I was very grateful to her, my mind had been a confused wreck the past few days and this was exactly the kind of distraction I needed to get past it. I sat up at my desk editing my photos thereafter while she slept away on the bed.
A most unexpected discovery then followed. I revisited the Pavilion pictures and lo and behold, there they were! Clear and exactly as I had taken them. I was so excited at having recovered these pictures that I immediately set about editing them well into the night.
It must have been around 3am when I suddenly felt Danielle place her hands upon my shoulders. I was surprised that she was still awake, but perhaps the light from my laptop display was affecting her.
“Are you coming back soon?” she asked.
“Yea, just give me a couple more minutes and I’ll be right with you,” I said, half-turning to kiss one of her hands.
“Will you stay here in Hastings with me?” she asked.
I thought this was a little fast and forward of her given that we had just met so I replied rather hesitantly. “Uh…haha…I think you’re great Danielle, I really do. It’s just that I am not exactly looking for something serious. I thought you were of the same min-“
The darndest thing then happened.
“Who are you talking to?” Danielle cut me off.
I turned around and there she was on the bed when just a second ago, her hands were still on my shoulders! I was so confused!
“How did get there so quickly?” I asked her, bewilderedly.
“What do you mean? I was sleeping, and then I heard you talking to yourself. What was that about?” she replied sleepily.
I had barely time to take in what she said when the knocking began. It started off as a gentle rap at first, one slowly following the other. Rap. Rap. Rap. I froze.
“Who the hell can that be at this hour?” Danielle asked.
The rapping continued. Rap. Rap. Rap. I remained rooted to the spot.
The knocking became louder and more urgent. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Danielle asked. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I rose uncertainly from my chair and took baby steps towards the front door. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Who is it?” I shouted, voice cracking and betraying my fear.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Just answer it,” Danielle encouraged me.
Tappa Tap. Tappa Tap. Tappa Tap. Tappa Tap.
At the front door, I cautiously peered through the peephole. Tappa Tap. Tappa Tap. Tappa Tap. Tappa Tap. All I could see was red!
I backed away as fast as I could, stumbling over my work desk. TapTapTapTapTapTapTapTap.
“What the hell are you doing? Why aren’t you answering it?” Danielle asked, clearly alarmed now.
“I dunno! There’s…there’s something out there!” I replied. Thomp. Thomp. Thomp. Thomp. Danielle screamed. The door was rattling on its hinges now.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. We could hear the wood creaking under the sheer force of the pounding.
“HELP! HELP US! SOMEBODY!” I cried out hysterically. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
“FUCKING HELP US! PLEASE!” I continued in desperation.
And then the banging stopped.
I looked at Danielle, who had been hiding under the covers, and she looked at me.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
We gasped in surprise and stared at the door again.
“Mr. Francis? Sir? Are you alright, sir?” came the voice of Henry on the other side.
I pulled open the door and all but hugged the man, who must have been confounded beyond measure.
After our excitement died down with some water and a bit of brandy, I told Henry about our frightening experience. He listened patiently while I went through the details and, by the end of my account, seemed more than a little alarmed himself. His response greatly disturbed me though and has been plaguing my thoughts ever since.
“Sir,” he began. “That is quite a fascinating tale to be sure. I truly know not what to make of it. I must tell you though that the reason I came up was not because I heard these…violent poundings upon your door, as you put it. No, I came up here because many of the guests on this floor were complaining that…well…quite frankly…they thought you had gone completely insane and were shouting at the top of your lungs for help. They made no mention of any other disturbing noises nor did I see anyone in this corridor as I was coming to your door. Are you sure you’re quite alright, sir?”
Midday, Monday, November 31st 2010
I have packed my bags. I have decided that I have had quite enough of Hastings. Whatever dark secrets it harbors it can jolly well keep them, I will have no part in it.
I had a quick lunch with Danielle before she left for her hotel. We made no plans to meet up again in the future. I suppose I don’t blame her. Hell, worst night of MY life too so far.
I had planned to leave for the train station right after she left but it seems the weather has taken a turn for the worst. The sky is darker than I’ve ever seen it and rain is pouring down by the bucketful. It appears even nature conspires to keep me here, if even only for a day longer.
I believe I’ll just linger in the hotel lounge until the rain subsides. I can probably get through editing most of my photos today and post them all up by tomorrow.
Evening, Monday, November 31st 2010
Confound this blasted weather! I’ll never get out of here! The rain is so heavy now it literally falls in sheets, no longer as droplets. The wind outside is so strong that everything not nailed down is being blown away. The hotel appears so dark now as well. It seems that a large part of it is in total darkness due to a massive power outage. Harsh realities of cheaping out on the hotel it seems…
I spent most of the day in the lounge, seated near the window with my laptop in front of me. The lights had gone out but they lit candles all around the room to provide sufficient illumination to at least allow one to distinguish what one’s drinking.
I enjoyed a steaming pot of chamomile tea while nibbling away at a biscuit as I sort through my photos one at a time. It is strange that I never noticed it before (then again, perhaps it’s simply my imagination. I find it incredible how difficult it is to trust my own senses these days), but revisiting my Pavilion photos, it seems that in each photo, in the background, if one were to look closely, one could almost make out the outline of a shape or a figure. It’s probably nothing. I’m just going mad. That must be it.
Some holiday this has been.
2am, Tuesday, December 1st 2010
This is my last entry. Whoever finds this, please bring this to the police or the church or the Pope or whoever the fuck, just let my story be known and be warned! I don’t know how much time I have left; it may be coming for me anytime now. I just pray that I can write fast enough, especially since I’m writing by candlelight like I’m in the fucking Middle Ages!
I was coming back to my room from the lounge when I noticed that the entire hallway was in darkness save for the rectangular ‘EXIT’ sign at the far end that bathed everything in an eerie green glow.
I tried to remain as calm as possible as I fumbled with my keys at the door, all the while thinking that, amidst the cracking of thunder and pouring of rain, I could almost make out the distinct sounds of girlish laughter.
I finally managed to work the lock and all but fell into my room, making sure to double-lock the door behind me thereafter. I flicked the switch for my room lights and as fucking expected and feared, the lights were out! Fortunately, or in consolation leastways, I had requested several candles from the reception previously in anticipation of such an eventuality.
Lighting them then and placing them strategically around my room, I felt a little better. However, the shadows that were cast along the walls did still make me feel uncomfortable. I ended up switching on my laptop and turning the screen brightness up to the maximum in order to turn it into another useful light source.
It was then that I noticed that my bed still looked as though its been slept in. Funny, I thought the maids would have made it when they did their rounds in the morning.
Feeling spent and weary of mind, I laid down on the bed and soon passed into a deep sleep. I had a dream then that still raises the hairs on my skin when I recount it now.
I dreamt that I was exactly where I was, lying in my bed in this very room. However, all the candles were blown out, casting everything in darkness. I was also increasingly aware of laughter issuing from somewhere within the room. I tried to raise my head to identify the source but it felt so heavy. I tried moving my limbs or manoeuvring my torso but they were similarly indisposed.
The laughter then turned to a soft whispering. Frighteningly urgent, disturbingly excited. My eyes roved around, squinting to find the source of the whisper.
Suddenly, at the end of the room, in the chair against the window, I spotted the silhouette of a figure rocking back and forth, back and forth. I tried calling out, tried asking it who it was and what did it want, but no sound came out of my mouth. As it rocked backwards, I thought I saw brief glimpses of white against its dark hood.
It stood up suddenly and raised both hands in the air. It then let out a blood-curdling scream as it burst into flames. The room lit up in a blinding flash, the fires spreading quickly amidst the furniture. I could even feel the heat! I saw in that blaze then, the pale-faced demoness of legend. With its flesh burning to ashes and its eyes crying tears of blood, it smiled at me and said, “You have my soul. And I shall have yours.”
I then woke up screaming in the dark, sweat drenched and kicking. I looked around me and the room was exactly as I left it, candles still burning. I sat there holding my head and pondered on her cryptic words when an idea suddenly hit me.
In some cultures, it was thought that taking someone’s picture was akin to stealing their souls. I must have taken hers when I took pictures at the Pavilion in Hastings Pier. I immediately ran over to my camera and my laptop to try to delete all the images. To my horror, I discovered that they were all blank!
I tossed them aside and decided to leave this place one and for all, the rain be damned. I grabbed my luggage and headed to the front door. If this witch is going to come for me, I stand a better chance in the company of others. I made one last check of the room to make sure that I had everything before I tried the front door and realised it was stuck…
After fiddling around and realising that there was nothing wrong with the locks and that the door was simply just inexplicably stuck, I hammered and pounded, shouldered and kicked at it but to no avail. I screamed at the top of my lungs, till my throat was hoarse but nobody heard me.
A crack of thunder then made me jump and as I spun around, I spotted the dark figure yet again in the chair by the window. Another flash of lightning and it was gone.
This is the end for me. I don’t think it will let me leave. I’m so tired. So very tired.
I will ready my camera when it comes again for me and this time I will take as many pictures as I can so that you, whoever you are that is reading this, will be able to see that I am not crazy and that the Witch of Hastings is real.
The candles are blowing out now, one by one, of their own accord. I can already hear her laughter again. Oh God! And the room is growing ever so much warmer. She is coming! I must stop. Goodbye reader. Goodbye world. This is the last entry from Fr-
Evening, Friday, November 28th 2010
Arrived at The Lacuna in the morning. Train ride from London was only about two hours but certainly felt more like four. Though I’ve ridden it a thousand times before, still not a big fan of the tube. I was the only one who got off at Hastings Railway Station and it was then another hour’s journey to The Lacuna along Hastings Beach.
When I finally got to the reception, I was told that my room was still being prepared and to come back later. The concierge was an elderly gentleman with a kind smile by the name of Henry, who seemed to fit in with the rustic look of the place. The Lacuna was definitely not one of the nicest hotels around but it was affordable. I asked him if there were any attractions around the area that would be worth visiting for a photographer. He happily obliged by writing out a list on a small scrap of loose paper, which he then handed to me. Grateful for his assistance, I thanked him before leaving the hotel with just my camera and sunglasses.
Hastings Beach is a long stretch of sandy shore with a row of densely packed hotels on one side and the sea on the other. The beach acts almost like a clear divide between the two save for a single solitary pier, whose boardwalk extends several hundred meters into the sea and supports several small structures right to its end, where a large pavilion was built to play host to performances, concerts and the like. It probably used to be a pretty sight, especially at night with its bright lights casting a multitude of rainbow colours on the dark sea around it, like a welcoming beacon steadfast against the waves and the winds. It now stands defunct and in ruins, the result of a massive fire that reduced it to nothing more than a charred skeleton of its former self. The ruined remains of Hastings Pier was not on the list that Henry passed to me, probably because he felt that its loss to the community was not one to be celebrated, let alone recommended to the entertainment of tourists. However, I made a mental note to explore it in the near future, knowing that it was definitely a location ripe with great photographic opportunity. I was in no rush anyway. This was my holiday. At least it’s supposed to be.
From the entrance of The Lacuna, Hastings Pier was but a thin brown line in the horizon stretching from land to the sea. I turned away from it and headed further down south towards the first location on Henry’s list: Hastings Fishermen Museum. Formerly known as St. Nicholas Church, the building suffered heavy wartime damaged and after falling into disuse, the building was eventually refurbished as a maritime museum dedicated to the history of the seaside town.
Apparently, it was one of the most popular tourists attractions in Hastings, but I wouldn’t have known if Henry didn’t tell me that himself. The small Gothic Revival-style building was completely deserted. I pushed my way through the front doors and immediately realized how small the museum was. The rectangular room was jam packed with glass cases filled with all sorts of ornaments and other maritime paraphernalia, while the walls were covered with framed pictures, stamp collections, old maps and the like. There was little sign that the place used to be a church saved for a single pane of stained glass that depicted Jesus Christ and the Apostles.
I walked around slowly, my eyes roaming about, never settling on one thing for more than the few seconds it takes to understand it. Crouching slightly and with my camera raised in front of me, I was about to snap a picture of a large model of an old war galley when a voice behind me made me jump.
“Magnificent, isn’t she?”
I spun around to face its source, who was stepping out from behind another large model ship. He was wearing an old brown tweed coat over gray cargo pants.
“Oh, hello! You gave me a bit of a start there,” I said, after getting over the initial shock.
“Apologies! Didn’t mean to scare nobody. Name’s Bernard. I am the curator of this here museum. Who might you be?”
“Ah, I see,” I said, as I stood back up and straightened out my clothing. “My name is Francis. I’m from London. Just thought I’d come up here for a couple of days to get some fresh air and kind of…escape from it all, you know.”
“I do. I do. This is a good place to wind back. The sea air will do you good,” he replied, smiling broadly. “Have you been around much already?”
“Not really, I just arrived actually. I’m staying up at The Lacuna. It’s a nice place in a…dainty sort of way, I suppose.”
“Ah, I know it. Yes, sir. A…Mr. Henry Anvil used to work there I believe?”
“Yes, he still does. As a matter of fact, I am only here upon his recommendation.”
“Ah, splendid! A fine fellow, he is. Yes. We used to be closer, he and I, back in our salad days. A long time ago to be sure,” he said, bursting into a hearty laughter.
“Yes, he provided me a list of things that I should take a look at during my stay here,” I added, passing along the small scrap of paper to him.
“Ah, yes…” he said, taking a moment to squint at the piece of paper, before handing it back to me. “Yes, well this does seem like the best that Hastings has to offer. How very considerate of him.”
“Yes, quite,” I said, stuffing the piece of paper back into my pocket. “I was wondering though…about the pier?”
Bernard seemed to take a moment to register this before continuing. “Ah, yes! The fire! What a shame! Unfortunate business that was. What about it?”
“Well, it’s not on his list and I would very much like to go out there to take some pictures.”
“I’m afraid you can’t, they’ve closed off the pier. Much too dangerous on the boardwalk after the fire. There’s no telling how stable those remaining structures are. They could collapse anytime.”
“Do you know what happened?” I asked.
He took another moment before answering this question. “Officially? Arson. Mmmhmm. Some young hooligans with too much time and energy.”
I waited awhile after this expectantly but when he added nothing further, I decided to probe deeper. “And…unofficially?”
“Do you know of the Battle of Hastings?” Bernard suddenly asked, after a brief pause.
I struggled to remember my history lessons but found my memory all fuzzy at best, especially being put on the spot like that. “Uh…,” I began.
“In 1066, after the death of King Edward of England, there was a power struggle for the crown. When William “The Conqueror”, then Duke of Normandy, crossed the English Channel and invaded England, he managed to capture the ‘spiritual advisor’ to his competitor, Harold Godwinson. It was with her counsel that Harold was able to defeat the invading Viking army previously. Believing that Harold had broken a sacred oath by usurping the throne after King Edward’s death, William was able to secure the support of the Pope, who excommunicated Harold and condemned him and his supporters to Hell. William therefore believed that Harold’s ‘spiritual advisor’ was a witch, a servant of darkness, and promptly burnt her at the stake. Harold eventually fell thereafter to William’s forces.” Bernard stopped at this point to catch his breath and fetch a drink of water from his desk.
“OK…well that’s all very interesting. But…what does that have to do with anything?” I asked uncertainly.
“William planted a stake far out into the sea so that when her body was burnt to ashes, the waves will scatter it far from the shore,” Bernard said. “At the very end of Hastings Pier, where the Grand Pavilion used to be and where the fire broke out…that was where the stake was planted.”
Afternoon, Saturday, November 29th 2010
I left my room after a quick breakfast (scrambled eggs on toast with a glass of fresh orange juice). The room is nice enough. A queen-sized bed, modest furnishings, carpeted floor, toilet complete with bathtub and shower, a small work desk where I can unload my pictures onto my laptop at the end of each day. Can’t complain, really.
I had initially planned to continue on with Henry’s list and visit the Hastings Museum and Art Gallery this morning however I must admit that Bernard’s cryptic words has haunted me since the moment he uttered them yesterday, even managing to steal a couple of hours of sleep from me last night. I therefore decided to set out early this morning to take a closer look at Hastings Pier and scratch that itch of curiosity.
Much of the sky was still dark and the air was barren of all sound save the rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore and the occasional cries of hungry seagulls. I didn’t meet anyone on my way out of The Lacuna. The small hotel lobby was brightly lit but there was not a soul to enjoy its illumination. Well, there was one man, but he was fast asleep on a couch by the entrance, with a pen in one hand and a piece of paper in the other, head lolled back in silent bliss.
The beach stretched in front of me far out into the distance, dark and mysterious, inviting at certain angles, foreboding at others. Hastings Pier lay silhouetted against the dimly lit sky, like the bones of some ancient dinosaur that spent its last few moments gazing out at sea. The sand was soft and yielding, making each sinking step seem as though the Earth itself was sucking me closer towards the pier. The cool sea breeze kissed at my skin, soft caresses that beckoned me onward.
I finally reached the entrance of Hastings Pier. Stretched out in a line in front of it were warning signs atop red metal poles. “Danger-Beware of Falling Debris” and “No Entry To Public”. Perhaps what disturbed me more though were the two large banners on either side of the pier that read “YOU CAN SAVE ME!”
My worst fear was confirmed when I realised that the entrance was boarded up. If I wanted to reach the Grand Pavilion at the far end of the pier, I would have to find another way around. It was a good thing then that I was a strong swimmer. Always have been since young.
I held my camera above my head as I waded out against the dark waves, the icy water stinging my skin and causing a tight compression in my chest. Before my body even had a chance to get used to the water temperature, I was already lifting myself out, climbing up the rotting wooden beams that made up the foundations of the pier and in the space of only a few minutes since I was standing in front of the entrance, I was already on the other side of the barrier.
The moment I looked up to take in my new surroundings I could tell right away why the pier was closed off. It was like a ghost town, the buildings burnt down to their naked foundations, stripped away of all but the barest trace of its former glory. Amidst the ruined and blackened walls, I spotted remnants of charred posters advertising long-forgotten performances and events, faint echoes of better times.
As I moved along the creaking boardwalk taking pictures, Bernard’s words start creeping back to me. The King’s Witch. The Harpy of Hastings. The Devil’s Daughter. Apparently, she accrued many such titles over the centuries, her true name being forever lost to the annals of time. A black-robed priestess with a face paler than the moon and eyes redder than the blood that streamed down from them. I know not how much is true and how much is fantasy, but right then, in the decrepit ruins of Hastings Pier, I had to admit that my body was shivering from more than just the cold.
Upon nearing the end of the pier, I noticed the remains of what must have once been the Grand Pavilion. The dome-shaped roof had completely caved in, chunks of debris and metal littering the floor below it. All that was left of the once spectacular hall were fallen chandeliers and charred remains of wood, glass, cloth and stone. There was also something resembling a stage of some sort but most of it was burnt beyond recognition save a single solitary spot near the front. I found this extremely peculiar so I took pictures of it from several angles. More than once, I thought I heard the sound of creaking footsteps or shifting furniture, but I suppose my overly stimulated mind must have been ‘making somethings out of nothings’.
As the sun’s rays grew increasingly stronger and shafts of light shone in and reflected off the multitude of surfaces within the Pavilion, the hall took on a somber sort of look, like a half-finished song, forever silenced and in pieces. I took my last few pictures before turning to leave.
Nothing much to report thereafter. I stole away from Hastings Pier as clandestinely as I had stolen aboard it. I did take one last picture of it from afar. I don’t know if it’s simply some trick of the light or maybe it was just a part of the silhouette of the ruins but when I was taking the picture, I thought I could make out a figure atop the pier. When I looked up from my camera or double-checked with the photo however, the figure was gone.
Night, Saturday, November 29th 2010
Very frustrated and yet I don’t know how this could be. I’ve been going through the photos that I took aboard Hastings Pier and while most of them are fine, those that I took in the Grand Pavilion are completely black images. There is absolutely nothing visible in those shots at all; they are quite simply shot after shot of blank images. This is ridiculous! Sure, it was a little dark, but not to the point of pitch-blackness! And I made sure that I had the right settings on my camera in order to ensure proper exposure. I even made sure to check that the images were satisfactory before leaving! I guess this means I would have to make another trip down to Hastings Pier tomorrow if I want to replace those images and perhaps send my camera into a shop thereafter for servicing. What rotten luck!
4.30am, Sunday, November 30th 2010
It is now 4.30am and I am wide-awake. Something…odd just happened. I fell asleep, or at least I believe I did. And then, sometime in the night, there was a knocking on my front door. Softly at first, at least I assume so, for I was still asleep then. I assume so because the knocking seemed to slowly increase in intensity, so much so that by the time it woke me up it was more like a pounding upon my door.
Stumbling about my room half-asleep, I made it to the still-knocking door but when I opened it, there was no one there. I stuck my head out into the corridor, ready to wallop the little brat that had the nerve to be playing tricks on me at such an hour but found myself staring down the ends of two completely empty corridors!
At the time, I was still shaking off the cobwebs and was feeling more annoyed at being woken up more than anything else. However, clear of mind now as I am writing this, I’m still struggling to understand what exactly happened and my lack of explanation fills me with a very uncomfortable feeling. No doubt I shall raise this issue up to Henry in the morning and see what he makes of it.
Evening, Sunday, November 30th 2010
I’m ashamed to admit that I rose late today. There go my plans to revisit Hastings Pier I suppose. I was actually awoken yet again by the sounds of knocking upon my door. Half awake and half-alarmed, I sat up tensed in my bed, hoping the knocking would cease. When it didn’t, I made my way cautiously to the front door and yanked it open. I’m embarrassed to say that I gave the maid quite a fright and, after apologising profusely, allowed her in to clean up the room.
It is surprising that though I thought I was not to get any sleep after my late-night episode with the door, sleep apparently came to me just as the sun was rising. I fell into a deep slumber and had such an unusual dream, the details of which are lost to me now unfortunately, as is the case with most of my dreams. The only thing I do remember, and even then vaguely, is a large green field and the sounds of people cheering. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a dream. The recent events must have excited my imagination more than I thought.
I broke my fast on snapper pie and a small bowl of oatmeal. After that, I made my way down to the reception and informed Henry of the odd incident that occurred last night. He seemed genuinely surprised and assured me that he has never had any such complaints from guests before. He even jested lightly and hinted at the supernatural implications of such an unexplainable occurrence but quickly corrected himself when he realized that I wasn’t amused. However, Henry was only speaking aloud what was already starting to ferment in my mind, a disturbing idea that I dared not entertain lest I should take full leave of my senses.
I retired to my room thereafter and remained there for the rest of the afternoon. The lost of the Pavilion pictures and the disruption to my normal sleep cycle took away much of my enthusiasm for exploration. Drinking straight from a bottle of Galway Pipe 12 Year Old Grand Tawny that I picked up from a liquor store nearby, I sat at my desk editing photos until the sun went down.
I must have fallen asleep because I woke up with a sharp pain on the side of my face that had been pressed down against my keyboard for the better part of an hour. Wiping off my saliva, I checked my phone and realised that I received several text messages from an unknown number. Must have been the work of some prankster or a circulating virus because all the text messages were simply blank images. I didn’t like to entertain any other alternatives…
It is now about dinnertime and I feel like I need to take my mind off things for a bit. Perhaps I shall visit the local watering hole and find some distraction there.
4.13am, Monday, November 31st 2010
It has happened again. The knocking at my door. I fear I might be losing my mind. Yet again, I am at a complete loss for words to explain the phenomenon. Perhaps writing it out clearly here will help elucidate the mysteries of my situation.
Last evening, I left The Lacuna after having a quick dinner and made my way over to The Sinking Sally. The waterfront bar was situated with a great view of Hastings Beach and was packed with people. Apparently, there was to be a fireworks display that night.
I sat at the bar tossing back beer after beer and chatting up this French lady that I had just met called Danielle. We got along really well and, several drinks on both sides later, we were standing up and heading back to my room at The Lacuna. We left just as the fireworks were starting.
It’s odd, and I never gave much thought to it then, but as the fireworks were going off in the sky and with the setting sun casting everything in a warm, orange overcast, I chanced a cursory look over at Hastings Pier and it seemed as though the entire pier was on fire! It was the most remarkable thing, it looked so real! I almost wanted to call out to everyone else, to ask them if they saw it too. I even thought I spotted smoke rising from the pier but when I took subsequent looks back I realised it was probably just a trick of the light. It was a pity I didn’t bring my camera!
I brought Danielle back to my room and, needless to say with that much alcohol in both of us, it wasn’t long before we were both in bed. I was very grateful to her, my mind had been a confused wreck the past few days and this was exactly the kind of distraction I needed to get past it. I sat up at my desk editing my photos thereafter while she slept away on the bed.
A most unexpected discovery then followed. I revisited the Pavilion pictures and lo and behold, there they were! Clear and exactly as I had taken them. I was so excited at having recovered these pictures that I immediately set about editing them well into the night.
It must have been around 3am when I suddenly felt Danielle place her hands upon my shoulders. I was surprised that she was still awake, but perhaps the light from my laptop display was affecting her.
“Are you coming back soon?” she asked.
“Yea, just give me a couple more minutes and I’ll be right with you,” I said, half-turning to kiss one of her hands.
“Will you stay here in Hastings with me?” she asked.
I thought this was a little fast and forward of her given that we had just met so I replied rather hesitantly. “Uh…haha…I think you’re great Danielle, I really do. It’s just that I am not exactly looking for something serious. I thought you were of the same min-“
The darndest thing then happened.
“Who are you talking to?” Danielle cut me off.
I turned around and there she was on the bed when just a second ago, her hands were still on my shoulders! I was so confused!
“How did get there so quickly?” I asked her, bewilderedly.
“What do you mean? I was sleeping, and then I heard you talking to yourself. What was that about?” she replied sleepily.
I had barely time to take in what she said when the knocking began. It started off as a gentle rap at first, one slowly following the other. Rap. Rap. Rap. I froze.
“Who the hell can that be at this hour?” Danielle asked.
The rapping continued. Rap. Rap. Rap. I remained rooted to the spot.
The knocking became louder and more urgent. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Danielle asked. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I rose uncertainly from my chair and took baby steps towards the front door. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Who is it?” I shouted, voice cracking and betraying my fear.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Just answer it,” Danielle encouraged me.
Tappa Tap. Tappa Tap. Tappa Tap. Tappa Tap.
At the front door, I cautiously peered through the peephole. Tappa Tap. Tappa Tap. Tappa Tap. Tappa Tap. All I could see was red!
I backed away as fast as I could, stumbling over my work desk. TapTapTapTapTapTapTapTap.
“What the hell are you doing? Why aren’t you answering it?” Danielle asked, clearly alarmed now.
“I dunno! There’s…there’s something out there!” I replied. Thomp. Thomp. Thomp. Thomp. Danielle screamed. The door was rattling on its hinges now.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. We could hear the wood creaking under the sheer force of the pounding.
“HELP! HELP US! SOMEBODY!” I cried out hysterically. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
“FUCKING HELP US! PLEASE!” I continued in desperation.
And then the banging stopped.
I looked at Danielle, who had been hiding under the covers, and she looked at me.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
We gasped in surprise and stared at the door again.
“Mr. Francis? Sir? Are you alright, sir?” came the voice of Henry on the other side.
I pulled open the door and all but hugged the man, who must have been confounded beyond measure.
After our excitement died down with some water and a bit of brandy, I told Henry about our frightening experience. He listened patiently while I went through the details and, by the end of my account, seemed more than a little alarmed himself. His response greatly disturbed me though and has been plaguing my thoughts ever since.
“Sir,” he began. “That is quite a fascinating tale to be sure. I truly know not what to make of it. I must tell you though that the reason I came up was not because I heard these…violent poundings upon your door, as you put it. No, I came up here because many of the guests on this floor were complaining that…well…quite frankly…they thought you had gone completely insane and were shouting at the top of your lungs for help. They made no mention of any other disturbing noises nor did I see anyone in this corridor as I was coming to your door. Are you sure you’re quite alright, sir?”
Midday, Monday, November 31st 2010
I have packed my bags. I have decided that I have had quite enough of Hastings. Whatever dark secrets it harbors it can jolly well keep them, I will have no part in it.
I had a quick lunch with Danielle before she left for her hotel. We made no plans to meet up again in the future. I suppose I don’t blame her. Hell, worst night of MY life too so far.
I had planned to leave for the train station right after she left but it seems the weather has taken a turn for the worst. The sky is darker than I’ve ever seen it and rain is pouring down by the bucketful. It appears even nature conspires to keep me here, if even only for a day longer.
I believe I’ll just linger in the hotel lounge until the rain subsides. I can probably get through editing most of my photos today and post them all up by tomorrow.
Evening, Monday, November 31st 2010
Confound this blasted weather! I’ll never get out of here! The rain is so heavy now it literally falls in sheets, no longer as droplets. The wind outside is so strong that everything not nailed down is being blown away. The hotel appears so dark now as well. It seems that a large part of it is in total darkness due to a massive power outage. Harsh realities of cheaping out on the hotel it seems…
I spent most of the day in the lounge, seated near the window with my laptop in front of me. The lights had gone out but they lit candles all around the room to provide sufficient illumination to at least allow one to distinguish what one’s drinking.
I enjoyed a steaming pot of chamomile tea while nibbling away at a biscuit as I sort through my photos one at a time. It is strange that I never noticed it before (then again, perhaps it’s simply my imagination. I find it incredible how difficult it is to trust my own senses these days), but revisiting my Pavilion photos, it seems that in each photo, in the background, if one were to look closely, one could almost make out the outline of a shape or a figure. It’s probably nothing. I’m just going mad. That must be it.
Some holiday this has been.
2am, Tuesday, December 1st 2010
This is my last entry. Whoever finds this, please bring this to the police or the church or the Pope or whoever the fuck, just let my story be known and be warned! I don’t know how much time I have left; it may be coming for me anytime now. I just pray that I can write fast enough, especially since I’m writing by candlelight like I’m in the fucking Middle Ages!
I was coming back to my room from the lounge when I noticed that the entire hallway was in darkness save for the rectangular ‘EXIT’ sign at the far end that bathed everything in an eerie green glow.
I tried to remain as calm as possible as I fumbled with my keys at the door, all the while thinking that, amidst the cracking of thunder and pouring of rain, I could almost make out the distinct sounds of girlish laughter.
I finally managed to work the lock and all but fell into my room, making sure to double-lock the door behind me thereafter. I flicked the switch for my room lights and as fucking expected and feared, the lights were out! Fortunately, or in consolation leastways, I had requested several candles from the reception previously in anticipation of such an eventuality.
Lighting them then and placing them strategically around my room, I felt a little better. However, the shadows that were cast along the walls did still make me feel uncomfortable. I ended up switching on my laptop and turning the screen brightness up to the maximum in order to turn it into another useful light source.
It was then that I noticed that my bed still looked as though its been slept in. Funny, I thought the maids would have made it when they did their rounds in the morning.
Feeling spent and weary of mind, I laid down on the bed and soon passed into a deep sleep. I had a dream then that still raises the hairs on my skin when I recount it now.
I dreamt that I was exactly where I was, lying in my bed in this very room. However, all the candles were blown out, casting everything in darkness. I was also increasingly aware of laughter issuing from somewhere within the room. I tried to raise my head to identify the source but it felt so heavy. I tried moving my limbs or manoeuvring my torso but they were similarly indisposed.
The laughter then turned to a soft whispering. Frighteningly urgent, disturbingly excited. My eyes roved around, squinting to find the source of the whisper.
Suddenly, at the end of the room, in the chair against the window, I spotted the silhouette of a figure rocking back and forth, back and forth. I tried calling out, tried asking it who it was and what did it want, but no sound came out of my mouth. As it rocked backwards, I thought I saw brief glimpses of white against its dark hood.
It stood up suddenly and raised both hands in the air. It then let out a blood-curdling scream as it burst into flames. The room lit up in a blinding flash, the fires spreading quickly amidst the furniture. I could even feel the heat! I saw in that blaze then, the pale-faced demoness of legend. With its flesh burning to ashes and its eyes crying tears of blood, it smiled at me and said, “You have my soul. And I shall have yours.”
I then woke up screaming in the dark, sweat drenched and kicking. I looked around me and the room was exactly as I left it, candles still burning. I sat there holding my head and pondered on her cryptic words when an idea suddenly hit me.
In some cultures, it was thought that taking someone’s picture was akin to stealing their souls. I must have taken hers when I took pictures at the Pavilion in Hastings Pier. I immediately ran over to my camera and my laptop to try to delete all the images. To my horror, I discovered that they were all blank!
I tossed them aside and decided to leave this place one and for all, the rain be damned. I grabbed my luggage and headed to the front door. If this witch is going to come for me, I stand a better chance in the company of others. I made one last check of the room to make sure that I had everything before I tried the front door and realised it was stuck…
After fiddling around and realising that there was nothing wrong with the locks and that the door was simply just inexplicably stuck, I hammered and pounded, shouldered and kicked at it but to no avail. I screamed at the top of my lungs, till my throat was hoarse but nobody heard me.
A crack of thunder then made me jump and as I spun around, I spotted the dark figure yet again in the chair by the window. Another flash of lightning and it was gone.
This is the end for me. I don’t think it will let me leave. I’m so tired. So very tired.
I will ready my camera when it comes again for me and this time I will take as many pictures as I can so that you, whoever you are that is reading this, will be able to see that I am not crazy and that the Witch of Hastings is real.
The candles are blowing out now, one by one, of their own accord. I can already hear her laughter again. Oh God! And the room is growing ever so much warmer. She is coming! I must stop. Goodbye reader. Goodbye world. This is the last entry from Fr-