The Fallen Parler: Part One (A supernatural mystery thriller) (9 page)

‘Let me see,’ said Charlotte, seizing Arthur Mannox’s file. She grabbed her spectacles from the cabinet and squinted at the greyscale photograph.

‘It cannot be,’ muttered Charlotte, breathing mist into her glasses.

‘What?’ shot Junior.

Colour flooded from Charlotte’s cheeks, making her appear unusually white. Lines of worry were replaced with lines of shock. Utter Shock. Charlotte had not been this dazed on learning that Allan Roterbee had died. She could not get out a word. After several pounding shoulder buds from Junior, Charlotte regained responsiveness.

‘What is it Charley?’

‘Arthur Mannox,’ she mouthed.

‘What about him?’

‘Not only does he look exactly like dad… he is dad.’

‘That’s impossible,’ chortled Junior. ‘I was only proposing that Arthur Mannox was related to our father, but what you’re saying is –’

‘Impossible,’ murmured Sasha.

Charlotte gawked at Mannox’s photograph once more, ‘look at this picture,’ she ordered, ‘that scar on his knee…that birthmark is our father’s birth mark.’

She twisted the folder in all directions (to negate the possibility of a false positive), before finally muttering, ‘I know that mark, it’s shaped like an odd P.’

Charlotte closed the folder and gazed at her brother frightfully, ‘it’s him,’ she whispered.

‘There must be a mistake,’ garbled Sasha, ‘maybe the files aren’t authentic, they’re more than 50 years old, they could’ve been tampered with.’

Junior dragged the folder from his sister’s grip, ‘this is real!’ he declared, ‘Arthur Mannox is real.’

‘Do you understand what you’re saying!’ ejaculated Sasha. ‘If by any chance Arthur Mannox is your
dad
, that would make him over 100 years old.’

‘Forget age!’ blurted Charlotte, ‘Arthur Mannox or
dad
, whoever he is, was supposed to have died at the Willow Lodge in 1947. He obviously didn’t, otherwise we wouldn’t be alive!’

‘If this is true, then someone knew Arthur or
Allan
was still alive,’ said Junior, ‘…at least that explains the woman calling our house.’

A worry line appeared between Charlotte’s brows, ‘who could she be?’

‘This is still all hypothetical, right?’ muttered Sasha, ‘as in, if the files have not been tampered with.’

‘No one has had access to these files apart from Mr. Williamson, Sasha.’

In apparent surrender, Sasha collapsed into the lower bunk, bathing her head in a pile of fluffy cushions.

‘So what does all of this mean?’ she whispered, finally.

‘It means that the Mannox’s were running from something,’ answered Junior, rubbing his chin, ‘why else would they want people to think they were dead?’

‘It must have something to do with the killings,’ mumbled Charlotte, ‘but what?’

Sasha buried her head in her hands. The idea that Mannox, who was pronounced dead in 1947, could’ve been the same man as Allan Roterbee, made no logical sense. There was a possibility that after forging his own death, Mannox devised his new identity as Allan Roterbee, so that he could continue to live undetected. However, a man who wanted to live an undetected, low profile life would not live as Allan Roterbee did. Mr. Roterbee had built himself a million-dollar empire and acquired near celebrity status. If Arthur, or Allan, was running from any danger, the threat or threatener must have retired a long time ago. Why would a man, who was bent on faking his own death, want to become a prominent figure in his new life? They were dragging the theory from air. Even if it were true, certain details would never correlate, like how Allan Roterbee had miraculously maintained his youth. Arthur Mannox would have been over 100 years old if he was still alive, but Mr. Allan Roterbee looked like any middle aged man. It was this unanswerable question that set the whole theory alight. Frustrated by this inexplicable discovery, Sasha delved back into the thick folder, scanning each page until she could assimilate a plausible answer. She had almost abandoned her search when another familiar face shot out of the file.

‘Charley, come and look at this now,’ ordered Sasha, her nose buried deep inside the folder. ‘If we are finding it hard to get our heads around the fact that your dad was alive in 1947, then how do you explain the fact that Mr. Williamson was still the headmaster of St. Andrew’s in the 1920s.’

‘What!’ cried Charlotte, snatching Arthur Mannox’s folder.

‘Here he is, Mr. Williamson… not a day younger than he looked a few weeks ago.’

Squinting at the picture, Charlotte replied, ‘that old man is barely 65 years old but if this is accurate, he’d be more like 200 years old.’

‘It’s true!’ cawed Sasha, her eyes filling with amazement. ‘My grandma said that Mr. Williamson was the headmaster of St. Andrew’s when she arrived in England more than 50 years ago.’

Fighting back tears of bafflement, Sasha croaked, ‘I thought she was joking, but I can’t remember there ever being another headmaster at St. Andrew’s before him.’

‘That’s it!’ shot Junior, ‘he’s frozen somehow…frozen in time.’

‘Now we just sound ridiculous!’ chortled Charlotte.

Junior’s returned complexion slowly chalked over again, ‘didn’t you see Percy Williamson’s dying stare?’ he muttered, ‘there was ice in his eyes…he was frozen. It was the same dying stare as… as my father’s.’

‘Junior,’ began Sasha, the amazement in her tone was slowly draining into sympathy.

‘That’s how they’re linked!’ cried Junior, circling the room, ‘it’s not because they’re
high profile
but because they’re somehow-’

‘Frozen… now that would make them vampires!’ cried Sasha,
incredulously.

Folding her arms over her chest, Charlotte replied, ‘I don’t know what they are – but I never once questioned the fact that my father has looked the same age for most of my life.’

Lines of distress surfaced on Sasha’s face; soon, she was pacing around the room as recklessly as Junior.

‘So the killer is after people like Mr. Williamson and Mannox…people who never grow old?’

‘It seems that way,’ murmured Charlotte, ‘what if Dr. Willow is one of them.’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ said Junior. ‘We can’t be sure that any of this is true. I mean for goodness sakes, vampires!’

‘Vampires are very real mystical creatures, actually,’ said Sasha, offended by Junior’s mockery of her theory.

Junior sniggered, utterly convinced that Sasha’s theory was nuttier than his own. In some way, he was relieved that he’d finally shared his suspicions with Charlotte and Sasha. Collectively, they’d made discoveries that Junior could not have unearthed alone. Most importantly, neither Sasha nor Charlotte believed that he was out of his mind. They believed, to some degree, that the deaths and disappearances of late were somehow linked to Arthur Mannox…who was also Allan Roterbee. But maybe this was all too complicated, more complicated than it really ought to be. And just maybe, the truth was nestled somewhere in the simplest, most plausible explanation.

‘We don’t know that any of this is true,’ said Charlotte, breaking the thinking silence, ‘but what we do know is that there’s a murderer out there. The murderer killed Mr. Williamson and is probably responsible for the disappearances over the last few months.’

Pacing about the room determinedly, Junior muttered, ‘I need to get to the bottom of this. I believe that this same murderer killed my father, and I need to know if it’s true.’

‘I’m in,’ said Sasha, without an inkling of hesitance.

Junior and Sasha looked to Charlotte, who was still biting her nails.

‘We are meant to be students, not murder investigators – I can’t help but feel we’ll only get deeper into this mess if we keep looking for trouble.’

‘Come on Charley, do something exciting for once!’ urged Junior.

‘I’m only in because I firmly believe that vampires exist,’ chuckled Sasha. ‘And, of course, Shorebridge police have no leads on the murder. In just one night we have already uncovered so much, why give up now?’

Filled with apprehension, Charlotte glanced between Sasha and her brother.

‘Fine,’ she groaned, ‘but mark my words…we’d better not get into any more trouble.’

Junior smirked victoriously and spat air into his palms; he urged the girls to do the same.

‘Is that necessary?’ Sasha grimaced.

‘Yup!’ shot Junior.

The girls groaned in sync as they spat into their palms. Junior grabbed their hands eagerly until the trio had formed a complete triangle.

‘This is our oath of secrecy,’ he declared, once all palms were sealed.

The girls continued to grimace. Soon after, the raucous thumps of heavy footsteps signalled that an angry and tired Dr. Willow was towering up the wooden stairway. This was Sasha’s cue to leave. Junior hastily lowered her onto the tiled roof. Then leaping onto the wooden fencing, and down into the dark lawn, Sasha mounted her bike. Charlotte watched from the window as Sasha cycled into the night. When her friend could no longer be seen, Charlotte closed the bedroom blinds.

‘The Shorebridge Ripper’

Every year, the transition between the seasons is appropriately and mysteriously marked. This year, Shorebridge saw the extinction of its last green foliage and the arrival of a cold sweeping wind, which signified the fall’s end and the winter’s beginning. Mysterious. In this respect, Shorebridge is no different to many other towns around the world. With December ever approaching, and an increasing number of shops restocking for the festive period, there should not have been a single soul that wasn’t avidly anticipating Christmastime. Nevertheless, the passing of Headmaster Williamson had somewhat dampened the moods of the people of Shorebridge. If they were anticipating anything, it was likely to be updates on the scandalous murder case from the seemingly sluggish town police. With Mr. Williamson dead and Bart Bold missing, Christmas was most definitely the lesser anticipation. However, there was one small sector of teens, in the upper-sixth year of St. Andrew’s college, who believed they had something more exciting than Christmas, or receiving updates on Williamson’s murder, to anticipate…the Winter Ball. The Winter Ball is a glorious occasion, native to St. Andrews College for boys and girls. Right from the moment that most students receive their acceptance letter to the school, they begin to forestall the extravagant dance, albeit seven years too soon. Eager mothers enrol their prepubescent daughters on all the afterschool dance classes, and avid fathers begin training their boys on the etiquette of speaking to women. By the end of their third year at St. Andrew’s school, most students already know their potential dates and by the fourth year, there is little potentiality about the matter. However, the befuddling twists and turns of budding teenage romance renders most students dateless by the fifth and sixth years. So, by the final year at St. Andrew’s College, the principal priority, in the sight of many students is not to pass all exams with flying colours, or to gain admission to the top Russel group universities, but rather to find a suitable date to the Winter Ball.

‘I wonder why you haven’t been asked to the Winter Ball yet, Mona,’ mocked Beau Bennett, ‘it wouldn’t have anything to do with those hideous eyebrows… or should I say uni-brow.’

The class let out an undercurrent of sniggers. Charlotte did not know how she did it, but even after their cold exchange on the first day, Beau still ruled over St. Andrew’s school with an iron fist. For a few weeks, Bennet and her followers were no longer at the centre place of St. Andrew’s. In fact, Beau’s dwindling popularity, amidst the formation of Sasha and Charlotte’s unlikely friendship, puzzled the status quo of all the so called ‘
cliques’
. This transition was brilliant but short lived. Some believed that the death of Mr. Williamson sent a tide of fear throughout the school… a fear of indefinite change. With this fear came an intense urge to stick to what was safe which, as always, is what is known. So, in some strange, unforeseeable way, the headmaster’s death reinforced the former status quo of the school, therein restoring Beau to her prior state of popularity.

Shooting Charlotte a malice-filled glare, the rosy-cheeked blonde called out, ‘and who are you going with, Roterbee?’

Scathingly, Charlotte replied, ‘what would it matter to you, Beau?’

‘I just feel sorry for you… I mean, who’s really going to ask a bookworm to the Winter Ball.’

As before, the class let out a breathy undercurrent of sniggers.

‘Worry about your own dating life Beau!’ shot Sasha, ‘or maybe you should worry a bit more about that bulbous zit on your forehead!’

Pinching at her forehead hysterically, Beau Bennet shrieked, ‘what zit!’

Delilah and Grace were beside her immediately, with a small purse-mirror, fix–it–powder and freedom gel. Beau appeared to whimper as her minions beat her face with fine white powder, letting out a few muffled noises (which Charlotte slowly deciphered as, ‘why didn’t you tell me I had a zit…you idiots’).

‘That seems to have shut her up,’ chuckled Sasha.

‘Sure did,’ muttered Charlotte, ‘anyway, the Winter Ball is the last thing on my mind –’

‘Plurleeeeaseee, we have to go,’ Sasha cooed, ‘the Winter Ball is not just any ball, it’s what every little St. Andrew’s girl or boy dreams about.’

Raising one eyebrow, Charlotte replied, ‘given the circumstances, high school dances should be the last thing on our minds…if you know what I mean?’

‘Oh, you mean…our Secret Mission!’

‘Shhhhhhhhhh!’ hissed Charlotte, ‘it’s not secret if you tell the whole world, Sasha.’

‘Oh, Sorry!’ whispered Sasha, sealing her lips with an imaginary lock and key, ‘so, tell me again, what’s the plan for tonight.’

‘Well, Junior thinks that we should sneak out after dark and get to Williamson’s office, that’s the only time police won’t be marching around the grounds.’

‘And what’s the point of doing that?’

‘He claims he saw some inscriptions on the walls of Williamson’s secret dorm, they could be clues.’

‘I’m pretty sure there were no inscriptions, I would’ve seen them.’ Sasha fiddled nervously as she recalled the horrors that were unearthed on her first raid of the headmaster’s office.