Knights of the Living Dead

Three

'Present day,'

Lingering on the image frozen in the CCTV still: a silhouette leaving the warm glow of the pub. But now, the story had shifted. I knew my father couldn't have brought down that tough scaffolding structure, no matter how strong. I'd seen setups like it before, and they all had one thing in common: a web of bars and clamps forming a sturdy 'X' pattern to ensure stability. It defied logic that anyone could dismantle such a rugged structure.

Yet, no one seemed willing to acknowledge the truth, which scared me. Something far more sinister lurked beneath the surface of Willowbrook. That much was becoming apparent, surpassing the gossip and rumours circulating through the murky village.

Colin's medical analysis had left an unforgettable mark on me, convincing that father must have been driven to fear by something beyond his grasp. Father was fearless, except for one glaring exception: his arachnophobia, especially when confronted by those bulbous, hairy spiders. Other than that, he was an unshakable pillar of strength, which only deepened the mystery surrounding his sudden death.

Sitting in my car, looking over the file Colin had handed me, resting on the passenger seat. Beside it lay Colin's newspaper, an accidental souvenir from earlier. It was the sophisticated Evening Standard, which had immense reach and influence. In stark contrast, the article tucked into my coat pocket was a local obscurity, relegated to the thirteenth page of the newspaper, much like father's tragic fate. Grappling with the cruel irony of why fate seemed so relentless in conspiring against my family.

The Ackerman name had always been synonymous with respect and integrity in Willowbrook and neighbouring towns, and nobody uttered a derogatory word about us until now. That I knew of, I'm powerless, unable to defend my family's honour or find any respite from the seething desire for vengeance that consumes me. This was when I felt the most vulnerable to the whispers. Darkness filling my mind on the brink of despair.

The clock on the dashboard read 8:55 p.m., and I hesitated outside my home before facing the music and still feeling burdened. I hadn't driven earlier, but nearing home, I'd remembered a half-litre bottle lay in the glove compartment — something that Charlotte would never condone.

The clapped-out Ford hatchback mirrored the chaos of my life, with empty crisp packets, crumpled newspapers, and discarded liquor bottles strewn inside. My car and life were in disarray, with little hope of redemption. Staring vacantly at the upright of the passenger seat, reminiscing. Charlotte sat there smiling in a bright lemon-yellow cardigan and white dress. Her image soon faded as passing headlights briefly shone against the rear window.

With that memory easing, I reach for the bottle, unscrewing the cap with a sense of resignation, and took a long, burning gulp. Attention returned to the front cover article, now shielded from judgmental eyes. Janice had been on the ball; I remember the man from the article clearly, much more than I'd let on earlier. It was a memory that carried a heavy burden of shame and torment, one I'd tried to bury.

The night air hung heavy with uncertainty as I contemplate the path ahead, knowing that answers were elusive and dangers lay hidden in the shadows.

***

'Before the hanging - One Week ago...'

Sat alone in the bar, nursing my drink, again wrestling with my thoughts. The pub was quiet and nearly empty. Here, I first noticed the figure in the worn navy coat. A frequent visitor seeming to favour the solace of dark corners over the harsh lighting by the bar.

With his tired expression and unkempt look, the man spoke, breaking the silence with a request. "Hey buddy," he says, "do you have a light I can borrow? This thing has given up the ghost," he called out, his voice carrying the weariness of a life filled with toil and hardship. I'd known of this man for a few weeks, but we only confined our exchanges to quick nods.