PUB WITH ONE SPIRIT TOO MANY

The only pub in Cheetingham village stands uncannily quiet today, following a series of bizarre incidents earlier in the week. 

Jim and Dolly Bladder, proprietors of the normally popular Peek-A-Boo Inn, find themselves left alone with an eerie atmosphere and an empty bar.

“It started on Wednesday night,” recalled Jim, “when I was serving a customer with cider. I went to turn off the spigot as the glass filled up but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t let me. It was like there was some invisible force, pressing down on it.”

Unable to stop the flow of cider, Jim swapped the full glass for an empty one. As that one filled, he substituted a third, a fourth and then a fifth. Things continued in this way until the barrel ran out, leaving 116 pints of cider on the bar and no clean glasses in reserve.

“We were just wondering what to do with all the pints when there was a sudden scream,” said Dolly, taking over the story from her husband.

“I looked over to see this bloke jump out of the chair by the window. He was holding his bottom and shouting. Said he’d been burned on the bum. Made quite a fuss about it, too.

“Well, I couldn’t see no reason for it. It’s not as If we had the fire going or anything.”

The inexplicably injured customer had only just limped out of the door when another approached Jim and asked whether there was pork pie on the menu.

“At first, I didn’t know what he was getting at,” said Jim, “and then suddenly I smelled it. It was pork pie alright, crust, jelly and meat, sure as you like. And it was getting stronger.”

So powerful did the odour become that it filled the room, causing many of those present to start retching.

“Then this man’s voice laughed and said: ‘I love a pork pie, me’, plain as the nose on your face. Seemed to come right out of thin air,” said Jim, with a shudder.

Combined with the now overpowering stench, the disembodied voice caused all-out panic. Within seconds, a pub that had been packed just half an hour previously became all but empty.

Unfortunately for the frightened couple, this was not to be an end to the evening's mysterious events.

As Jim was opening a window to let in some fresh air, he noticed that one of the horseshoes tacked up over the bar appeared to be moving by itself. As he stood watching, each of the retaining nails worked itself loose and dropped onto the counter. Then the shoe fell.

Sitting directly beneath was the evening's sole remaining drinker, retired tomato painter Ron Spike. Hit squarely on the head, Ron fell senseless onto his dog Bonzo, who was lying at his feet, chewing at an old gout bandage. Emergency services were called and both were rushed to the Lucky Charms Concussion Unit at Froghill General.

“Makes my hair stand up, thinking about what happened that night” said Jim, putting his arm around a clearly unsettled Dolly. “I mean, look at it. We’re normally full at this time of day but there’s not a soul in the place.

“And am I imagining things, or is it getting cold in here?”