Changeling Read online

  Changeling

  MATT WESOLOWSKI

  They stole little Bridget

  For seven years long;

  When she came down again

  Her friends were all gone.

  They took her lightly back,

  Between the night and morrow,

  They thought that she was fast asleep,

  But she was dead with sorrow.

  They have kept her ever since

  Deep within the lake,

  On a bed of fig-leaves,

  Watching till she wake.

  —William Allingham, ‘The Faeries’

  ‘Nurse had told me all about them long ago, but she called them by another name, and I did not know what she meant, or what her tales of them were about, only that they were very queer. And there were two kinds, the bright and the dark, and both were very lovely and very wonderful, and some people saw only one kind, and some only the other, but some saw them both.’

  —Arthur Machen, ‘The White People’

  Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Episode 1: The Party Palace

  Episode 2: The Fair Family

  Episode 3: Cauliflowers Fluffy and Cabbages Green

  Episode 4: The Wood-Knockers

  Episode 5: How Beautiful You Are

  Episode 6: The Monster

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  SCOTT KING AUDIO LOG 1

  00:00:00

  A Letter

  When the letter comes, the handwriting on the front sends a tingle of fear from the base of your spine, up to the knobbly occiput at the back of your skull. As if an icy finger has been placed delicately on each nerve ending. The handwriting is frail and spidery; the letters are either too big or too small. It’s like a child tried to write in copperplate.

  You can hardly bear to hold the creased, yellowed envelope. You stand in the hall with it, balancing the edges against your fingertips.

  But you open the letter because that’s what you do: you look at things that shouldn’t be looked at, you read things that are best left unread.

  Dear Mr King,

  I am writing to you as a recent convert to your show. I have always been interested in true crime but I am new to podcasts. I am an old dog learning new tricks! I have listened to every series of Six Stories to date and I have been entertained and fascinated by the cold cases you investigate. You have brought me great comfort as well as company and for that I want to thank you.

  I am sorry about the bad things that have happened to you during the last few years and hope you are keeping well. It’s sometimes what happens, though, when we raise our heads above the parapet. When we make ourselves known, we can be judged.

  But I digress. The reason for my writing is, I imagine, probably quite common. You’ve seen many requests like this, I’m certain. But I will not be able to rest knowing I did not ask.

  You see, I want to suggest a case – one that I think would fit perfectly into Six Stories – just as Six Stories has slotted perfectly into my life. I am an old person – in more than just year – and your podcasts have brought me comfort in my old age. I am reaching out to you to help you like I feel you have reached out to me and helped me.

  You’re old enough to remember Alfie Marsden – the little boy who disappeared in 1988. I write this as a statement, not a question.

  You sigh. Alfie Marsden. You’ve heard that name, as have most people. You don’t need to have been alive when he disappeared to know about him. The little boy who vanished in a wood.

  It’s not the first time someone’s suggested you scratch through this particular shallow grave. But this one is worse than a grave. There’s nothing but a hole – an empty space where a child has been.

  It’s been thirty years since Alfie Marsden disappeared and his name still carries a faint resonance. Alfie Marsden is no longer the name of a missing boy, he is a euphemism for caution, for keeping your children close.

  You realise you’re clenching your teeth. That place – Wentshire Forest. The name thrums through you like a heartbeat and you can hear yourself whispering it:

  Wentshire Forest, Wentshire Forest, Wentshire Forest.

  You’ve heard all the stories about the place. Apart from the missing boy, you know of the strange things that are said to go on in that darkness between the leaves.

  You shiver and nearly drop the letter.

  Alfie Marsden. It’s a case that’s tailor-made for Six Stories, right?

  Maybe that’s why you don’t want to touch it. Maybe that’s why even the thought of looking into Alfie Marsden and Wentshire Forest fills you with…

  What?

  They say that there’s a curse – that going in there does something to you. But that’s all nonsense. And you can’t even get into the forest anymore, can you? Didn’t the army or the air force buy it up?

  You find yourself pulling out your phone to check this. But then you stop.

  Leave it alone.

  I think that Alfie Marsden and what happened to him shouldn’t be forgotten. Anyone can see that this is already happening. There are young people these days that don’t even know the name. I have a home help – a lovely boy not long into his twenties. He’s the one who told me about you: Mr King and your podcasts. He had no idea who Alfie Marsden was, and this made me rather sad.

  I imagine you’ve probably had this suggested to you before and my voice is one of many who implore you to look over another cold case, another dead child. But I think I have something I can offer in return.

  I’m sure this is something else you’ve heard from people asking you to investigate cases – especially ones that are close to their hearts. I’m afraid I’m no different: I was close to the Alfie Marsden case and I can offer you insights that I believe have not surfaced before. I don’t want anything in return, save to speak to you in person and tell you what I know.

  So I’ll leave you with the choice: reply to me or not.

  Thank you for reading.

  There’s a name.

  An address.

  And a choice.

  1st August 2018, 12:05 p.m.

  I’m going to do this like I’ve always done it: start recording now, at the point of conception. It works best this way; on the nights I can’t sleep I listen back to myself gabbling on like this. Sometimes it helps. Also, it’s a record. For my own safety.

  OK. Alfie Marsden. There’s a whole thread on the Six Stories Reddit about him. Let’s just pull it up:

  ‘A missing kid and a forest full of ghosts, someone’s said. ‘What’s NOT Six Stories about it???’ That’s true, to be fair.

  So why is it that I. Just. Can’t?

  I’ve read about it. Christ, hasn’t everyone? I’ve pulled up some YouTube videos here. There’s that press conference – the parents. I just can’t bear to watch those two in that grainy old footage.

  I’ve got that other video up as well, the one everyone’s seen. That psychic who talked to the Sun. The one who said the kid was somewhere in the woods. How could anyone do that?

  I can’t watch that one either. It makes me feel awful, as if a storm cloud has floated in through my ear and parked itself in the middle of my brain.

  I’ll bring up Google Maps. That’s proactive. I’ll type in the postcode, find out who sent that letter.

  Where is it? Oh, OK. Have I even heard of this place? Let’s zoom in. Here we go: a nondescript row of houses, flanked by hedges and pavements.

  So it’s right here, in one of these houses, that I’ll apparently hear something new about the Alfie Marsden disappearance.

  It’s like an urban myth, a legend that has refused to
die; this case has resurfaced again and again in my life. This case has an inexorable pull. Whether I like it or not.

  So this is why I’m recording now. This letter will be the place where I’m going to start.

  Can you hear that? The ice-cream van outside? That little twinkly tune that means summer and laughter and holidays? The call to seven-year-olds across the country.

  I’m going to turn off before the tears come.

  Episode 1: The Party Palace

  —Nine-nine-nine emergency. Which service do you require?

  —Police. I need the police.

  —Can you tell me the nature of the emergency, sir?

  —My boy … they’ve got my little boy [indistinguishable]. He’s gone! Oh God, please hurry! [A noise that sounds like wind interspersed with indistinguishable shouting.]

  —Sir. Sir?

  —I’m here. I’m here. Please hurry!

  —Sir? I’m having trouble hearing. I need you to give me some details: can you tell me where you’re calling from?

  —Are they coming?

  —Sir, I can get the police dispatched quicker if you remain calm. Sir … can you hear me?

  —Yes. Yes, I’m here. I’m calling from a phone box. I don’t know [indistinguishable].

  —Can you tell me the area, sir? Can you give me an address?

  —I don’t know. I can’t think!

  —You need to tell me where you are, sir. Can you see any landmarks?

  —Baxter’s … Baxter’s Buildings. That’s what the sign says. Over the way.

  —Baxter’s Buildings. Can you tell me which road you’re on?

  —I’m not. It’s … my son! He’s gone!

  —I know. It’s OK, sir, just be calm and tell me where you are.

  —He was asleep. Strapped in. I don’t understand how he could just have gone!

  —Can you stay calm and tell me where you are? Baxter’s Buildings, that’s all I have.

  —Wentshire! Wentshire Forest Pass…

  —Thank you. I think I know where you mean. Are you near the development? The place they’re building that resort?

  —I see it! Through the trees, the sign.

  —Sir. I’m alerting local services as we speak. Is your vehicle on the road?

  —The layby. In the parking place.

  —So now we know where you are, can you tell me again what’s happened? You said your son is missing, correct?

  —I was out of the car for a minute – five minutes! The engine, it was coming from the engine! [Burst of static]

  —How old is your son, sir?

  —Seven. He’s got, um, blond hair – sandy, short. He’s little – three, four foot tall? He’s called Alfie! Oh God!

  —You’re doing really well. So, he’s called Alfie. We’re going to help you find him, OK?

  —He’s wearing a red knitted jumper with a … with a lion on it [sobbing]

  —Can you tell me your name, sir?

  —Sorrel. Sorrel Marsden.

  —OK, Sorrel, a car is on its way. Is there a road sign or anything? What about inside the phone box? Are there any details, a place name, or a number?

  —There’s nothing here. Just this road, and the phone box. And the building site. Diggers. There’s no one here, though – it’s empty.

  —OK, OK, you’re doing great, Sorrel. Keep talking to me. The police are on their way.

  —Please hurry! There it is again. It’s … [indistinguishable]

  —Sorrel, I need to know what happened with your son. You said he was in his chair and then he was gone, is that right?

  [indistinguishable crackling and wind before a violent tapping noise]

  —Sorrel? Hello? Hello?

  —Please … [indistinguishable] have to help me! [indistinguishable] can’t believe he’s gone!

  [indistinguishable crackling, tapping and wind noises]

  What you have just heard is the full 999 call from the night of 24th December 1988. Christmas Eve. The night that seven-year-old Alfie Marsden disappeared, never to be seen again.

  Alfie Marsden was officially declared ‘presumed dead’ in March 1995, seven years and three months after his father, Sorrel, made that call.

  It is now just over thirty years since Alfie vanished. He has been legally dead for twenty-three of those years.

  Some say that Alfie’s disappearance in 1988 was one controversy too many for Wentshire Forest and led to the majority of the site being closed to the public. But this only meant the ghoulish draw of the forest intensified, as did the speculation in the press. Descriptions of the various alleged occurrences between the tangled branches of one of England’s most ancient woods became distorted and bloated. With story upon story, claim upon claim, Wentshire Forest had become a place synonymous with horror.

  —I’ll tell you something: that child disappearing, bless his little soul, was what stopped us in the end. Not any of that other nonsense.

  It was out of respect for that poor family – his mother and father. Who would want to go stay in Wentshire Forest after that?

  The voice you’ve just heard is seventy-year-old Sir Harrison Baxter, co-founder of Baxter’s Homes. You’ll know the name – pretty much every town in the UK has at least one Baxter’s development. What you may not know, however, is that before Baxter’s Homes, there was a smaller, burgeoning enterprise known as Baxter and Blackwood’s Great Escapes.

  Baxter’s became a public limited company in 1990, and after the death of his business partner, Humphrey Blackwood, Sir Harrison retired. Today, he lives in comfort on the Devonshire coast. His former company still thrives today, rivalling Barrett Homes in the UK property development market. Sir Baxter is forthcoming and spritely, staring out over the English Riviera with a glass of orange juice in his hand.

  —Back then, we made luxury holiday parks. Great Escapes, we called them. Lovely little log-cabin communities. We had them designed and built by a small firm Humphrey discovered on holiday in Norway. We expanded the designs and helped the firm build up their workforce, then brought them over to the UK to make our holiday homes.

  But after what happened to Alfie Marsden, God bless him – after what happened at Wentshire – we lost all our impetus. That’s when we moved into property development. It was a natural direction to take, and had nothing – I tell you, nothing – to do with anything else.

  It should be mentioned that Wentshire Forest’s reputation as a hotspot for paranormal activity was established long before Sir Harrison decided to clear a spot of land and create Baxter and Blackwood’s biggest and most ambitious holiday resort so far.

  —We actually got further than was reported, you know. We’d levelled the land, drained it and begun building the cabins before everything got halted to look for the child. I’ll tell you now, not one contractor reported anything out of the ordinary on that site. Not to me anyway. All of that stuff is just hokum, made up by cranks and the media.

  I believe he’s still going, isn’t he? The father? Still looking? Best of luck to him, I say. The poor man.

  I pray to God that one day he finds some peace. I pray that one day he’ll find what he’s looking for.

  But I believe that day may never come.

  Welcome to Six Stories.

  I’m Scott King.

  A great many of you presumed that this series would not make a comeback after the controversy surrounding the death of Arla Macleod in 2018, and the incident with Brian Mings the previous year. I have done a lot of soul-searching about both those incidents and have come to a simple conclusion:

  The show must go on.

  Over the next six weeks, we will be looking back at the disappearance of Alfie Marsden on Christmas Eve, 1988. We’ll be doing so through six different perspectives, seeing the events that unfolded through six different pairs of eyes. You know, by now, that, after that, it’s up to you. I don’t pretend to have the answers to any of the cases I cover. I am not here to offer opinion; I simply rake up old graves.

 
Let’s start by stating the facts.

  Sorrel Marsden was driving his seven-year-old son, Alfie, along the A road known as Wentshire Forest Pass, travelling from the home of his ex-partner in Audlem, Cheshire, to his own home in Wrexham, North Wales. At 11:05 p.m., a 999 operator received the call you heard at the top of the episode. Sorrel Marsden’s story has not changed since that day. Whether his story is fact remains to be seen. What is true is that, at some point in the evening, he stopped his Fiat Panda because of a strange sound coming from the engine. Sorrel claims that Alfie was asleep in his booster seat and did not wake when he pulled the car over to the side of the road. Sometime while Sorrel was looking under the car’s bonnet, Alfie disappeared.

  Sorrel Marsden’s account of what happened that night has been held up to the light, speculated upon and debated. Yet it has never been proved. Nor has it been discredited.

  But let’s stay with the facts for now.

  Let’s slip between the trees.

  Wentshire Forest straddles the border of England and Wales, bleeding into both countries like a green ink blot on the map. Predominantly oak, some of the trees at the forest’s heart are more than five hundred years old, and the whole site is classed as ‘ancient woodland’. Wentshire Forest was a declining National Park with little tourism when it was purchased in 1999 by the Ministry of Defence. Wentshire Air Force Base now squats amid the trees. The woodland on either side of Wentshire Forest Pass is now enclosed by barbed-wire-topped fences and the occasional security camera. A fine of £1000 has been levied on a couple of occasions against those who have attempted to creep in.

  Wentshire Forest Pass is a former Roman road. It was once known as the ‘Cripple’s Road’ and, uncharacteristically for a Roman route, snakes up and around the steep incline before descending into either England on one side and Wales on the other. An archaeological dig conducted in the early eighties discovered what are thought to be Iron Age weapons.