Three Mile Drove, Chapter Seven (standard:horror, 2864 words) [8/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Aug 09 2006	Views/Reads: 3035/2185	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Set in fenland, continuation ofa horror story consisting of inbreeding, abduction, incest and murder

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

strong wind, ‘No I'm easy. I'll have to drive down afterwards to assess 
this bloody place I've inherited, but sure, if it helps, we'll stroll 
down to where I think the rock was thrown.' 

‘You see, I'm investigating the disappearance of a young child,'
McPherson confided as they walked into the drove and experienced the 
full strength of the wind blowing straight at them, ‘and to be honest 
I'm getting nowhere.' He paused for a moment, turning his back to the 
wind, then cupped his hands and lit a cigarette that had been on his 
lips and remained unlit since he'd arrived to meet Darren. He swung 
back round, lifting his head and blowing the smoke high into the air, 
where it was immediately dissolved by the wind. ‘What scares me Darren 
is that pretty soon the case will be downgraded and earmarked as one of 
countless, unexplained disappearances. It won't matter that it was a 
young child, at some stage the authority will just draw the line.' 
Darren saw McPherson's cynical smile, ‘You know, budgets and all that?' 


Darren nodded as if he knew, though he didn't really. He wasn't very
well up on budgets, it wasn't something a rock musician really 
considered, when all said and done, though in layman's terms he'd some 
idea of how infuriating the cost factor must become to a policeman 
committed to solving a serious crime, as McPherson surely was. 

‘The thing is,' McPherson said, ‘there was a reported sighting here in
this very road. I was prepared to pour scorn on it at first, I mean 
this place is a virtual wilderness, as close to the great outback as 
you can get when all said and done.' McPherson paused, flicked ash from 
his cigarette and watched it being swept high into the air, ‘I might 
not have found the missing kid, but Jesus Christ, I called at a house 
just along the way from here and came across these four other kids, so 
deformed you'd have wondered whether they were human or just plaster 
moulds discarded from the set of a Frankenstein movie. I'd never seen 
anything like it. Not just that, mind you, they were standing amidst 
the most foul load of crap and bones you'd ever seen. I tell you, the 
smell alone was bad enough, it made you want to vomit before you'd even 
set foot in the place.' McPherson took another drag of his cigarette 
and flung it into the dyke, causing Darren to wonder why he'd lit it in 
the first place. 

‘When I turned my back they were gone,' McPherson said, shoving his
hands deeply into the pockets of his unzipped anorak, ‘God alone knows 
where they came from or went to. My first suspicions were that the 
bones were human and I'd stumbled on some kind of primitive savagery 
that had its roots in the past. My imagination was running overtime, I 
half expected to find that the bones were those of the missing girl.' 
He gave a quick laugh, though it wasn't a humorous one, there was irony 
in it. ‘The bones were animal remains, as if somebody had been living 
off the carcasses and just left the bone to rot. But that's primitive 
enough, wouldn't you say?' But McPherson wasn't waiting for Darren to 
agree with him, ‘So bloody primitive it makes you cringe. But that's 
not the point,' he said, suddenly looking at Darren with a new 
intensity, ‘I've got it into my head, animal bones or not, that there's 
some kind of link between these kids and the missing child. It's just 
instinct, plain instinct, but an experienced copper relies on it 
Darren. I haven't a bloody thing to go on and I couldn't pull those 
kids in if I found them, what harm have they done? The house is 
derelict and abandoned, not on the electoral role of course. So that's 
it, where did the kids come from? That's what beats me.' Mcpherson sunk 
his foot into a pot-hole full of water and cursed as the water splashed 
his trousers, ‘There's another thing, I'm getting ridiculed over what I 
saw, even the village parson thinks it's wild exaggeration. He puts it 
down to stress,' McPherson smiled to himself, ‘lucky enough I've never 
been one to suffer from the modern day disease.' 

They approached a house on the left, the one Darren had noticed the
previous evening. Its walls, speckled with dirt, took on a curious 
polka dot effect in the morning sunlight, but it still retained the 
essence of a respectable dwelling. He got the impression it wouldn't 
take a great deal of work to return it to its former glory, unlike the 
ramshackle place that had fallen his way at the foot of the drove. He 
thought that if he had inherited this place then he might have stayed, 
despite the boring flatness and the remote austerity it portrayed, and 
despite the weird people. 

‘That must have been a nice place, who lives there?' he found himself
asking, although he thought that McPherson probably had no idea. 

‘An old man, Jacob Tomblin,' McPherson said, having to shout to make
himself heard above the wind, ‘his wife died a couple of years back, so 
I gather. He farms much of the land around Three Mile Drove, or at 
least he used to. I understand that these days the farming is run by 
his son and daughter-in-law, Shaun and Sandra Tomblin. They live a mile 
or so further along, though you won't see their place, it lies back 
from the road, sideways on and is sheltered by a large line of trees 
which stretch right out across the fens. Now they're an evasive sort, 
they keep themselves to themselves. I'm told they don't do much 
socialising, nor do they involve themselves in anyone else's business. 
Some say that's the best way.' McPherson cupped his right hand beneath 
his chin and rubbed it. ‘I called on them after I visited the derelict 
house I told you about, because their house is fairly close to the 
place, a couple of hundred metres I guess. I got no response but I 
spoke to Jacob later. Old Jacob told me they'd all had their hands tied 
with the sugar beet, they would have been too busy to have noticed 
anything that you couldn't extract from the earth.' He turned to 
Darren,  ‘I think I'll pay them another call on the off chance mind 
you. They just might have seen something and not thought to report it.' 


They were past Jacob Tomblin's house now and to his left and right, the
land was as flat as Darren could see. Racing clouds rushed frequently 
across the sun, creating fleeting shadows that seemed to merge eerily 
with the rich, dark earth. 

The wind seemed to blow with ever increasing force, directly into them
as though intentionally attempting to impede their progress. ‘It must 
be murder here in the winter, when it really gets rough I mean,' Darren 
said, aware of having to shout to make himself heard. 

Darren thought he might have heard McPherson laugh, when he looked up
there was certainly a smile on his face, ‘It can be tough in summer 
too.' He glanced across the fens then nodded to him, ‘That flat soil 
can get so dry that it blows off the surface like dust. You can 
certainly find yourself in the equivalent of a sandstorm! Kind of makes 
you want to stay, doesn't it?' 

Darren gave a smile which quickly waned, ‘At the moment everything is
pointing the other way. Did you have a good night then, by the way?' 

He didn't know what sparked him or what made him bring the subject up,
but the words had suddenly erupted from his mouth as though they'd been 
vomited from his stomach. Darren gave a mischievous smile he'd hoped 
had cloaked his embarrassment at the impromptu question. 

He saw McPherson look across at him and frown, ‘Eh, in what way?' 

‘You and that very smart lady of yours,' 

‘Smart lady of mine?' McPherson looked puzzled, then his blue eyes
sparkled briefly with humour as he twigged on, recalling the evening 
before and how he'd first met Darren in the pub, ‘Oh you must mean 
Claire, she's not my lady I'm afraid, though like a few others around 
here I might wish that she was.' McPherson paused and gave Darren what 
seemed to be a long questioning look. Darren found himself squirming 
with embarrassment at the unexplainable relief he thought must surely 
be showing on his face at the policeman's revelation. He wanted to ask 
more about the woman and he was certain by McPherson's prolonged look 
that he was being goaded into doing so. For that very reason he let the 
matter drop. 

‘No, I'd had a long day,' McPherson continued, finally breaking a long
silence, ‘I left the pub not much after you did actually. I think 
Claire had some kind of function to attend at the women's institute.' 

‘I see, it was just first impressions that was all,' Darren said with a
deliberately bland air,  still self-conscious, as if McPherson was 
somehow playing on his discomfort. 

In the distance a single, forlorn willow caught his eye. As they
approached he thought it resembled a gaunt old man, with its two 
remaining branches stretching out across the road like tough, sinewy 
arms, defying the world, taking on all-comers. He saw that there was an 
old dilapidated house standing behind the tree, the dyke and an 
overgrown hedge. 

‘From a distance that tree looked human,' Darren said, gazing up at it,
‘like some kind of giant you see in old time horror films, the way its 
trunk seems to bulge at the top to form a head, the way its branches 
seem to lean forward into the road as if they're pointing. It's really 
weird.' 

‘Yeah, mind you it's twilight that I reckon the old willow looks really
spooky, Claire calls it The Old Man of The Fens.' 

McPherson broke off as Darren glanced up at the mention of her name,
leading him across narrow planks of rotting timber that formed a flimsy 
bridge across the dyke. Darren followed him, a wary eye on the 
turbulent channel of frothing water that had tormented his sleep during 
the night. The makeshift construction creaked alarmingly underfoot, it 
took only a few paces to reach the other side but it might have been a 
hundred as far as he was concerned. 

As they struggled through the wet undergrowth that might have once been
a perfectly respectable front garden, McPherson paused, his eyes firmly 
fixed on the front door, slamming back and forth against the rotted 
wooden frame. He was sure that when he'd last left the property, he'd 
secured it to the best of his ability. 

He shrugged, lit a cigarette and went inside, Darren following. They
recoiled from the stench which immediately hit them, and although 
McPherson had previous experience of what to expect, he nonetheless 
gasped at the mixture of human sweat, excrement, and another odour, 
cannabis was the first thing that sprung to mind, but he couldn't be 
sure of that. But he was sure of one thing, somebody had been in here 
very recently, and smoking something a lot stronger than a cigarette. 
He didn't need that much as evidence of occupation however, because 
there were embers of a fire in the grate. 

‘This isn't the way we left it,' McPherson muttered, not so much at
Darren, more to himself. ‘Someone's been back here, that's obvious 
enough. But why, where's the sense? I don't understand it.' 

He glanced back at Darren and climbed the stairs. Darren, with a sleeve
of his coat held to his nose to help combat the smell, could only shake 
his head. This place was getting weirder by the minute. 

The two bedrooms to McPherson's left were as bare as the rest of the
house, the only noticeable features being the thick grey covering of 
dust that lay like a blanket across the floorboards, and cobwebs that 
hung from every corner. But in the tiny box-room to the right, a room 
so claustrophobic you could hardly swing yourself around in, he found a 
worn, faded blue mattress, and laying in an untidy heap upon it one 
single, threadbare blanket. Lying on the floor beside it was a torn 
cotton cushion that must have served as a pillow. The discovery caused 
McPherson to stop in his tracks and Darren, following closely behind 
had to divert quickly to his left to avoid colliding with him. In so 
doing, his leg shifted the mattress to the side, and beneath it was 
something, which caused McPherson's eyes to widen markedly. 

It was just a tiny article of clothing. But to McPherson it meant a
great deal. For what Darren's clumsiness had revealed was a heavily 
soiled, but clearly distinguishable, white ankle sock. 


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