Three Mile Drove, Chapter Nine (standard:horror, 1978 words) [10/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Oct 08 2006	Views/Reads: 2901/2146	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Set in the English Fens. Darren Goldwater inherits a run down smallholding and encounters murder, mystery and horror. This is a serialisation of a completed work

CHAPTER EIGHT 

McPherson watched the forensic team leave the house with the tiny
content of his find carefully sealed in a transparent bag. Overhead, 
crows were gathered on the telephone lines, which ran above the drove 
on either bank. Their silence, in contrast to the wind whistling 
sharply through them, and the stark backdrop of the dark old house 
behind brought to mind scenes from the old Hitchcock movie. It struck 
him, how a simple scene could appear so sinister. 

He reflected on his visit to the village parson, David Endleberry, the
evening before. He'd questioned him on the history of the house, 
thinking that there wasn't a lot Endleberry didn't know. In a small 
place like this the village parson was a “jack of all trades,” the 
central pillar of the community and a mine of knowledge. Only it hadn't 
turned out that way, Endleberry hadn't had much to say about the house 
at all, needing the help of an old binder to assist his memory. He'd 
seemed to concentrate instead on what he believed were exaggerations, 
tricks of the mind even, in fact drawing attention away from the house 
itself. Was that what he'd done, and if so why? The place hadn't 
appeared to have been occupied since the mid-sixties, but Endleberry 
had settled into his role as parson shortly before that time, so he'd 
been told. 

An old couple had apparently owned the place, Henry and Maisie Thompson.
He thought back on what Endleberry had told him, about the bouts of 
pneumonia which had killed them within a few days of each other and 
that the place had thereafter been bequeathed to a child too young to 
occupy the property, and consequently it had fallen into an 
increasingly bad state of disrepair. 

But it was all rumour, or so Endleberry said. Nobody seemed to know who
this child was. Perhaps then, it was all hearsay, the dividing line 
between fact and fiction was thin on the fens. It was just Endleberry's 
bewildering vagueness that plagued him. 

The only established fact was that Henry and Maisie Thompson had
perished within a few days of each other, apparently from pneumonia. 

McPherson set his car in gear and headed towards the exit to Three Mile
Drove. Just as he reached the junction a car turned in. McPherson 
turned his head sharply to the right; both the vehicle and the driver 
were familiar to him. It was Claire Summerby. 

* Darren approached the stationary figure on the bridge, aware that his
adrenaline was rising. He'd no idea what he'd say or do, he'd leave 
that to his instincts. The bloke wasn't encroaching on his property; he 
wasn't trespassing. It was just that the unusual slant of the head in 
his direction, was both provocative and unnerving. He simply needed to 
combat this feeling by confronting the figure. 

As he got closer he could see that the man was tall and gaunt, and that
he had a stoop. He was wearing a black anorak that had clearly seen 
better days. Its hood flapped madly around his neck in the wind like a 
giant, angry moth in confinement. Something registered in the back of 
Darren's mind; he'd seen this man before, and then he remembered where. 
It had been at the pub, where he'd asked for directions to the farm. 
This had been the eldest of the four men he'd encountered. The four 
guarded men who'd eyed him with suspicion. 

‘Brisk morning,' the gaunt figure grunted unsmiling, deep set eyes
locked firmly upon him. 

‘Yeah.' Darren reached the bridge, hell bent on confrontation with the
prying old bugger. ‘Tell me, what is it you find so interesting about 
me and my property then eh?' He placed a hand on the rusty railing of 
the bridge, so close to him that despite the strong wind he could smell 
his rancid breath. 

‘You mean Sam Regan's place, don't yer?' the man sniffed, for once
removing his gaze and looking away. 

‘Sam Regan's dead,' Darren said sharply, ‘I reckon you know that. I
spoke to you yesterday didn't I? I asked for directions. It seems a bit 
of a coincidence you turning up here. Anyway it's my farm as of now,' 


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