Three Mile Drove Chapter fourteen (standard:horror, 2611 words) [15/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Mar 18 2007	Views/Reads: 2851/2164	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The latest chapter in a completed story featuring a faded rock musician who inherits a smallholding in the English fens. Unfortunately life is not as tranquil as it seems

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

McPherson turned uncomfortably in his bed, it seemed he had a lump on
his head the size of an egg, its every movement on the soft feather 
pillow making it seem as hard as the operational end of a sledgehammer, 
and sending pain juddering from the base of his neck deep into his 
skull. 

He twisted round and shifted the pillows, propping them behind his back;
at least if he couldn't sleep without any pain he'd cushion it the best 
he could. He glanced at the illuminated clock, which seemed to glow far 
more brightly than usual. 23.05 hours flashed out at him like a 
powerful neon amber sign, each pulse seeming to blind him, letting him 
know that it had to be over thirty minutes since he'd taken the three 
pain-killing tablets and they didn't seem to be helping one bit. It was 
going to be a long night, perhaps made worse by the fact that he 
couldn't take his mind off of the day's developments. Complex thought 
processes wouldn't switch themselves off, or at least, he couldn't shut 
them out. They were plaguing him now, in direct defiance of the pain 
that ripped through his head. 

The attic had been dusty but bare. 

Apart from one thing. 

It lay in the corner where the rafters lowered until they almost met the
floor. A living form, writhing and struggling like some demented, 
enslaved and enchained captive, and as he edged warily nearer, ducking 
to avoid another bruising to his tender head he savoured the prospect 
that he'd stumbled upon the single, monumental find which was becoming 
an obsession to him, the discovery of the missing child, alive and 
breathing heavily. The answer to his prayers, the breakthrough that 
would boost his career like rocket fuel, blasting him right through the 
starchy constabulary hierarchy. 

But as he'd got closer still, the light of his torch combined with the
daylight filtering through the rotting rafters like long, pale fingers, 
outlined a different picture from the one he'd conditioned himself to 
expect. Because he could see now that the rippling, shifting movement 
was nothing more than an old red curtain, which having passed its 
sell-by date was now put to another use, that of protecting, as best 
its worn fabric could, a number of documents contained in a couple of 
old leather bags, which had provided the bulk that had given the thing 
its life-like shape. The breeze, which had wafted through the rafters, 
had caused the rippling effect and given his mind the excuse to play 
tricks. 

He'd dropped the bags carefully through the hatch, then cautiously made
his own exit, but jumping down to the floor he might have thought that 
it was his head which had taken the brunt of the descent, instead of 
his legs, such was the pain that racked through it. 

He'd carried the bags out of his car, where he'd flicked through the
documents, faded and stained yellow with age. Most had been family 
archives, but it was the nature of those archives, which had astounded 
him. They showed to him who the owner of the property was, and it 
wasn't the foul smell which caused him to catch his breath. It was the 
name, Claire Summerby. 

The revelation had sent his thoughts tumbling around like washing in a
dryer. He'd known Claire for several years, they were good friends, at 
least he liked to think so. On occasions they'd share a drink and a 
laugh together. He'd like to think he could tell her what was on his 
mind, when things troubled it, and that she might do the same with him. 
But why had she never once mentioned ownership of the place, 
particularly when she knew he was conducting a search for the missing 
girl, and that this search was centred around it. So was Claire the 
girl that Endleberry had made vague reference to, the one he'd so 
little knowledge of? It seemed that way to him now. But if she was the 
owner then it was plain and simple secrecy not to mention it, and there 
was another thing that bugged him as sorely as his aching head – why 
had the property been allowed to rot away into its now derelict state. 

And what had the intruder been so interested in if he needed to search
the loft of an empty house, had he known what he'd find there? 


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