Three Mile Drove, Chapter Seventeen (standard:horror, 3001 words) [18/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Jun 19 2007	Views/Reads: 2927/2249	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Serialisation of a completed horror story. Things seem to be going from bad to worse in Three Mile Drove, and Darren Goldwater is finding himself in more than a spot of bother.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

Endleberry had been working on his sermon for Sunday's gathering when
the phone rang. He exhaled, slapped his pen on the old writing desk 
he'd used for the last thirty years, the sudden intrusion having 
pierced his fragile concentration like a sharp dart. 

After thirty years plus of writing sermons he really shouldn't have a
problem, but finding subject matter pointed and pertinent was something 
he was having increasing difficulty with. It wasn't due to the pressing 
demands of his parishioners, he knew that, he just couldn't seem to get 
his thoughts concentrated for a few minutes before they went off track, 
and in the very direction he didn't want them to. 

He took the phone in his right hand, stifled a sneeze, the remnants of a
cough that wouldn't go away. 

‘David, David we need to talk...' before he'd a chance to reply he heard
Claire's voice repeat itself. He frowned at the urgency of it as his 
mind spun to McPherson. A short time ago she'd seemed dismissive of 
him, not so now, this was a worried voice if ever he heard one. ‘Look, 
I need to complete tomorrow's sermon, give me an hour and I'll come 
over, is that alright?' 

‘Yes, yes it's okay.' 

But the anxiety bit into him, ‘What is it, what's happened?' There was a
pause, he heard the clock's monotonous tick, ‘Just something I want you 
to do, that's all.' 

Endleberry grunted, he felt uneasy, ‘Give me an hour.' 

Rain was falling steadily as he fetched his cycle from the shed behind
the vicarage. Cycling was part and parcel of life for a village parson. 
You needed to be seen, people needed you to be accessible and the cycle 
enabled you to be just that. But the desire for accessibility had 
dwindled along with his parishioners over the years; in times of 
increasing population the number of inhabitants was actually falling in 
Bramble Dyke. He could well understand that and in doing so Endleberry 
felt the afternoon chill bite into his bones. 

So what had caused the concern in Claire Summerby's voice? 

Leaning forward into the wind he pedalled along the street to a point
where the road branched off to the right, revealing the small 
development of modern houses that he'd regarded as a blot on the 
landscape when they'd been built. 

Claire had the door open for him when he arrived, stepping away on his
approach and leaving Endleberry to close it behind him. 

‘What is it, McPherson?' he asked edgily, hardly bothering to wipe his
feet on the mat, ‘I told you he'd cause problems.' 

‘No,' Claire shook her head and closed the door he'd left open, ‘oh he's
been back to the house of course, he's managed to discover the house 
belongs to me but that doesn't cause concern,' Claire bit on her lip, 
she hadn't mentioned the newspaper cuttings or about the intruder, it 
was better he didn't know that and in any case it wasn't why she'd 
called him. 

‘He's a policeman Claire,' Endleberry snapped, ‘he'll find more than you
bargain...' 

‘I've told you to stop worrying,' her voice rose at the alarm in his
eyes, ‘it isn't Tim we should worry about.' 

Endleberry stiffened, his heavy brows meeting in the middle, ‘So what is
it then?' 

She sighed, ‘You'd better come through, would you like a cup of tea?' 

‘No, thank you,' Endleberry unbuttoned his black coat, treading heavily
on the pile carpet as he followed her through. Claire turned and faced 
him, arms folded, she nodded towards a chair but he declined the 


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