Three Mile Drove, Chapter Seventeen (standard:horror, 3001 words) [18/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Jun 19 2007	Views/Reads: 2928/2249	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.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

invitation. ‘You've heard there's a newcomer in the village?' 

‘Yes, I've heard as much,' Endleberry felt the tension rising within him
and shuffled uneasily, ‘I wouldn't worry too much about that, he'll 
probably do up and sell up, strangers don't tend to stay long in these 
parts.' 

‘I wouldn't be too sure about that, I've got to know him a little,'
Claire turned away, running her hands along the tops of her arms as she 
spoke, ‘he says he's seen and noticed some strange things in the drove. 
He seems the curious type, I think he might get involved and if he does 
go prying he'll get Tim's backing, after all he's getting precious 
little assistance from anywhere else.' Claire turned back to face 
Endleberry, it seemed his complexion was turning more grey by the 
second, ‘David, you've got to go and speak with him, I've tried warning 
him off but I don't think he'll listen to me.' 

Endleberry was on his feet now, he didn't like the way things were
developing, he didn't like it at all, it seemed that forces were 
conspiring to bring simmering matters to a head in Bramble Dyke, he'd 
had that uneasy feeling for some time. A seemingly innocuous newcomer 
might just provide the trigger. 

‘David, go and speak with him, try and make him see reason, he doesn't
realise what he might be getting himself into...' 

‘He – he?' Endleberry widened his eyes, the worn creases around them
turning into minor crevasses, ‘Spare a little thought for us, why don't 
you?' He shot her a glance, angry or perhaps just desperate, ‘He can't 
have been here for more than a few days and yet already...' he stopped, 
lowering his gaze directly at Claire, ‘is this concern something more 
than what might befall us, is this chap personal perhaps?'  He saw the 
look in her eyes, the intensity in them as they narrowed, and dropped 
his tone, ‘What do you expect me to do?' 

‘You're the parson David, it's your job to get to know people, to be the
pillar of the community...' she saw him flinch at that, she saw the 
resentful look in his eyes, ‘you know people around here, put him at 
his ease, make him see there's nothing unusual about Three Mile Drove 
other than local customs, which he as a newcomer isn't familiar with. 
If he's going to listen to anybody it'll be you, but make yourself 
convincing.' 

Endleberry drew a deep breath, ran his fingers across his chin, perhaps
if her could make this newcomer see some sense, and in so doing make 
him see the interminable boredom and bleakness of the place he'd 
salvage the situation, cut off McPherson's support and they could all 
go back to their hollow existence. 

‘Where will I find him?' 

‘He's having the bungalow renovated by Ted Jackson; I think the work's
going to start on Monday morning. I've no doubt Darren will be there to 
receive him so there's your chance, be there bright and early before 
Ted arrives...' 

Three Mile Drove – the one place he'd never venture, not since he'd
witnessed what he had and been sworn to silence, and he, a man of the 
cloth – but then he'd had no other choice had he? What else could he 
have done and now the thought of returning both revolted and alarmed 
him – 

Endleberry nodded, ‘I'll try.' He wrapped his cloak around him and
stepped out into the cold. 

Claire closed the door behind him, and with a sudden recollection that
struck deep into the pit of her stomach she recalled Darren's words – 

“I thought I'd shop around a little, see what I can come up with that
might help,” and then the crucial words, “tonight perhaps...” 

tonight perhaps – 

Those were his words now she thought about it, and despite her firm
stand she doubted he'd be put off that easily. It might be too late, 
David seeing him on Monday, trying to convince him that all was normal, 
God knows what he might stumble across tonight or what fate might 
befall him. Why hadn't she thought it through properly before she'd 
called Endleberry? But it was too late now for recourse on that, the 
more she did think about it, the only alternative lay in her own hands. 


*                                        * 

Darren had no real course of action, other than he'd pinpoint the
Tomblin household as a starting point. His encounter with the big bloke 
had unnerved him, but not enough to dissuade him from his mission, nor 
for that matter had Claire's words had any effect other than to make 
him question the reason for her chagrin. 

So here he was, approaching dusk on an increasingly windy afternoon,
preparing to play snoop for McPherson. He wondered what the copper was 
doing now, he doubted that he'd be sitting around idly strumming guitar 
chords and getting more bored by the minute, a half empty can of drink 
on the floor beside the chair. Somehow he pictured McPherson preparing 
for a night at the theatre, or maybe even contemplating some operatic 
performance, adjusting his tie carefully in the mirror before setting 
out onto a smart residential street. He just seemed that type somehow. 

Darren sighed, raising himself from the easy chair opposite his bed, a
quick glance outside as the wind howled around the corners of the 
building. He made his way down the stairs, through the main bar and out 
into the car park. The place was quiet, it wasn't quite dark but it 
wasn't evening either. That part of the day when standing at, or 
occupying a seat in the bar labelled you in the “sad” bracket, in just 
the same way it did the bloody shopaholics who rambled around town 
centres carrying a single bag of shopping, not intending to buy 
anything else but then not willing to call it a day. 

He couldn't understand that either. 

So what would these people think of him now? He didn't really care. 

Darren edged his car onto the road that led to the centre of Bramble
Dyke, the general store was closing down as he passed. He checked his 
watch, strange that, general stores in his experience stayed open until 
eight, perhaps ten. Business wasn't too bright in this place, 
obviously. 

Not difficult to understand, really. 

He thought about leaving his car in the lay-by outside the post office,
he didn't want to expose himself to any prying eyes in the drove 
itself, but it was a hell of a long walk from here and the straight 
monotony of the road made it seem even worse. 

But in any case there were a few items he'd bought for the bungalow
after leaving Claire earlier in the day, necessities, particularly with 
Jackson arriving Monday morning. There was an oil lamp, a small gas 
fire, a couple of old camping chairs and table he'd picked up from a 
second hand shop close to the market. He felt he ought to offer Jackson 
some degree of cordiality, no matter how small, after all the man was 
doing a job for him at a reasonable price. 

Darren continued until he reached the head of the drove, then swung into
it, the wind beating against the side of the jeep competing with the 
sound system in the volume stakes. Just past the bungalow, the one that 
McPherson had told him belonged to Tomblin's father, a truck had been 
left in the road causing a partial blockage. He could get by but only 
by coaxing the 4x4 along the verge on the bungalow's side, bringing it 
perilously close to the dyke that ran the length of the drove. A dyke 
still swollen by recent rain. 

He cursed, edging his vehicle closer to the dyke, feeling the wheels
sinking into the squelchy mud and grass bordering the drove. 

‘I'll move it for ya fella, if that's what ya want.' 

Darren pressed the control pad, craned his head, and lowered the partly
opened passenger window to its rim. He saw an old man with 
weather-beaten face approaching the jeep: of course that's what I want, 
what sort of question was that? 

‘I'd be obliged,' Darren said curtly, his eyes fixed on the old man. 

‘Only there's some around here feel it might be a bad idea.' 

Darren cringed, though it wasn't the man's words, but the smell of his
breath that did it. He'd figured out for himself that he wasn't exactly 
favoured in these parts. 

‘Oh,' he said coldly, ‘and who exactly might these people be?' 

‘Folks that don't appreciate newcomers prying into their business I
expect,' the old man hitched up baggy trousers tied by a cord around 
his waist, Darren felt a wave of nausea at that breath. He stared, the 
old chap didn't flinch, just met his look with unreadable eyes. Why was 
everybody from Claire down so concerned about his actions here? What 
was it that made them all try to warn him away? Only McPherson stood 
apart in attitude, and that obviously because it suited his purpose. 

What motivated these people? 

Darren sighed, thumped his hand on the wheel, the bloke was still gazing
at him, ‘Are you going to move this truck?' 

There was a grunt, a shrug of the shoulders, ‘Don't say I didn't warn
ya.' 

It took him what seemed an age to shunt the truck into his drive and
Darren seething now at the old man's warning, had to reverse the jeep 
to avoid a collision. 

The wind flung spots of rain onto his windscreen as he drove on, passing
a few minutes later the lone tree with its withered shape, bending in 
the wind, with its branches more than ever resembling a fossilised 
figure warning him away. The jeep's headlights on the grey bark gave 
the tree an odd shimmer as it bounced over the uneven road, while 
behind it the old house seemed just an outline against the darkening 
sky. But then in the corner room above just the faintest glimmer of 
light - his imagination or just a rogue reflection through the clouds 
of the setting sun? 

He couldn't tell, because in a moment he was past, passing the bank of
trees that shielded Tomblin's house, only one upstairs window was 
partly visible from the road, unlit in the approaching dusk, it seemed. 


But his thoughts centred on the derelict house and intensified as he
approached his bungalow at the foot of the drove. Had he seen light, 
just the faintest flicker in that split second? And if so why? Did it 
somehow tie in with this conspiracy to deter him, perhaps from 
stumbling on whatever it was they were afraid of? 

The missing kid? 

Some imagination he supposed. But something was up. And as soon as he'd
unloaded his stuff he'd trek back and check on that house for sure, 
that and the whole surrounding area. No threats, whatever their nature 
were going to deter him this time. 

Darren unlocked the gate and pushed it open, its rusty hinges creaking
into a whine. The willows in the yard moaned in the wind but beyond 
that, there was nothing untoward he could see in the light provided by 
his headlights. 

Drawing up outside the bungalow he unlocked it and pushed the door open,
the foul smell hit him just as bad as it had the other times, hanging 
around, creating a heaviness that pressed on his chest. He'd have to do 
something about the stench and soon. He couldn't expect Johnson to work 
with this revolting odour. 

He lit the oil lamp in the corridor and watched it throw orange shades
on the walls, shadows thrown by the willows creating dark moving 
patterns on the closed lounge door. 

He shivered momentarily in the draught before collecting the stove, the
camping table and chairs, and setting them up in the kitchen. The place 
needed ventilating badly and he decided to leave the front door open, 
allowing a few minutes for the fresh air to help alleviate the smell 
and fighting back temporarily his pressing need to return to the area 
of the derelict house. 

The wind blew strongly around the bungalow, creating a vortex of dust
and soil driven off the fens, swirling and hurling it against already 
filthy kitchen windows. For a moment he pictured a monumental daily 
task of struggling to keep the yard dust free of all the loose soil 
blown from the flat landscape. 

Was that the sound of a car engine he heard amidst a lull in the wind,
before it suddenly blasted with renewed energy extinguishing the oil 
lamp? Darren cursed his ignorance in leaving the lamp directly in the 
path of the draught; he cursed his imagination too. It was almost 
totally dark now, he strove for the corridor hitting his knee hard on 
the doorjamb, feeling it crack and sending a delayed wave of pain that 
seemed to connect all the way to his aching back. 

He'd forgotten about the engine noise he'd thought he'd heard, at least
for a few painful seconds, until the initial onset of pain began to 
subside, whereupon pushing out into the darkened yard he shone his 
torch in all directions. 

Nothing. Nothing except the howl of the wind, furious and angry, and its
deep roar through the willows. 

That must have been it, what he'd heard. 

He'd left the gate open, as he neared it he could hear it creaking back
and forth, creak, whine, creak, whine, he could just make out its black 
rusty railings through the darkness. But he was set now, set on his 
mission, an eye on the derelict house, an eye on the Tomblin's house. 
He'd lay low; he'd watch and wait. 

He'd tread the soft grass that bordered the dyke all the way. Straight
as a dye, it'd take him ten minutes, perhaps fifteen he estimated. 

And then a shuffling behind, becoming more rapid. Dust carried on the
wind. No, more solid than that. More organised. Too late he realised in 
alarm. Quick feet, running feet. He half turned but he saw nothing. 
Nothing apart from a sleeve and a gloved hand, clasped around his 
mouth, something white inside its palm clashing with the darkness, 
dazzling his eyes, sending daggers of light through them as his lids 
closed. The smell of something sweet, of floating, - and then falling. 


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