The Gated Trilogy

by Matt Drabble

  As great as he had found the town and its people, he was starting to desire a little quiet, a little freedom on his own terms, and beyond friendly, but prying, eyes.

  He passed his neighbourhood and continued out onto the main deserted road. The hedgerows swayed in the breeze as he left all houses behind. He was no farmer but the thriving fields looked pregnant with vitality and abundance.

  He cranked up the volume on his MP3 player and the stinging chords of the Foo Fighters blasted his adrenaline levels as he charged the road.

  He could see the flat landscape stretching out in front of him like a luxurious carpet, and there were no farms in sight, no houses, no barns, or silos.

  Eden was surrounded by a large wooden wall on three sides, a great reassuring barrier that separated them from the outside world, a world where random cars mounted pavements and babies were lost.

  It had been the promise of protection, security, and safety that had brought them here in the first place and he could see the great walls from here, off in the distance.

  The fourth side of Eden was where he was heading. The wall seemed to be unnecessary there, as the natural thick forest barrier grew in its place, spreading out through the space where the manmade barrier ended.

  The road in front of him began a gradual incline and he began sweating as his unpractised legs pumped harder against the grain.

  Eventually he passed through the fields and shuddered slightly despite his effort. The temperature seemed to drop as he approached the woodland.

  He pulled up as he reached the edge of town; he rubbed the goosebumps on his arm wishing that he’d brought a long sleeve top; perhaps the weather was finally going to break. His heart sank a little with the thought of the glorious weather passing. He felt, as many did, that moods and the weather were inextricably linked.

  The woods seemed darker the closer he got, and a narrow pathway led from the now dirt track that he was riding along, as the tarmac gave way to a more natural base.

  The path wound its way up into the heavily canopied forest, a thin brown trail that disappeared into the darkness.

  As he’d approached the outskirts of the town, he’d been eager to take his new toy off into the woods - now, however, he paused.

  He shut off the MP3 player and took out his earphones. He was met with an oppressive silence; the world was dead and cold around him.

  Despite the thick, dense forest, there were no sounds of animal life within the wooded area, there were no bird calls, and Michael looked up to the skies and saw no fluttering wings of any variety. Suddenly he felt scared; it was a panic that started in the soles of his feet and climbed with clutching bony fingers up his legs and into his gut.

  His hands trembled, and his primal mind flooded with flight or fight inclinations.

  Anger took hold, and he cursed himself for fearing a trail that stretched beyond some trees in a dusky light, like some modern day Little Red Riding Hood promise.

  He tucked his MP3 player into his pocket and lowered his head. His feet were unsteady as he placed them on the pedals. His throat was dry and the fear tasted bitter in his mouth.

  He took his not-inconsiderable courage and plunged into the woods, his speed increasing as it was fuelled by fear. He brutally silenced the thoughts that screamed in his head, telling him that this was a bad idea.

  The temperature dropped the further he rode hard onto the upward slope of the pathway. He disappeared from sight of the road and the world as the dark forest swallowed him whole.

  ----------

  Emily munched hard on the pastrami and Swiss sandwich. She was only a little over three months along but her energy levels were seriously flagging.

  It was only lunchtime but she was already exhausted. Teaching had always been a vocation rather than an occupation to her, and she’d loved her job from the very first second that she’d stepped foot in a classroom and looked into the eager eyes of a room full of children.

  She was sitting in the teachers’ lounge; the room was bright and airy, the sofas long and luxurious, and on more than one occasion she had dropped off embarrassingly.

  The seating was a light orange and the room was painted a magnolia shade. There was a long table on the rear wall under a large sunny bay window.

  A top-of-the-line cappuccino maker hissed lightly with steamed milk; the coffee was easily as good as anything purchased in a store, and the cups were neither chipped nor stained.

  There was always a selection of fresh fruit and assorted pastries laid out each day. Emily had never felt so spoiled. Back in the UK, the teachers’ lounges were always a mad scrum of selfishness.

  The door swung open and Sarah-Jane bounced in. Emily had yet to see her fellow educator in anything but a positive mood.

  “Hey, Ems,” Sarah-Jane practically yelled. “What’s good here today?” she asked as she made a beeline for the deli counter. “Oh, I love Danish,” she garbled through a mouthful.

  “How are the monsters treating you, SJ?” Emily asked jokingly.

  “Oh, they’re not monsters,” Sarah-Jane answered seriously.

  Emily had found that Americans did tend to take everything that she said at face value. She stared at her friend with a raised eyebrow for a few seconds.

  “Hey, you’re joking,” Sarah-Jane responded, pleased with her deduction. “I’m getting good at this.”

  “If I tell you something, can you promise to keep it to yourself?” Emily asked.

  “I suppose so.”

  “No, SJ. Not suppose - you have to promise. You have to mean it and keep it,” Emily said earnestly. She stood and took her friend's hand for emphasis. “Promise?”

  “Okay, I promise.” Sarah-Jane used her free hand to cross her heart solemnly.

  Emily looked SJ full in the face and considered. She was desperate to tell her friend, but she and Michael had decided to keep the pregnancy a secret, until at least after the first trimester.

  She took the plunge anyway, her desperation for a confidant overwhelming. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered.

  Sarah-Jane’s face near exploded with joy. She grabbed Emily and hugged her tightly, jumping up and down. “That’s so wonderful,” she panted.

  Emily’s breath was squeezed out of her as she was bounced. “Easy, easy,” she managed.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry.” Sarah-Jane stepped away, her hands raised to her face in horror. “Oh jeez, my mother always said that I was a klutz.”

  Emily laughed at her friend’s worried and rapidly paling face. “It’s okay, I’m not quite made of glass.”

  “Why is it a secret?” Sarah-Jane whispered, looking around nervously.

  “I told Michael that we wouldn’t tell anyone just yet, at least until the pregnancy is out of the red zone for potential problems, you know.”

  “I won’t tell a soul, I swear,” SJ nodded gravely.

  Emily welled up at her friend’s sincerity and then puzzled at the new and worried expression that SJ was suddenly wearing.

  She spun around to see the cause. Mrs. Thirlby, the headmistress, framed the open doorway to the lounge. Her usual stern face was a stone mask.

  Her arms were folded across her spindly bony chest; her bird like fingers were clenched and her knuckles were white. Emily watched as Mrs. Thirlby looked at her deeply; her pale blue eyes were piercing and defence defying. She looked back to Sarah-Jane, whose face was desperately unhappy; she looked scared and nervous at the intrusion.

  “Back to work, ladies,” the headmistress announced sternly, before marching rigidly past.

  ----------

  Michael checked his watch again. His eyes blurred and his vision swam.

  He felt dizzy and disorientated, and the world around him was full of vibrant colours and strange odours.

  He looked down at his feet. He was standing on the road, some fifty feet from the woodlands, and he felt that he was missing something. The bike! He looked around frantically; where was his bike? He’d cycled out here from the t
own, he’d reached the forest, and then…; his brow furrowed as his mind fogged. Had he gone into the woods?

  He thought that he had, but now he couldn’t remember. He certainly didn’t remember going in or coming out again.

  His watch told him that over two and a half hours had passed, but that surely wasn’t possible, was it? He stared up at the woods; the trees loomed ominously across the horizon, blocking the sunlight.

  The dark under the foliage was tangible, threatening, and strangely inviting. Giant spider egg-sized goosebumps formed on his bare arms, and he shivered despite the day’s warmth that was greater from this distance away from the forest. His breath stilled and the world stood silent. He felt sleepy and his limbs hung heavy - one foot lifted and took an involuntary small step back towards the forest.

  “Mr. Torrance?”

  Michael’s heart felt like it actually stopped. His chest hitched violently, and an acidic lump caught in his throat; it was only shock that prevented him from opening his lungs and screaming.

  “Mr. Torrance, are you alright?”

  He turned slowly to face the enquiring voice, not knowing what to expect, but expecting the worst.

  An Eden Gardens’ deputy stood before him. The man was wearing the uniform brown pants and tan canvas shirt with a star badge shining on his chest.

  He was a little shorter than Michael, and rather more slender than would be expected in a police officer; his face was gentle with a somewhat feminine grace.

  His features were delicate, and his hair looked a soft natural blond. His shoulders were narrow and his chest slim. The uniform must have been the smallest that the department had to offer, but it still billowed around him like a sheet.

  “Mr. Torrance?” The deputy’s voice took on a harder, more demanding, edge.

  “Yes, yes, sorry,” Michael managed through a dry throat. “I was just… just miles away I guess.”

  “Yeah, you looked it,” the deputy laughed, still watching carefully.

  “Um, what are we doing here, Officer?” Michael asked, unsure of what exactly was going on in all senses.

  “Well, sir, I found you walking down the centre of the road about a mile away. You said that you’d gotten lost and left a new bike around here somewhere, so I drove you back.”

  Michael suddenly noticed the police car with the Eden crest on the side parked behind him. “Did we find my bike?” was the burning question, considering the price and his frugal nature.

  “Yes, sir, we found it here on the ground,” the deputy said, confused. “I was putting it in the trunk for you, when you suddenly went … well … a little bit weird to be honest, sir. You were suddenly glued to the spot, staring up at the woods, and I couldn’t shake you out of it.”

  “Oh,” was all Michael could contribute.

  “Maybe I should call the doc out, Mr. Torrance.”

  “No, no, I’m fine. Just a little spaced, I guess,” Michael managed, his voice stronger.

  “Well, do you still want that lift home, sir? I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone out here.”

  “Yeah, maybe that’d be for the best.”

  Michael walked unsteadily, following the deputy over to the car and made to get in the back seat.

  “I think up front would be better, Mr. Torrance. You don’t really want to get a ride home in the back of a police car; people talk, you know, especially here.”

  Despite their isolation, Michael noticed that the deputy said the last part in a hushed nervous whisper.

  They both climbed into the car. Michael had only ridden in a police car once before, the night that an officer had knocked on his door to take him to the hospital where Emily lay unconscious and childless.

  The interior was typical of Eden, in that it was meticulously clean and spotless and the seats were soft tan leather, and smelt of fresh polish.

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Torrance?” the deputy asked again, his voice still loaded with concern.

  “Fine, and its Michael, please.”

  “Michael it is then, at least in here. I’m afraid the sheriff is rather a stickler for formalities in public.”

  “I can imagine,” Michael paused. “I don’t even know your name; I think I must have lost my manners along with my marbles.”

  “Stillson, Kurt Stillson. Say, that’s a funny accent. Where are you from, England?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “I’ve got an aunt who lives in Manchester. Her name’s Beverley Marsh. Do you know her?”

  Michael felt a genuine laugh rise and he caught it to avoid being rude.

  The UK had approximately sixty five million residents, but several Americans had already asked him if he personally knew some random citizen.

  The smile on his face felt real and natural, and it was a relief to sense a normal emotion. His brain still felt a little fried and his thoughts scattered, but the further they drove, the saner he felt.

  “What were you doing out here? If you don’t mind me asking,” Kurt asked.

  “Um, I’m not entirely sure to be honest; I was just looking for a little exercise.”

  “You know that no one from town comes out here; they say that the woods are haunted, you know.”

  Michael wanted to laugh, but his recent experience strangled that thought at birth. “Haunted? Really? What’s the story?”

  “Oh, hey, like you I’m pretty new in town. I’ve only been here about three months, but even I know that those woods are not to be sniffed at. When one of the other deputies was ribbing me about it, I took a ride out here. I got to that trail that leads up into the trees, and that’s about as far as I got. Nothing on earth could have made me go any further,” he laughed unconvincingly.

  “I guess that makes you smarter than me.”

  “Wait a minute … Michael Torrance … the writer?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Hey, I read one of your books on a flight once! not bad … not bad at all.”

  “We aim to please.”

  “Hey, a real life celebrity.”

  Michael started to laugh before he realised that the deputy was being sincere. He had only been a moderately successful writer for a number of years now. He made a decent living doing a job that he enjoyed, but he had never even remotely thought of himself as being in any way famous.

  Simon Day, his agent, had his fan mail filtered, sparing him the attentions of the strange and desperate. His fan base seemed to be largely female, for whatever reason, and they were generally sane and thankfully loyal.

  They rode the rest of the short distance back to his house in silence. He could feel that Deputy Stillson was burning with questions, but mercifully he was keeping them at bay.

  They pulled up to the kerb and both exited; Stillson hefted his bike from the trunk and held it for him on the sidewalk.

  Michael was glad for the exaggerated show of friendliness that the deputy was putting on for the neighbours.

  He knew that the curtains would be twitching, and he didn’t want his ride home to be misinterpreted. The bike looked relatively unscathed, save for some scratching on the frame. “Thanks for the ride, Kurt.”

  “You’re very welcome, sir; all part of the service.” The deputy smiled.

  “Say, if I wanted to know more about the haunted woods, who’s the best man to ask?”

  “Mr. Christian, I suppose; he knows more about the town than anyone.”

  “And if I didn’t want to go through Casper?”

  Stillson paused, as he evaluated the question. “I sort of know what you mean,” he whispered, keeping his voice lower than ever. “He’s a bit on the creepy side,” he winked. “I suppose you could always talk to Darnell - Kevin Darnell.”

  “The handyman?”

  “Yeah, you know him?”

  “He helped us move in the first day, but I thought that he was close with Casper?”

  “Strictly between you and me, he can’t stand the guy, but you know Casper; nobody in this town makes a livin
g without his say so.”

  Michael watched and waved the deputy off as he drove away; he pushed the bike around the side of the house and opened the large double garage door.

  He leant the bike up against the wall of the empty space and checked his watch again. Emily would be home any minute, and he was thankful that she had not been here to witness his return in a police car and the awkward questions that would have followed.

  He closed the door on the bike and headed into the house. Tomorrow, he would track down Darnell and start looking at the town with a serious eye.

  Perhaps it was just his imagination running away with him. He was writing a book about a town like Eden, where sinister intent lay behind friendly eyes.

  It didn’t take a genius to surmise that parts of his story would filter into how he saw his surroundings, but today hadn’t been a figment. The trip to the woods had been real, and his loss of time had been real. He was a writer without delusions of being a journalist, but tomorrow he would start to find out the who, the what, and the why.

  ----------

  Kurt Stillson drove back into town buzzing. He’d never met a celebrity before, and Michael Torrance had seemed pretty nice, not like some of the other jerks you read about.

  Kurt had made the move to Eden after applying online. He’d been working as a security guard at the Woodfield Mall in Schaumburg, Chicago. The days had been long and the pay lousy.

  The job had mainly consisted of chasing off poorly-educated youths from hassling store owners, whilst they hurled insults over skinny shoulders.

  He was twenty six and the job had only ever meant to be temporary, but he had woken up one morning to discover - to his horror - that three years had scarily slipped by without him noticing.

  The weather seemed to be always cold and wet in Chicago and he longed for action and excitement, but without the dangerous aspect that real police work would entail. It wasn’t that he was cowardly; it was just that he was smart.

  He’d been scanning the internet for police jobs in small, safe towns and it felt like he’d checked out every small town in America.

  He’d studied crime statistics, populations, and educational tables. Eventually, after about three months of painstaking research, an anonymous message had dropped into his email box from some small town out west called Eden Gardens.