The Gated Trilogy

by Matt Drabble

  ----------

  Sarah looked up at the doorway. She was starting to shiver with the frozen storm and she could feel Stuart weighing more and more on her shoulder as he sagged worryingly.

  She could feel his strength wane and knew that she had to get him inside and quickly. He needed medical attention and unfortunately the school nurse was currently impaled on an axe in the generator hut.

  “You’re going to freeze to death, my dear, and Mr. Keaton really isn’t looking all that well now, is he?”

  She stood there staring at Joshua. He was a slender 13 year old all American boy and yet he wasn’t. There had always been something about him that had seemed so familiar and yet she still couldn’t place him.

  “Who are you?” she asked in a fearful voice.

  “If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me,” he boomed out into the wind.

  “What are you?” she asked as her knees buckled.

  “For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart,” he smiled. “You know me SJ, you know who I am and you have just a little understanding of what I am.”

  “Tolan Christian,” she said, unable to comprehend the words that fell from her own lips.

  “Yes, my child,” the founder of Eden replied proudly. “Reincarnated and in the flesh. You’ve been a very naughty girl, my child, and it’s time to pay the piper.”

  Sarah replied by collapsing into the snow.

  Her world spun before her eyes and she realised that she had known that this day would always come.

  Tolan Christian had returned in the form of a slender boy with a black heart and surely only the direst of intentions.

  Mercifully she passed out before the child hands of his servants grabbed her and pulled her inside Ravenhill to kneel before its new master.

  ----------

  Brendon drove through the fields approaching Ravenhill and it was a damn sight easier than trying to traverse the treacherous roads. The huge wheels of the truck dug giant trenches in the mud as they passed and he gave a passing thought to the farmer whose land he was destroying; he could only hope that the man would be a religious one or at least prone to forgiveness.

  He suddenly found himself wishing that they had brought some kinds of weapons with them.

  The closer that they got, the greater the sense of peril he felt. Ravenhill was not pleased at their approaching presence and he could feel her burning hatred at the intrusion.

  It was only his faith that kept his foot pressing on the accelerator pedal and moving forwards into the unknown.

  “What are we going to do when we get there?” Donald asked, as though reading his mind.

  “Honestly, I have no idea,” Brendon shrugged.

  “And what happens when we look like a bunch of bloody idiots as we storm a school to find the kids wrapping Christmas presents?” Donald said tersely.

  “Do you really think that’s all we’re going to find?” Brendon asked doubtfully.

  “I’m afraid that I obviously don’t have the same sort of direct line to the man upstairs Father, I’m going on a different kind of faith here. You seem convinced and I took an oath to uphold the law; I’m just hoping that you’re wrong.”

  “I’m praying that I am,” Brendon muttered under his breath.

  He swung “The Beast” around and cut a swath through the field as he headed for the next gate. “Hold on,” he said firmly as he hit the elderly wooden gate at speed.

  The flimsy bars were no match and they flew up and across the windscreen in a flash as they smashed their way through.

  He could now see Ravenhill looming large down below through the storm that seemingly battered them from all sides except in front as the snowfall broke and cleared a path so that they could see their destination momentarily.

  The Gothic building had never seemed more intimidating or inhospitable. He felt his foot involuntarily ease up off the pedal and the truck slowed to a crawl. There was a lump in his dry throat and he had to swallow hard to dislodge it.

  “Shit,” Donald said quietly. “There really is something going on isn’t there?”

  “Yep,” Brendon replied with a small shudder.

  “Then let’s get it done, Father; there are kiddies down there,” Donald said firmly.

  The school was then swallowed by the storm and Brendon found his courage and floored the truck harder than he should have.

  Panic and fear flooded his system and ran roughshod over his better judgment as he pressed the pedal to the floor because he knew that if he didn’t then he would surely lose his nerve.

  The truck picked up speed quickly as the powerful engine roared into life. They rolled down the hill faster and faster and Brendon could dimly hear Donald’s voice demanding that he slow down, but he couldn’t, not now.

  They sped up through the snow covered field, gathering pace as brown sludge flew from the huge wheels as they tore great tracks into the ground. Brendon could feel the thunder of their approach shake the earth and make the bitch tremble.

  “LOOKOUT!” Paterson suddenly screamed and reached across to jerk the wheel.

  Brendon only caught a flash of the man who suddenly appeared through the storm.

  The man’s face was illuminated by the powerful beams of the truck’s lights and he raised a single finger to his lips.

  Brendon just had time to think that the man must be freezing or mad to be out in such weather dressed only in his pyjamas and a robe, before the truck flipped and the world went black.

  ----------

  Sarah awoke in a darkened room. The first thought that ran through her mind was had she really thought that it was over? Had she truly been that naïve to think that a creature like Tolan Christian would just fade away with his ashes scattered to the winds?

  It had been 10 years since that night in Eden when his reign had been brought to a premature close, but now he was back.

  She had no idea how it was possible, but then she was dealing with a being that was centuries old.

  Tolan had been masquerading as his own descendants down through the ages until she had known him as Casper.

  The town manager had run Eden from behind the scenes with an iron fist. The town had been perfection on the surface with sunny blue skies and a cocoon bubble that protected them from the ills of the outside world. It had truly been heaven on earth, but behind the curtain there was a bill to be paid in blood and sacrifice.

  Tolan had been a deeply religious man, but he’d worshipped at an ancient altar that demanded murder in its name in order to bestow its bounties.

  The room felt damp and cold. There was a small bed against the mossy stone walls and a thick door barred her way.

  She was alone and her mind drifted to Stuart who was yet another innocent harmed by Tolan and she was the one who had surely brought him to this place.

  She felt helpless and useless again. The 10 years that she had spent trying to put the horrors of Eden behind her now counted for nothing. She had left Eden a child in an adult’s body but now she felt like it had all happened yesterday.

  She looked up as the sound of jangling metal drew her attention to the door. The heavy lock tumbled and the door swung open.

  Alex Thompson stood before her. Only days before, he had come to her deeply unhappy and desperate to share his troubles but he had been unable to speak the truth. Now she knew what had been on his mind.

  She looked into his face but there was no trace of the sadness that she had seen before. Now his expression was set hard and there was little trace of the boy that had once been.

  “Alex?” she tried nevertheless.

  He remained motionless and his stare bored straight through her. “He wants you now,” he rumbled.

  “Who does
Alex?”

  “You know who,” he said in a monotone voice.

  “Can you say his name? Do you even know his real name?” she demanded.

  “Now!” Alex commanded as he walked into the room.

  He may have only been 13 years old but he was tall and broad with a powerful frame. She remembered that Tolan had always surrounded himself with willing muscle to handle the dirty parts of his job.

  She flinched as Alex placed a strong hand on her shoulder and squeezed with only a little of his strength.

  She wanted to rail against her plight but knew that this was neither the time nor the place. She could only stand and follow him to meet her destiny and discover her fate.

  ----------

  Maurice wandered in the dark through the cavernous underbelly of Ravenhill.

  He had no light to guide his way and had to rely on his sense of touch and direction.

  He pawed at the walls to inch his way through the blackness. This was where Ravenhill kept her secrets and buried her dead. These tunnels below the surface were the very foundations that ran deep into the earth.

  He thought that he knew every nook and cranny of the place but down here the sights and smells were unfamiliar to him as he walked on shaky legs.

  The long corridor was desolate and dark but at the end there was soft light emanating from around a large doorframe. The gentle glow drew him forward and he staggered towards the unknown.

  His father had taught him the art of caretaking, but it had been his grandfather who had shown him that the art ran far deeper than merely fixing a fuse and changing a light bulb. He loved his grandfather deeply and had always kept close to “Gramps’” side.

  It was the Duncan’s responsibility to care for Ravenhill down through the ages and her various masters. Men came and went as the place changed its face many times over the years, but her dark heart never changed.

  There was a power to the bones of Ravenhill that would live on, far outlasting him. He had been as honest as he could be with the American teacher. He sensed a great weight of sadness and guilt on her shoulders; it was one that he recognised well.

  She looked like a woman who had laid eyes on the darkness and had barely survived.

  He knew that she planned on leaving and he also knew that it was a wise choice.

  Ravenhill could smell weakness a mile away and her experiences, whatever they may be, only made her more vulnerable here.

  As he walked towards the dim light he knew that he kept his own secrets hidden away deep inside.

  It was no accident that he had failed to produce an heir to carry on the family business. He wanted the Duncans’ responsibilities to die with him; it was too heavy a burden to inflict on one’s own child.

  His own father had been a quiet man who largely kept his own council.

  When he had been younger he’d often plagued his father with questions about their role, but the only answers he’d ever been given revolved around the practical nature of the job.

  His grandfather had taken the issue far more seriously and he’d often heard the two men arguing when he’d been a child.

  There had never been any Duncan women on the scene, only the men. Women were procured to provide male heirs and little else. Generations of their family had lived in the cottage on Ravenhill’s grounds for as long as Ravenhill had existed.

  Maurice knew as he was growing up that there were myths surrounding the great house and his grandfather had often enthralled him with tales of history and the Duncans’ place in it.

  As a child he had been fascinated by the ghost stories that his grandfather had spun late at night whilst his father had been serving his duties.

  Tales of highwaymen hanging from the woodland branches and mad scientist experiments were the order of the day and he’d lapped them up.

  But his grandfather had always been careful not to tell them whenever his father was within earshot.

  His father would always dismiss the tales as fantasy and superstition, but Maurice had always known that there was more than met the eye here.

  He knew now that his father had merely hoped that the past was ancient history, that because Ravenhill had been dormant throughout his reign, it would continue to be so.

  He had believed his grandfather wholeheartedly and realised from an early age that his father was living in denial.

  He had told Sarah about the dark history of Ravenhill, but he had spared the details of his own family’s bloody hands.

  The Duncans were responsible for keeping the worst hidden from public eyes and they were in essence the garbage men hiding the bodies and keeping the secrets.

  There was always the occasional death here - some accidents, some murders, and several suicides. The one constant was that there was always a Duncan caretaker and that every caretaker had committed suicide when the time was right; the son buried the father and then assumed his position.

  All he could hope was that the family name died with him and, with him being the last, his death would strike a final and long overdue blow of defiance.

  He reached the door and stretched out a trembling hand. The corridor might be damp and cold, but the wooden door was warm to the touch.

  He pushed it open slowly and was immediately flooded with bright light. He raised a hand to shield his eyes against the stinging glare and waited for his vision to adjust.

  Slowly, his eyes began to clear and he stared disbelievingly into the room. The corridor was normal and so was the door, but the space opened out into a monstrous cavern.

  The air crackled with electricity and he could feel the hairs on his head standing up on end.

  There was a low hum that throbbed through his entire being as though he was standing next to an unshielded nuclear reactor.

  He looked upwards and saw that there seemed to be no ceiling here. He ducked his head back into the corridor and saw that the ceiling did not seem to extend into the room.

  The room was bathed in a glowing gold light that seemed to emanate from a strange glowing orb in the centre. The orb pulsed with life and swirled with a brilliant intensity. Maurice knew instinctively that this was the heart of Ravenhill, this was the power source that fuelled her dark intent.

  He stepped back out of the room and the door slammed shut so hard that the frame trembled under the pressure.

  He stood there not knowing what to think or believe when a hand clamped down hard on his shoulder and he screamed.

  He spun around to face his assailant and found himself staring into the eyes of his grandfather.

  “Gramps?” he asked shocked as he stared into the man’s warm face.

  He hadn’t seen the man since the day before he had leapt to his death from the rooftop.

  His grandfather had said goodbye the night before and had explained why to the 8 year old Maurice. His face was the same kind and gentle one that he remembered from his youth.

  The elderly man raised a finger to his lips. “Shush,” he whispered and turned away.

  “Gramps, please?” Maurice said, reaching out for the man’s arm.

  When his grandfather turned back around his face was no longer wise and kindly.

  His head was caved in on one side and his body hung loosely like a jellyfish, devoid of bone structure. His head lolled to one side on a shattered neck and his eyes were black empty sockets that leaked twin yellowy trails down his puckered cheeks.

  He looked like a man who had thrown himself to his death from Ravenhill’s highest point.

  “Gramps?” Maurice cried in a tiny voice.

  His grandfather opened his mouth and started to scream; a split second later Maurice joined him.

  Maurice awoke in front of his roaring fire with sweat soaking his upper body but a cold chill gripping his bones. His throat was hoarse and he knew that the scream in his sleep had followed him to the waking world.

  He listened to the howling wind outside batter his cottage. The storm was gathering strength and he had never felt more isol
ated and alone. He knew that his grandfather was warning him against interference, that he had been told in no uncertain terms that whatever was happening here today, he was not a part of it.

  He shovelled another log into the fire and tried to shut his conscience from his thoughts.

  ----------

  Brendon freed himself from his seatbelt inside the upturned truck and put his hands out to catch his fall as he landed on the ceiling.

  The side window had smashed under the impact as “The Beast” had rolled several times before finally settling on its roof.

  He looked around the cab and saw Donald unmoving and hanging by the seatbelt that still held him despite his precarious position.

  There was blood on the cracked windscreen and a nasty looking scalp wound that was leaking. PC Paterson was starting to come around slowly and with his usual dull expression it was hard to tell if he was injured or not.

  “Paterson? Can you hear me? Are you ok?” Brendon shouted as the wind whistled through the broken glass.

  “Yeah, think so,” the young PC replied a little groggily.

  “Donald can you hear me?” he called, shaking the elderly sergeant gently.

  The policeman moaned drunkenly as he started to stir. There really was too much blood for Brendon to be comfortable with coming from the sergeant’s head and he could only hope that it was a flesh wound.

  “What about the old man in the pyjamas?” Paterson asked as he used his sleeve to wipe some blood from the inside of the windscreen. “Did we hit him?”

  Brendon’s heart skipped a beat as he remembered the old man’s face as it passed by them by what could have only been centimetres.

  He knew that some guy wandering across the field in his night attire would have been crushed beneath the truck and they might very well be sitting on top of him now.

  He looked over as Paterson was helping Donald free himself from the entanglement of the seatbelt.

  He crawled out into the storm and immediately wished that he hadn’t.

  The bitter wind whipped painfully into his face and the snow was falling so thick and fast that he could barely see a hand in front of his face.

  He stumbled forwards as he got to his feet, walking with his head bowed down low to keep the snow from stinging his eyes.