by Matt Drabble
The morning tram rattled around the corner. Ice picks stabbed at her head, with painful knives digging into her brain. Every noise seemed amplified tenfold, and she ground her teeth in annoyance.
“Morning, you two,” Eddie greeted her softly with a wink.
“Morning, Eddie,” she mumbled, eager to sit down. Only as she entered the tram did she think about what he’d said and puzzle over it. As she passed the usual crowd, packed into their usual seats, she caught sight of the excited faces that beamed at her. She had used the service enough to be on smiling, nodding terms with the regular passengers, but now some touched her arm with love as she passed. She sat in her customary rear seat; her head thumped and she gave serious thought to calling in sick and heading straight home. But her work ethic ran deep and besides, she wasn’t about to drop Sarah-Jane in it at the last minute. Surely people couldn’t know about the pregnancy, could they? She and Michael had made a pact not to tell anyone, and after Chris had left, who would Michael tell? She had told Sarah-Jane, but the sweet girl had promised not to tell anyone, and despite her unbridled excitement she was sure that it was a promise kept. Thirlby, she suddenly thought. Mrs. Olivia Thirlby had been spying on them in the teachers’ lounge. Had she overheard? The headmistress hadn’t mentioned anything to Emily during the rest of the day, but suddenly it made sense. That twisted, miserable, dried up old bitch, she…, Emily suddenly recoiled at the black, angry thoughts that had scuttled through her mind like hairy spider legs. Even if Mrs. Thirlby had overheard and mentioned it to someone, was it really such a big deal? Maybe after losing their first child she was a little overly sensitive. Her thumping head slowed, and the oppressive pressure that had been building gently eased. She rubbed her temples gently, breathed deeply, and forced a smile at the worried faces around her.
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Darnell’s yard was the neatest of its kind that Michael had ever seen before. It defied every stereotypical thought that he had approached the address with. There were no rusting cars up on blocks, there were no corroded chain link fences hanging loose and broken, and there was no snarling, drooling, matted coat Cujo to greet him. The yard was tarmacked and clean and there were three cars all lined up, neatly awaiting treatment in front of a large brick built workshop. The sign reading “Darnell’s” looked fresh and shone in the sunshine - gold letters curled on a deep red background. The yard was right on the far side of town and he’d passed through the privileged neighborhood mansions, through the expensive houses, and passed the town employee homes that were still ten times the home that he had ever lived in. Darnell lived out past the residential and commercial areas, so far out that the rear of his property actually backed onto the town’s huge wooden walls. His house was compact and neat; the wooden structure was painted a pristine white, as was every other house in town, and his front lawn was clipped and glowed a healthy green. The house stood to the left of the hefty sized yard that contained the bulky workshop which stood proudly, its corrugated red roof shining beneath the hot sun.
Michael heard machinery whirling behind the closed double workshop doors. A radio played echoing music that rolled around the air and drifted on the breeze. Michael picked up the strains of Springsteen hoarsely trumpeting just what he and baby were born to do.
Michael walked up to the large wooden doors, expecting to have to hammer loudly, but the smaller door within a door suddenly swung open and Darnell stood before him, his eyes blazing with naked suspicion. Darnell was a man in his early sixties. He was white haired with a handlebar moustache; he wore stained, grubby blue canvas overalls, and, for all the world, he reminded Michael of the actor, Wilford Brimley. Darnell shuffled forward with the gait of a long term arthritis sufferer; his left leg dragged with a limp. His left hand was slightly hooked, and his right held a shiny claw hammer. Michael took an involuntary step backwards from the naked aggression of Darnell’s face. All he had done was to walk up to his door, and the man looked worryingly ready for a fight.
“Whatdaya want?” the handyman growled menacingly, hefting the hammer.
“Hey, easy there, Mr. Darnell. It’s me, Michael Torrance; you helped us move in a while back, up on Fairfax.”
“Torrance?” Darnell stared suspiciously.
“Yes, Michael and Emily.”
“You the English?” Darnell lowered the hammer to a safe level as he considered the information.
“Yes, that’s us.” Michael smiled his friendliest smile.
“Oh yeah, right,” Darnell said through an embarrassed expression. “Sorry,” he said, looking at the hammer that he still clutched. “Get some troublesome kids round here from time to time.”
Michael nodded knowingly, but inside he couldn’t believe that Eden had rowdy kids of any description, let alone all the way out here. He had ridden his scuffed, nearly new, bike out here this morning after Emily had left for work. It was starting to take her longer and longer to drag herself up in the mornings and get her engine cranking and he was now rising with her early, in order to give her a push out the door.
“What is it that you want?” Darnell asked. “Problem with the house?”
“Not exactly.”
Darnell’s eyes narrowed, and the suspicion was back on his face in an instant. “What do you want then?” he asked apprehensively.
“The woods.”
“What about them?”
“I understand that they have a history, a story, a legend?”
Darnell stared for what seemed like an age. “Why come to me? Aren’t you better off taking to Casper?”
Michael stared back at him, sensing that this was some kind of test. He was being evaluated by Darnell for some reason, and so he took a shot. “I don’t like the guy,” he said truthfully. “I don’t know what it is about him, but something’s off with that guy. Way off.”
Darnell stared harder at him, his eyes boring in and his forehead furrowed. His body stood rock still, and Michael could almost hear his mind ticking over. “Well then,” he said, seemingly making a decision, “why don’t you come on in? Oh, and Mr. Torrance,” he said, lifting the hammer again and waggling it. “Just be warned, if you’re the next person to tell me that I look like Wilford Brimley, I’m liable to use this.”
The mess inside Darnell’s workshop was somehow reassuring to Michael. He suddenly realised that he was lacking a little chaos in his own life. Every corner of Eden had seemed like heaven to begin with; every building, every street, every blade of grass looked perfect, but perfection was starting to seem a little plastic. He was beginning to feel that there was cellophane wrapping over the town and its inhabitants - a wipe easy surface that prevented spoilage. The only trouble was that he was starting to wonder what exactly lay beneath the protective cover.
He could immediately relate to Darnell’s lack of organisation. There were large boards up on the wall with tool outlines in white to identify where everything went. Almost all of the hooks were empty, and the chalk outlines looked lost and lonely. The tools themselves were scattered around a large table graveyard of discard and neglect. Despite his best intentions, Emily was always chastising him for leaving things out: books, tools, ingredients - he seemed pathologically destined to leave a mess wherever he went.
The workshop was long and busy. A car ramp and pit dominated the centre. Various bits of machinery sat on benches all along the walls on three sides. A table saw and several drills were in various states of age and battering. This felt like the first piece of reality that he had found within the town walls, and he realised that he’d missed that kind of anchor.
“So what is it that you want to know, Mr. Torrance?” Darnell asked gruffly.
“Please, it’s Michael, and it’s about the woods at the back of town.”
“That’s not somewhere that a nice man such as yourself wants to be going, Michael.”
“What’s wrong there?”
“Now that’s the question, isn’t it?” Darnell smiled grimly.
Michael watched
as Darnell walked over to a wall cabinet and pulled out a corroded and battered old coffee tin. He looked around furtively despite them being alone and pulled out a small metal flask. He unscrewed the cap and took a long drink from it, his face grimacing. He looked back at Michael and, with a look of slight regret, offered the flask. Michael accepted the hospitality and took a small sip. He immediately began coughing and spluttering as the harsh liquid exploded in his throat. “What the hell is that?” he stammered.
“Old family recipe,” Darnell laughed as he pounded Michael on the back.
Initiation passed, Michael pressed on, once he’d regained his breath, “Is there something wrong with this town?” he asked, deliberately abruptly.
Darnell stared at him, his face hard and impossible to read. “Eden is perfect. Heaven on earth and twice as nice,” he recited in a neutral tone, his eyes flint but watchful.
Michael stared hard back at him. “I’m just looking for some answers here. I’m not looking to make any waves; honestly, I’m not.”
Darnell suddenly grabbed him hard by the thin polo shirt that he wore. The old hands, augmented by years of manual labor, pinched the skin painfully as Michael was driven backwards, his arms cartwheeling wildly against the sudden, violent movement.
“Who sent you?” Darnell snarled, his face inches away. “You tell Casper that I’ve done nothing wrong; you tell that fat pig, Quinn, as well.”
“Easy, easy,” Michael panted against the older man’s surprising strength. “Nobody sent me, certainly not Casper or the sheriff.”
Darnell’s grip didn’t loosen. “So why are you out here testing me, boy? Why the questions about the woods, of all places?”
“Alright, two things,” Michael snapped, his anger rising fast after his initial shock. “Firstly, nobody, I repeat nobody, sent me, and secondly, get your fucking hands off me.” His own eyes were hard now; his temper was typical of those slow to rise. He was mainly a mild-mannered man and most things simply washed over him whilst Emily fretted, but once his slow burning temper cranked up, you would be wise to get off the runway.
Darnell released him warily; he stepped backwards without ever breaking the eye contact that crackled between them. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay, then.”
“Back in the early 1800’s…” Darnell began, as they sat in his kitchen across the stained and marked wooden table some ten minutes later. A six pack of beer bottles was opened for Michael, whilst Darnell stuck to his flask, “…the Christian family came to this neck of the woods, so the story goes.”
“Story?”
“Aye, in my opinion the legend and the truth often get tangled over time. You ask Casper and he will tell you of a noble family that ploughed their way west looking for a brighter future. A righteous brood that found fertile woodland and built a town. Saviors to man, the whole damn family, but the truth is never quite so poetic I’ve found.” Darnell paused and took another long drag from his flask. “You can never tell anyone what I’m telling you.” His face suddenly looked older and sadder as the worry lines deepened.
“What is this fear that Casper seems to hold over everyone here?” Michael asked as he leant forward.
Darnell smiled at his eager face. “Don’t get excited, Mr. Writer; there’s nothing supernatural about the man. He’s just an egotistical prick, and nobody works on a town contract without his say-so. If he knew that I was talking to you about his family, then I would be out of work like that.” He clicked his fingers for emphasis. “He also frowns upon…” he waggled the homebrew flask, “Libations of a personal nature, shall we say.”
Michael relaxed, disappointed and relieved in equal measures. “So what about the woods, then?”
“Ah, now therein lies a rather spookier tale altogether,” Darnell continued, the strong alcohol greasing the gears. “The Christians founded their own town alright, but it wasn’t the workers’ paradise that Casper would have you believe. The conditions were appalling; dozens of good men died both building, and working in, the mill and many more through illness as the Christians refused to pay for a doctor. Casper’s family grew fat and wealthy off of the backs of the workers. Casper’s distant relative, Tolan Christian, was a religious tyrant of the Old Testament persuasion, a real fire and brimstoner. From what I’ve heard of the rumors back when I was a boy, before Casper took an iron fist hold over the town, Tolan Christian was nothing short of a monster. It is even said that…” He looked around the small kitchen and then rose and pushed the window curtains aside to check the yard, “…he would carry a wicked sharp axe that he would use at random on the workers whenever he heard God's voice. Eventually, it’s said that towards the end, it wasn’t God's voice that he began hearing.”
“How the hell would he get away with that?” Michael asked incredulously.
Darnell snorted bitterly. “This town was a speck on the landscape. Hundreds of miles from anywhere, the Christians ran the town, and Tolan ran the Christians. There was no law here, other than the one that he laid down.” Darnell sat down wearily. “Before they all died out, some of the other old-timers around town would tell stories about how Tolan grew more and more disturbed, more and more fanatical. He closed the church in town and began holding services out deep in the woods. The town priest soon disappeared, and Tolan conducted the ceremonies himself. Soon he had recruited several of the largest workers in town to his cause, their job being to keep the others in line. Punishments were swift and brutal, and the town lived in fear. It’s said that he literally crucified men in the woods when he’d adjudged them to have angered his God by their blasphemous ways.”
“Jesus,” Michael sighed.
“Not exactly,” Darnell smiled back, humorlessly.
“How the hell is Eden still here today?”
“Therein lays the mystery, my young friend,” Darnell slurred. “For some reason, there is a very small gap between the madness and the prosperity, and it’s a mystery that I’d wager Casper and no other descendant would want opened.”
“That’d make one a hell of an addition to my book,” Michael mused.
“WHAT?” Darnell roared. His arm swept the beer bottles off of the table and several shattered on the floor. “You can never write about what I’ve told you,” he said, his tone suddenly dropping from anger to pleading. “You can never open up those wounds, he’d never let you.” He reached out and took Michael’s arm gently. “You’ve got a beautiful wife and home and a baby on the way.”
“How did you know about the baby?”
Darnell shrugged the question away, “You’ll prosper here, Michael; you people always do. Live your life and be happy. What more is there? Just be happy and leave old ghosts alone. Oh, and stay away from the Woodland Festival; it’s not for you this year.”
Michael stood outside in the sunlight again; his imagination was already running wild with thoughts of mad zealots and hauntings, and his research brain was ticking over fast. Should he really seek to uncover the dark secrets of Eden? He had spent his life writing tales such as this, but here was a real mystery. His intellect salivated at the thought: a book based in a reality stranger than any fiction that he had created in the past. But this was also his home now. Not just his, but Emily’s, and soon to be their baby’s as well. Emily had been horrified by his idea to write a fictitious account using Eden as inspiration. He shuddered to think just how she would react to him raking over the graves of the actual town. Real history, real deaths, and real horrors, perpetrated by ancestors of the current manager. Casper had obviously worked hard to bury the past beyond the sight of the living; the residents were growing younger and younger as the next generation moved in, and the stories faded with time.
He pedaled slowly out of the yard and headed back towards town. His head was low, and his mind was crammed full of too many thoughts. As he cycled absently, his brain absorbed and processed. He did not see the car parked in the bushes as he passed. Whilst Michael wobbled his way attentively back towards home, the car pulled out carefu
lly and drove towards Darnell’s yard.
The car pulled up softly outside the workshop, and the driver hefted his bulk out into the day and flexed his stiff knee as he put his considerable weight on it. The man closed the door behind him, and the sticker on the door gleamed brightly in the dazzling sun. The decorative badge simply read ‘Sheriff’.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Interlude: A Brief Town History Part Two
Tolan Christian grew up broad and powerful, both in stature and physique. He was nineteen years old and could already hold sway over a crowd full of eager faces that were turned towards his sermons.
His mother, Chastity, was by now in a full embrace of her name, ever since the night that she had slain the demon inside her husband - the demon that had monstrously abused her innocent child. After that night, she had retreated into the shell of herself, and she became more and more strident about her religious views. She had always been a woman of faith, but now she was in the vice like grip of a spiritual mania. Tolan was raised within the confines of his mother’s psychosis. They were bound together with chains of isolation, and they limped across the countryside relying on the kindness of others. They sought shelter in various churches and sects as they passed, seeking food and warmth against the cruelty of the outside world. Chastity had determined that they were touched by God’s hand; a finger of fate had been laid upon them and had set their mission in progress. She only knew that God had a plan for them; she was not blessed with the specifics and did not ask during their nightly conversations. God had spoken to her on the first night of their fleeing as she and her son lay inside a neighboring village barn. They had huddled against the cold and the knowledge of her barbarous act. It was only a self serving delusion, as she could not face the truth over her son’s defilement or her violent retribution. God had spoken to her and told her of his plans for them both. They were to head north and wait for his sign. He would show them the way - but only after they had first proved their worthiness. She was to take no provisions, no food, no money, no baggage, only the shirts on their backs and God’s bible. Only then could they begin the long walk to his promised word.