by Matt Drabble
“Tell me what you saw,” she stressed.
“A woman, an old woman; I think her name is Edna Bailey, but it was hard to recognise her properly. She has hung herself from a tree on school grounds. Her face was all…,” he trailed off as the sight of the dead woman ran back across his mind.
“Are you sure?” she asked. His hard look told her that he was. “Have you called the police?”
“I was just about to,” he bristled.
“Where exactly is she?”
“Out in the woods, about a hundred yards from the fence.”
“Maybe we should check?” she offered quietly.
“Check? Check? What on earth is there to check?”
“I just think that this place has a way of making you see…, things,” she finished.
“Ms Mears, I have been here a long time.”
“Then you should know what I’m talking about,” she replied, holding his stare.
“I have been here a long time and this place is full of myths and rumors and nothing else. Some poor woman has obviously had some kind of mental breakdown and committed suicide on school grounds. I shall inform the authorities and nothing else.”
She could only watch as the Headmaster strode purposefully out of the classroom. She wanted to stop him but she didn’t have a reason. The door swung both ways like a saloon bar’s to accommodate charging children with little peripheral vision. As the door swung open she could see the long corridor. Standing at the end of it was Joshua Bradley; he lifted his hand and waved with a small smile. But as the door whispered back across the floor and passed into the classroom, she saw that he had vanished.
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Donald Ross slammed the phone down hard into the cradle. The line had finally died like he had expected it would due to the weather, but the timing could not have been worse. He was in way over his head and he desperately needed help. With no mobile phone signal this far out in the sticks, the landline and internet connections were all they had.
He looked around the station at his troops. He was blessed with an overweight priest and a spotty kid who looked like he was playing dress up in a police uniform, not to mention his own raggedly old ass.
The lights overhead flickered and dimmed, before dying completely.
“Shit,” he mumbled in exasperation. “Paterson, go and start the generator,” he ordered.
The young PC dragged himself up from his chair and stomped sulkily across the room. He grabbed a waterproof jacket from the hook by the door and headed out. Donald waited for the telltale sound of the generator kicking throatily into life, but silence filled the air.
“That useless bloody kid,” he said, shaking his head.
“I’m sure he means well,” Monroe shrugged.
“It’s just a shame then that he’s so bloody useless,” Donald grumbled.
The door suddenly flew open and Paterson came rushing back in, slamming the door behind him. Donald could see from the kid’s wet hair that the snow was coming down again in a thick flurry. He raised his eyebrows and lifted his arms waiting for an answer.
“It’s buggered,” Paterson said.
“What?” Donald demanded.
“I said it’s buggered,” Paterson replied louder.
“I don’t think that it’s your volume that’s the problem, more the details of your message,” Monroe said.
“Huh?” Paterson said with a confused expression.
“What’s wrong with the generator?” Donald said taking a deep breath.
“It’s bug...”
“I swear to God if you say it’s buggered again I’m going to make you stand outside for the rest of the day,” Donald snapped.
“Maybe we should take a look,” Monroe offered helpfully.
The two of them grabbed their coats and followed the young PC out of the door and around to the rear of the station. The winds were picking up again and the snow was coming down hard. The three of them had to lean into the blustery weather to be able to walk forward.
They rounded the corner and saw the mess that had once been the generator. The large metal box had been smashed to pieces with something big and sharp. There were deep gashes in the casing where someone had struck it repeatedly.
Donald tugged the other two on their arms and motioned for them to head back inside. When there, he threw his jacket off in anger and frustration. “What the hell was that?” he demanded to two blank looks. “Who the hell would do that?”
“I’ve a more worrying question,” Monroe said. “Why?”
“Maybe it was the storm?” Paterson offered genuinely.
“A storm took an axe or a hammer to a generator?” Donald sneered mockingly.
“Surely you would have heard something?” Monroe asked.
“I would have thought so,” Donald replied thoughtfully. “But I suppose it depends on when it was done. I checked the thing myself last week, fuelled it up, and made sure it was running. So someone did that sometime in the past 6 days or so.”
“Speaking of noises, have you checked on her lately?” Monroe nodded towards the maintenance closet.
Donald’s face drained a whiter shade of pale. “Oh shit, that’s all I need,” he said as he frantically checked his pockets for the keys. He dragged them out gratefully and rushed to the door. He unlocked it and threw it open.
The acrid stench of vomit was pungent on the air and all three of them had to suppress a violent gag reflex. Mavis Merryweather’s face had ballooned and her eyes were bulging almost out of their sockets. A line of red infused vomit had run down her chin and dried there. A filthy looking rag was jammed down into her throat blocking her windpipe and halting her breathing. There were open bottles of various cleaning products lying strewn across the floor that had been used to soak the rag and the chemical smell was strong and bitter. The strangest thing in the whole gruesome scene was that despite the obvious pain that she must have suffered committing suicide in such a manner, her eyes were peaceful and her mouth was stretched in a wide smile.
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Sarah spotted the returning Stuart as he emerged from the basement stairwell. His face looked a little peaky but his eyes lit up with a kind of relief when he saw her. She waved him over frenetically.
“Oh Jesus, what now?” he said as he reached her.
“Barnaby says that he found a hanged woman in the woods,” she answered, matching his low voice.
“Fantastic,” he replied glumly.
“You know it might not be…, real...”
“You mean like our pajama clad friend who took a header off the roof?”
“Maybe,” she conceded.
“You want to go and take a look, don’t you?” he said nodding.
Two minutes later they were wrapped up and braving the elements. Jemima had helpfully volunteered to man the barricades again and she was grateful for the offer. The young teacher was wrapped in heavy and bulky clothing and seemed distant with a happy smile plastered across her face. Sarah wanted to talk to her, but her world was spinning and she had so many other pressing concerns.
Despite the falling snow, Barnaby’s footprints were still visible and they had no trouble retracing his steps. She had never known that weather like this even existed outside of mountain ranges. They were effectively cut off from the outside world which seemed like an ominous portent.
They headed in beneath the woodland branches and found the ground less covered in snow, but there was still enough of a dusting to follow the Headmaster’s path. His prints headed inward where the light failed to reach and the gloom was heavy. Barnaby’s footsteps led up to a large oak tree and Sarah held her breath, not wanting to gaze upon yet more death. But the tree was empty. There was no swinging corpse of any gender and she let out a huge sigh of relief.
“Well at least we know that the old guy is as nuts as the rest of us; that’s gotta be some comfort least,” Stuart joked without a whole lot of humor.
“Who do you think he saw?” Sarah wondere
d aloud.
“I know a man that we can ask.”
“You mean Maurice?”
“Well he knows more about this place than anyone, even Barnaby. If what you saw up on the roof with his grandfather was accurate then who knows how many other people have topped themselves,” Stuart shrugged.
“Anything that is an indoor activity has got my vote,” she said through chattering teeth.
“I thought that you were leaving here?”
She looked at him long and hard, her emotions twisted and contorted. On the one hand she wanted nothing more than to run away as fast as she could, but the Eden guilt was still strong in her. She could only pray that she would do more good than harm if she stayed.
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The computer lab was as silent as the grave. Alex watched in awe as Joshua held their attention without effort as he raged a torrent of religious vitriol over their rapt faces. They had been holding services here for the past few days and all as Ms King stared ahead with vacant eyes.
Alex’s days had become a confusing foggy haze. Fragments of memory flittered through his mind but nothing that he could tangibly grasp hold of. His stomach rolled with fear and doubt and his immature mind couldn’t cope with the waterfall of emotions that he had to process. Being offered the world seemed like it would be every person’s dream, but he was no longer sure if it was a blessing or a curse.
He had a terrible feeling that he had been a part of something horrific, but he had no idea what. Images of dead floating eyes kept rising to the front of his mind. Despite all of Joshua’s talk of peace and happiness ever after, he could feel nothing but a sense of dread in his bones. He had tried to talk to Ms Mears, but he hadn’t been able to find the words and by the time he had, he’d found himself back in his room with little idea as to how he’d got there.
There was a strange feeling of losing himself somewhere in the middle of all this and whatever he had been was slowly slipping away. His thoughts no longer seemed like his own and his dreams were full of sunny days and lush green woodland. He could feel a tug to somewhere thousands of miles away and a time in the dim and distant past. There were times when he lost large tracts of time that he couldn’t account for and on one occasion his hands had been stained red when he’d returned.
He looked around the room at the timid faces before him. Deborah Vance and Anna Thomas had once been the objects of his hormones’ desire, but now he had little interest in the attractions of the flesh. Joshua had once intimated that there was to be nothing beyond his grasp, but now even the promised enticement of Ms King had faded. To be offered the world only to find that there was nothing that he actually wanted seemed like a real kick in the teeth.
“I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth,” Joshua quoted. “We will build a new utopia upon this land and raise ourselves up to be deemed worthy of his grace and favor. As the good book says - Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; he rises to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him.”
“Amen,” the group whispered in unison.
“Ours is a God beyond the understanding of mortal men. His word has been bastardised through the ages and watered down until his true meaning has been lost and falls on deaf ears. But fear not, for I shall deliver the flock back unto him and keep the wolf from the door. For I am the light of the new world and the resurrection of all that he demands in blood and judgment.”
Alex felt himself drifting away again but couldn’t find the will to fight as Joshua’s words washed over him. The group stood and began to filter their way down through the school as Joshua led the way. He floated away on a warm tide that lapped upon sandy shores as the hot sun beat down on his face and Alex Thompson ceased to be for a while.
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Sarah headed around the grounds and back towards the main entrance to look for Maurice. Stuart had said that the man had been on his way towards the dining hall when he’d left him. A very large part of her wanted to do nothing but head upstairs, pack a bag and hike her way out of here if necessary. Whatever was going on here, this wasn’t her fight. She had enough blood stains on her hands and she knew that in the one crisis in her life she had done far more harm than good, and yet she was still here. The one notion that wouldn’t leave her was the thought of the children; they were innocent and they needed protecting, but God only knew what kind of a savior she was going to be.
She immediately noticed that the power was on when they returned. She had sent Stuart to check the generators while she went to the dining hall. He’d protested profusely, but she couldn’t help but feel that Maurice knew far more than he was telling and would be more likely to tell her without Stuart’s skepticism in the room. She had decided that whilst they were all snowed in together, she needed answers.
She entered the dining hall and immediately spotted him sitting on a table alone nursing a hot drink. The steam from his mug seemed to have hypnotized him as he sat on a deserted island lost in a sea of emptiness.
She sat down beside him and saw just how old and tired he really looked.
“What do you want now, woman?” he said gruffly.
“How about a little honesty?”
“Believe me, that’s the last thing you want here,” he scoffed.
“What is this place, Maurice?” she asked gently.
“It’s a magnet,” he sighed heavily. “For some reason only the worst in men are attracted to Ravenhill. It has a power to draw the blackest of hearts with promises of death and pain.”
He leaned back in his chair and began to tell her the history of Ravenhill, warts and all.
CHAPTER 15
Ravenhill: A Brief Interlude
The original construction of Ravenhill had taken place back in 1524 and had originally been conceived as little more than a home. Back in the day, a wealthy land owner had built the house as a testament to his success.
Abraham Ravenhill had by all accounts been a brutal and unflinching man with a vision and deep enough pockets to fund it. He had joined the navy at the age of fourteen and had risen slowly through the ranks until he reached Admiral status. He had travelled the known world several times over, reaching the shores of America on many occasions. He had greatly enjoyed his time in the navy and had brought back many memories of his conquests.
By the time of the construction of Ravenhill he had become a man of fierce religious beliefs and a vicious adherence to Old Testament teachings. He believed himself to be a man on a mission from God and his plans soon changed to include a large section of the house to be used as a church. He was a convert from the evils of the flesh to the grace of God, and there was nothing worse than a reformed man.
Abraham took to leading services at the site. His builders would have to bow their heads in reverence, putting up with the whims of an increasingly unstable foreman for the coin that he offered in recompense. Abraham’s words were full of fire and brimstone and old school vengeance. He believed in a God who liked to smite first and ask questions later.
The build had attracted men from miles away as regular employment was scarce and the promise of coin brought those of stout hearts and backs seeking work. But the construction had soon started to attract a reputation for being cursed. Apparently, the walls were built with stone, mortar and a few skeletons. It was rumored that several of the workers had perished during the build, but that Abraham wisely only used out of town builders who wouldn’t be missed.
The build took over four years to complete and only Abraham knew how much blood. He worked his men until they were a danger to themselves and others on the site. He drove them like cattle until they were exhausted and many fell victim to injuries and illness due to tiredness and malnourishment, but work was never halted. Abraham knew that God would require great sacrifice in his name and the original plans for Ravenhill soon became altered from a home
, to a home with a chapel inside, to a cathedral.
Upon completion, Abraham had succumbed to the kind of illness that affected men with dubious appetites and who weren’t all that choosy on where they slaked their thirst. The irony being that his illness had lain dormant in his system for many years since his naval days and had only sparked into life after the build was complete. Spending years dedicated to the construction, Abraham hadn’t managed to produce an heir and Ravenhill began to fall into differing hands through the years.
It had been several private homes and it was also rumored that several of the owners had met with unfortunate and premature ends at their own hands.
It had been a boarding house in the days when stables were necessary to house the time’s main transport. During the days that it had operated as such, the isolated location meant that its main clientele was those seeking refuge as much as shelter. Highwaymen would use the place as a pit stop between jobs and the rooms were often full of the sounds of pistol fire. Hangings took place in the woods inside Ravenhill’s grounds on more than one occasion as the long arm of the law finally reached this far out.
It had also once been a private hospital, the kind where men and women were housed to keep them away from polite society. It was during the days of medicine’s dim and dark past when procedures bore more resemblance to torture chambers than hospital wards. There were screams of the damned embedded into the walls of Ravenhill that would never be free. The doors of the Ravenhill hospital were actually opened to the public at this point along with many other such institutions. Members of the public were actually charged a penny for a guided tour of the inmate sideshow freaks, whilst gentler patients were put out on the streets to beg for charity. When staff did attempt to cure the patients, they followed the practices typical of the time period—purging and bloodletting being the most common. Other treatments included dousing the patient in either hot or ice-cold water to shock their minds back into a normal state. The belief that patients needed to choose rationality over insanity led to techniques aiming to intimidate. Blistering, physical restraints, threats, and straitjackets were employed to achieve this end. The Ravenhill Institute had perhaps left the bloodiest stain on the building’s history.