Three Mile Drove, Chapter Twenty Two (standard:horror, 2139 words) [23/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Nov 26 2007	Views/Reads: 2585/1890	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Out in the wilderness, that is Three Mile Drove and Bramble Dyke, Darren Goldwater stumbles on a form of existence he never knew existed.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


As the door seemed to fling itself open to greet him an awful
gut-wrenching stench met him head on. He staggered back, unable to 
breathe. But even as he did so he felt an arm clasp around his neck 
like the coil of a snake. 

*                                        * 

Remnants of fire hung in the air like the aftermath of a murky Guy
Fawkes night. The fire service had done their job by the time McPherson 
arrived, assisted by steady rainfall. It seemed to be a straightforward 
fire they believed, no sign of arson, though McPherson remained to be 
convinced of that. A derelict house, at the centre of his 
investigations spontaneously bursting into flames just didn't gel. But 
something else had caught McPherson's eye as he'd arrived, and he'd 
wasted no time in checking it out. 

He'd seen Darren Goldwater's Jeep, its tail bar reflecting in his
headlights, apparently abandoned by the roadside. He'd taken a closer 
look and found that all four tyres had been slashed. There had been no 
sign of movement, either human or animal, and now apart from the rush 
of wind through trees all was silent. 

McPherson had knocked on Shaun Tomblin's door but received no reply; the
place had been in darkness. He'd turned back to the lane, to be 
confronted with headlights bouncing through the gloom towards him. The 
car screeched to a halt a couple of metres from his feet and before 
he'd a chance to react, Claire Summerby had leapt out. 

She'd seen his Jeep, and seen McPherson standing alone. Now, looking at
the grey pall of smoke blending forebodingly in the dark sky, she 
grabbed his arms. 

‘Where's Darren, oh God, he's not in there?' 

‘No, there's nobody in there, the fire service have checked it out, and
I've scoured the area.' 

McPherson took a step back, selecting a cigarette from a packet he
replaced in his pocket. ‘The fire service say there's no evidence of 
arson. I find that difficult to believe somehow.' 

Claire shrugged, stifling a cough in the acrid air, ‘Well Darren is
hardly likely to have started it, is he?' She swept a strand of hair 
from her face, more out of nervousness than anything, ‘but that is his 
Jeep for Christ's sake, he can't just have vanished.' 

‘No,' McPherson cupped his hands and lit a cigarette, ‘I've asked the
same question myself, all his tyres seem to have been slashed, could 
have been the work of vandals, non better than the Tomblin kids eh? 
With their property just behind us. Nobody in of course, I've just 
tried there. Darren's probably just walked it from here.' He frowned, a 
tiny orange glow illuminating the dark as he drew on his cigarette. 

‘Just walked it?' Claire's mind raced, ‘I doubt that.' The unease that
had been building steadily during her drive here now coupled with her 
own troubled emotions to produce outright panic. She grabbed his arm, 
pulling him to the beginning of the track, ‘Come on Tim, he's in 
danger.' 

McPherson resisted, the furrows tightening on his brow, ‘I've already
told you the place is deserted. Now what's this all about Claire?' 

‘You won't find anything because the problem exists way out there,' she
thrust her arm out along the track, her fingers extending above the 
trees, ‘at least two miles out in the fens, perhaps more. I don't like 
the sound of this; it seems he's been set up. Christ, it might already 
be too late, we haven't got time...' 

‘I'm sorry, but I'm going to need just a little bit more to go on before
trudging two mile through fenland!' McPherson clasped his throat 
between thumb and forefinger, he was making himself hoarse shouting 
into the wind. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?' 

‘I haven't got time, and for all I know, neither has Darren.' She
sighed, trying to tell herself to be calm, trying to rationalise, while 
trying to stem the resurgence of bitter memories. Knowing now that she 
was about to confront them head on, but to confront them for whose 
sake, hers, Darren's? Knowing also, that it might be worse this time; 
and where would that leave Darren, where would that leave her? 

And McPherson was unprepared. 

‘Can you call for back up? I think we might need it.' 

‘Oh yeah.' McPherson laughed for the first time that evening, but out of
frustration. ‘I've nothing to go on, apart from four slashed tyres. If 
I'm going to call the cavalry into the middle of nowhere, much as I 
might share your sentiment, I'm going to need something more than just 
four slashed tyres. Now, if I'm going to help Darren, you're going to 
have to help me. It was why you were coming to the station, wasn't it?' 


He threw his cigarette to the ground, stubbing it beneath his foot.
‘Tell me Claire, as quickly as you can, just what's been going on?' 

Claire sighed, stopped and turned, ‘In a nutshell, it involves
inbreeding, abduction and possibly murder. Given that, you don't expect 
me to waste time explaining the gory details.' 

‘If this is the case, why haven't you told me before?' McPherson uttered
a curse that got lost in the wind, and snatched at his radio. Claire 
couldn't hear what he said, but there was a new urgency in his 
expression, which increased in intensity the longer he talked. 

‘They need a landmark,' he shouted at her, ‘this place is such a
wilderness they haven't a clue where we are.' 

‘Christ, you could probably smell the place for miles,' Claire glanced
at the smouldering ruins in agitation, slapping a hand on her brow, 
‘there's just the windmill on the other side of the road. It's 
practically opposite this track and looms out at you on a dark night.' 

McPherson nodded, barked the information into his radio and turned to
her. ‘Let's get cracking.' Suddenly his yell pierced the air and Claire 
turned in alarm. The mixture of mud and slime that had concealed the 
trench running alongside the track subsided, McPherson losing balance, 
his right leg leading the way and propelling him down the channel like 
a wayward dog trying to escape its leash. His torch rolled from his 
grasp, embedding itself amidst the soaked soil. Claire, bending low, 
swept it up in a single deft movement, then directing its beam at 
McPherson, she offered an arm to pull him up. 

But it was clear from the anguish on McPherson's face that he wasn't
going to oblige, that he couldn't, because as the torchlight shone on 
his foot, the grotesque angle at which it pointed left her in no doubt 
it was a break. 

‘Just sit still,' Claire examined it quickly, merely confirming what she
already knew. She grabbed his radio. ‘Tell me how to use this thing.' 

‘Just press the button and speak,' McPherson groaned. He tried to lift
himself up with his arms, but found his hands simply sinking down into 
the boggy trench. 

‘Lie still,' Claire said firmly, and then shouted into the radio, trying
to make herself heard above the crackle of interference and the sound 
of the wind. She brought the radio down to her waist, ‘Right, they'll 
be with you shortly.' She cast an eye over him, satisfied that it was 
just his ankle, which had taken the brunt, ‘I need to push on.' 

McPherson's eyes widened despite his pain, ‘If the situation's as bad as
you say it is, you're not going anywhere without professional support.' 


‘Look Tim, Darren could be in trouble and I know the area like the back
of my hand, I'd say that counts for a lot. Anyway, I don't think you're 
in much of a position to argue, do you?' 

McPherson stared at her dumbfounded, tried to shift his position and
screeched as pain shot like fire through his foot and ankle. Claire 
glanced at the radio, thought about handing it back then changed her 
mind. ‘I'll tell you what, I'll take this as back up.' 

‘You can't,' McPherson grimaced, ‘it's police property.' 

‘Right now Tim, it's police property on loan. It'll ensure I guide your
colleagues to the right place.' 

McPherson clasped his hands to his forehead in pain and annoyance. The
next time he looked up there was no trace of Claire Summerby. 


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