Rural England
She walked alone in the moonlight, her head bent down, listening to the steady slap of her bare feet on the packed earth of the road. In one hand she carried her sandals, swinging them back and forth absently. The ruffled skirt of her light sundress danced around her legs in the evening breeze. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the light of the full moon. Raven colored tresses lightly brushed her delicate shoulders. From a far she might have been mistaken for a child, so small of frame and stature was she.
Walking this road from the village for the fifth time in as many nights, she surveys her shoes, low slung golden slippers with soft embroidered flowers, cheerful when not caked in dust and desperation. A sense as sure as her bones drives her to this place night after night. A sense this place will deliver her from this life, that the monster within whether corporeal or myth will end this suffering.
The dirt lane had carried her miles beyond the small village where she had been lodged for the past few weeks. She now traveled with only the company of wilderness on either side. The sounds of animals scurrying and foraging had stopped a mile ago. Other than her own footfalls, the trees made the only sounds. The trees rustled in the breeze as if they whispered to one another. They seemed to have eyes too.
Her steady footfalls soon brought her to her destination. She had visited this site every night, when the weather permitted, while staying in the village. She often took long walks to clear her head and it was on one of these that she had first stumbled upon the place. Her Previous visits brought her along the stone walls surrounding the property. The walls towered over her small form though if she stood back from them she could see over them somewhat. She has also found several small holes along the walls. But just as she saw above the gate, through the holes all she saw was weeds, over growth, and knotted trees. Also on most nights a strange mist seemed to lie over the land.
Passing the mile-long stone wall again, step by step, it creeps by in her peripheral vision and once again she’s standing in front of the massive gate, the forest along the drive concealing whatever lies within. The name plate was so old it could no longer be read. A thick chain, darkened with age wound through the bars of the gate joining them together and permanently closed by a large and rather antique pad lock. The lock, curiously, secured the gates from the inside.
She could not see a house but she knew there had to be one. Or perhaps it had burnt down or succumbed to age long ago. An image flashed in her mind of a foundation littered with a toppled chimney and other debris. A shake of her head sent this idea fluttering away. There was a house, she was sure of it. On some nights she had visited, if the moon was just right she swore she saw the stones of some structure glittering beneath the tangles of ivy and kudzu. But when she looked more closely all she could see was foliage. It felt to her as if the tangled masses clustered more closely together to hide the mystery beneath.
She stared though the bars as a feeling of profound melancholy swept over her. She wondered what grand halls had once stood there, who had once lived and loved there. Had Lords and Ladies once hosted lavish parties here? Did children once laugh and frolic in now over grown orchards? Closing her eyes, her sharp imagination could almost see it, the grand castle standing proud in the spring morn, the gardens in bloom. She could almost smell the flowers and hear the laughter of children.
Opening her eyes once more, she frowned. She had always found herself saddened by houses that were abandoned and forgotten until time itself gobbled them up.
She had often been drawn to forgotten places of old but this one held a quite different fascination to her. The next morning after first discovering the place she questioned many villagers concerning its origin and history. She learned nothing of either. If she asked a child of this place they would passionately insist with child like wonder and fear, that it was indeed haunted. The local gossips would eagerly spin a similar yarn sometimes also including rumors of the homes original life and demise. But these tales were as varied as snowflakes in a winter sky. The only one thing they had in common was their total fabrication. But if she asked the oldest members of the nearby villagers they would answer her inquiry in quite a different manner than the examples above. The “old-timers” whispered of a great evil that dwelled there. Then they would speak no more of the subject and advise her to do the same. Many would be seen crossing themselves as they hurried away from her.
Night after night she had come, seeking answers, seeking an end to her curiosity. Or was she searching for something else?
Her journey to the village was drawing to an end. She would soon return to her home where her normal life beckoned. Where her prison eagerly awaited her return.
But tonight she was still free of that life. And she would make the most of it. She would learn what was behind these locked secluded gates; she would learn the secrets held within.
Taking bars in both hands, she rested her forehead against the cool iron, closing her eyes and visualizing a scramble over the wall. It’s high, but she’s feisty and could probably do it. Something stops her – and has for the past four nights. What, she doesn’t know – she can’t quite put a finger on it. She found she could go no further in good conscience though she knew not why. It was apparent the place was deserted, abandoned and forgotten long ago. Who should be offended if she let herself in and took a quick look around? Try as she might she could not convince herself to trespass upon the solemn place uninvited. Frustrated, she kicked at the dirt, a single tear squeezes from the corner of her eye which she wipes away angrily with the back of her hand. Composing herself by stepping back and smoothing her dress with both hands, she’s resigned to find some other way to end her life on this earth.
“You win” she whispers to the gate through gritted teeth and turns on her heels, head high, to make the several-mile journey back to the village before daybreak.
She wrinkles her brow at the small, rusty door that seemed to have been there forever yet she’d never seen it before. Hidden in plain sight. It seemed insane to her own ration mind but she knew in her heart she had been given her invitation. Whatever secrets did lie beyond the stone wall, they wanted to be found. And they wanted her alone to find them.
So heavily encrusted with age it seemed absurd that the small gate should open but as she pushed it tentatively with just the fingertips of one hand, it yawed open, hinges whining in full. Her mouth gaped at the sudden stroke of luck and she didn’t hesitate to step straight through into the inky darkness. Her heart was pounding yet she still found the wherewithal to push the door closed again.
Standing stock still and blinking hard to clear the darkness like fog, knowing only time would allow her eyes to adjust, if at all. Slowly a path through the heavily wooded forest revealed itself, the underbrush weak and spindly from the lack of light which is not surprising given this is a forest of Ash
Large flat stones engulfed in moss, and submerged in dark, dank earth, but tufted here and there with verdant Hostas that grow lush and strong very low light. Large and small, some variegated with white stripes, but most broad simple dark green, the large long triangles swirl from a center focus from which a large stalk protrudes with tiny flowers, but not tonight. Tonight the Hostas are bare. Her eyes adjusting further, she can make out the subtle white punctuation of Trillium along both sides of the path, their porcelain blossoms capturing what little light there is a throwing it back to show the way down the path.
Suddenly delighted by the delicate, yet architectural tri-petaled Trillium, she steps down the path to get a closer look, lifting her skirt to kneel bare knees on the damp mossy stone. She reaches with one hand to cup the delicate white three-petaled blossom that fades gently to pink in the center. Behind it, the dark green leaves hold tightly to cheeky red-hued stems, a color almost black in this light.
“So beautiful” she whispers to herself in the dark.
Her eyes focus beyond her hand to the earthen bed below where a golden, spotted banana slug as large as a grown man’s thumb slimes his way to the Hosta, a preferred meal. She reaches out with one finger to touch the cool slickness of his back, and then push the finger to her thumb until they are both sticky against each other. She smiles for the first time in a long while.
Abruptly, she senses a change, unsure why but the small hairs on the base of her neck stand straight up. A faint murmur, not quite a sound, and flash of green in her peripheral vision draw her eye down the path, but there is nothing there. Not that she can see in the smothering darkness. Smiling and exhaling to calm herself, she peers again into the deep darkness of the path and notices something odd. A Daylily, twenty feet away, in full perfect bloom. A Daylily, bright and cheery and yellow.
“What the…” she whispers again, not sure why she’s whispering.
Again the familiar wrinkle of her brow as she rises to go to it, looking up to the dense canopy overhead and puzzling how this flower is not only here but in bloom with it requires more than a little bright sunlight to do so.
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