The House on Willow Lane (Secret Gateways Book 1)

by John Moralee

  Lucas Ravencroft stepped back and started shutting the gates.

  “Can we meet her?” Ryan said.

  “Who?” Ravencroft said.

  “Your daughter,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m afraid not,” the man said. “Unfortunately, she is rather unwell.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Rachel said. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s recovering from an ... illness.”

  Could he have been more vague? Ryan doubted it.

  “We could just say hello,” Ryan said.

  “Unfortunately, she can’t have visitors because of the danger of catching an infection.”

  “I could be quick,” Ryan said. “I don’t have a cold or anything. Just a second, that’s all.”

  “Alas, she’s sleeping now.” He smiled, showing two rows of perfect alabaster teeth. “But I will tell her you were here when she awakes.”

  You liar, Ryan thought. He believed Lucas Ravencroft – if that was his real name - didn’t want them to see the girl. He believed Lucas Ravencroft was making up a story to keep them from being suspicious. Ravencroft was good – he seemed convincing – but Ryan had a deep down, guttural feeling that Ravencroft was lying about her being his daughter, lying about everything.

  Ryan didn’t trust him.

  “Well, goodbye,” Ravencroft said, closing the gate. He reached into a pocket for the key to lock the padlock.

  If Ravencroft locked the gates, Ryan believed he would never find out why the girl had been crying. He had to get into the house. He had to find the girl. He had to talk to her. But if the man locked the gate ...

  Just then, Ryan had an idea.

  It was brilliantly simple.

  He grabbed his stomach and groaned.

  “What’s wrong?” Rachel said.

  “Rachel ... my stomach hurts.” Ryan contorted his face and moaned again. He widened his eyes to make her understand what he was doing. “It huuuurts. I reeeaaally need to go to the toilet noooow.”

  Rachel realised what he was doing and played along. “Do you mind if my little brother uses yours, Mr Ravencroft?”

  Ravencroft was trapped. He could not say “no” without appearing to be cruel. He had no choice but to agree. “Of course I don’t mind. Please come in – I’ll show you where it is, Ryan.”

  Ravencroft re-opened the gates and stepped aside, inviting Ryan and Rachel into his yard. Ryan looked briefly at Saffron, who had her face pressed against the rear window, watching them. She put up both hands, signalling that she was going to start timing ten minutes. Ryan discreetly set his own watch’s timer as he passed between the gates out of his friend’s sight.

  Ten minutes.

  In the yard, Ryan felt the cold air hit him immediately.

  Ravencroft closed the gates after them, but did not lock them. Even so, the high walls felt oppressive, like the walls of a prison. There was no turning back now. Ryan had to keep faking a stomach ache.

  “Ooooh,” he moaned.

  All three of them walked under the trees. Ravencroft led them up to the door, which he opened. There was a gloomy entrance hall on the other side. Ryan was quite surprised to feel a wave of heat roll out of the doorway. Wow, it was hot in there. The change of temperature from outside was welcome but unexpected.

  Ravencroft entered first. Ryan and Rachel followed. The entrance hall was stuffy, making Ryan almost wish for the coldness outside. His skin felt instantly sticky like he had a fever.

  Ryan felt uneasy when Ravencroft shut the door behind them, locking them inside his house. His eyes adjusted to the dull light of a chandelier high above his head. They were in a large oak-panelled room with dark, moody photographs on the walls. They showed views of London during the Victorian Age. Some had people in them, people dressed in clothes similar to Ravencroft’s suit. The hall smelled like a musty old museum. To Ryan’s right, a thickly carpeted staircase spiralled up to the next two floors. The ornate banisters looked like solid gold, but were more likely to be well-polished brass.

  “Follow me,” Ravencroft said, walking down a long passageway to a closed door half of the way along. The door creaked when he pushed it inwards. “This is the bathroom.”

  He stepped back to allow Ryan into the room.

  “Thanks,” Ryan said, maintaining a pained expression. He entered the unlit bathroom, but could not see a light switch. He could hear water dripping from something in the darkness. He could smell bleach like in a hospital. (The hospital.) He was afraid of the dark. “How do I turn on the light?”

  “I’ll show you,” Lucas Ravencroft said. He stepped behind Ryan, so close he could feel the man’s hot breath. He was blocking the door. For a second Ryan thought he was going to lock him in the dark room – trapping him - but his hand reached for a string hanging down the wall. Ravencroft jerked it.

  Click. A bright light came on. There was a bare bulb on the plaster ceiling, which was cracked from wall to wall. The bulb lit the bathroom with a stark light, making Ryan feel like he was under a spotlight. He was standing on a marble floor surrounded by four walls covered with white and green tiles in a chessboard pattern. The toilet was next to a large enamel bath. A large mirror was above a sink, reflecting his image and that of the tall man behind him.

  At least Ravencroft has a reflection, Ryan thought. It meant that the man wasn’t a vampire. (Not that Ryan believed in vampires, but ... it was good to know. Just in case.) Ravencroft’s green eyes looked at him through the mirror. “You can turn off the light when you are done by simply pulling the cord again.”

  “Thanks,” Ryan said again.

  Ravencroft closed the door, leaving him alone.

  Ryan locked the bathroom door, then made a deliberate noise lowering the toilet seat. He did not sit down. His act did not need to be that realistic. He crept back to the door and listened. Rachel was talking to Ravencroft. She was deliberately talking loud enough for him to hear every word.

  “Can I have a glass of water, Mr Ravencroft?”

  “Certainly,” he answered. “The kitchen is this way ...”

  Ryan listened to them walking away, their voices gradually disappearing. He waited a few seconds more before very, very quietly unlocking the door. He opened the door just a little, making sure the hall was deserted. It was. He could hear his sister in another room asking Ravencroft questions about what kind of work he did. Good. She would keep Ravencroft distracted for a few minutes while he explored the house. Their voices were coming from a doorway at the end of the passageway.

  Ryan was extremely careful not to make a noise opening the door. When it started to creak, he slowed down the movement. By degrees, he widened the gap. It took about thirty seconds to open the gap wide enough to slip out. He gently closed the door behind him before creeping along the passageway in the opposite direction of the kitchen. He arrived back at the entrance hall. There he paused at the bottom of the staircase, looking up at the spiralling banister, which made him think of the twists of a corkscrew.

  According to Saffron, the girl had been looking out of the room on the top floor. Ryan could not waste time looking anywhere else. He stepped cautiously onto the first step hoping the stairs would not creak as he climbed up them. Luckily, the thick carpet muffled any sound.

  Satisfied he wouldn’t make any noise if he proceeded quickly, Ryan hurried up the stairs until he reached the first balcony. He raced around it to the second staircase. His heart was beating hard in his chest when he reached the top. He was on a balcony overlooking the hall, which looked like a long drop from there.

  Two dark passageways disappeared into darkness to his left and right.

  He looked at his watch. He had already spent two minutes.

  He had to find the girl.

  Quickly.

  He knew which passageway to try first: the left-hand one. He moved down it blindly for a few seconds, feeling his way with his hand on a wall, until his eyes got used to the dark. It wasn’t completely dark because some ligh
t from the chandelier reached the passageway. The walls had dark wallpaper on them, but the doors were painted white, which helped him see them. Several doors led off into other rooms – some open, some closed - but he didn’t have time to look in the rooms.

  The door he wanted was the last one.

  He stopped outside it.

  The door was closed.

  He listened. He could hear his own breathing. Nothing else.

  Heart beating faster, he tested the doorknob.

  It didn’t move.

  The door was locked.

  Unfortunately, he could see no key in the lock.

  However, he could see a faint light coming through the keyhole.

  Curious, Ryan bent down to have a look.

  The light was from an old reading lamp on an antique desk. The desk was in front of the window with its closed, black velvet curtains. Though his view was limited, he could see a queen-sized bed on one side. The pink pillows and sheets proved it was the girl’s bedroom.

  All of the furniture (that he could see) looked Victorian. There was an impressively large wardrobe and vanity dresser just within his peripheral sight. A beautiful Persian carpet filled most of the floor. When he looked closely, he noticed that the carpet displayed hundreds of animals, real and mythological. His eyes were drawn to the exquisite detail. A master had woven the carpet.

  Disappointingly, he could not see the girl.

  There was an open book on the desk. It looked as though the girl had been reading it carefully, for several pages were marked with red-leather bookmarks. From his angle the words looked like a foreign language. They reminded him of the rune symbols he had seen on a school trip to Stonehenge.

  A shadow moved in a corner.

  What was it? A cat?

  It was gone now.

  “Hello?” he whispered.

  Just then, something blocked his view.

  It was a green eye.

  Looking straight at him.

  Chapter Four

  Outside, the car radio was playing one of Saffron’s favourite songs, but she wasn’t enjoying it. She was anxiously chewing her lip, counting the seconds Ryan and Rachel were out of her sight. She had never taken her eyes off the gates of the house since they went inside. They had been gone for precisely five minutes: the longest five minutes in Saffron’s life. She felt like she was waiting for the execution of her friends. She felt responsible because she had allowed them to go into the house instead of herself. Now she was safe in the car – but Ryan and Rachel were risking their lives.

  She felt like a coward.

  She kept looking at her watch. The second-hand moved incredibly slowly as it turned. The waiting was unbearable. Each second made Saffron more anxious.

  What if the man hurt them?

  What if he killed them?

  She knew it was her fault they had gone there. If only she had never mentioned seeing the girl ... but she had. The girl had looked so sad. Saffron could not have stayed silent.

  “Hurry up,” she said to herself. “Hurry up.”

  *

  Something was missing from Lucas Ravencroft’s kitchen, but Rachel didn’t know what (even though she had been trying to figure it out for five minutes.) There was one thing she did know for sure, though: he kept the kitchen in spotless condition.

  Shining-like-new copper pots and pans hung over a counter where a rack of sharp knives gleamed like mirrors. A cast-iron stove, old but in perfect condition, stood between some cupboards and shelves. Several whiter-than-white dishes were stacked next to the sink where Ravencroft had poured her the glass of water she was still holding. The glass of water in her hands was lukewarm and tasted metallic, but she didn’t dare complain. When she sipped it, she smiled at her host, who was standing just a few feet away, watching her like a hawk.

  What was bothering her about the room? Then – suddenly – the answer became obvious: there was nothing remotely modern. There wasn’t a microwave, an electric blender, a washing machine, a dishwasher - not even a fridge.

  Everything was antique.

  This was a Victorian kitchen, down to the smallest detail.

  Weird.

  “I’m a student,” she told Ravencroft, for something to say. “What do you do, Mr Ravencroft?”

  “I write books.”

  “Books, huh? Novels?”

  “No,” he said. He didn’t elaborate. Most authors loved to talk about their work, she knew, having met some at work, but not Ravencroft. There was a long awkward pause.

  “As well as being a student, I work part-time in a book shop,” she told him. “It’s the one near Hobley University’s café. You know what? I could order some copies of your books. We could have a signing session if you’re interested.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” he said. “My books are rather obscure. Nobody would buy them, signed or not. I write mostly for my own interest. It’s a private hobby.”

  “Let me guess - you like the Victorian Era the most?”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because of the photographs in the hall.”

  “You are observant,” he commented. The way he said it didn’t sound like a compliment to Rachel. It sounded like a criticism. “Yes, I like that time. It was special for me.”

  “Is that why you wear that suit?”

  He looked down at his suit as though he had never noticed it before. “This is how I’ve always dressed. I’ve never considered changing my style. Do you think it looks odd?”

  What was the right way to say his clothes looked seriously dated?

  “It is unusual for the 21st century.”

  “Should I buy something more like the clothing you are wearing?”

  She was wearing a leather jacket and jeans. Somehow, she didn’t think that would look right on him. “You could try Armani.”

  “Is he a local tailor?” he said.

  She laughed, thinking he was joking. Then she realised from his expression that he wasn’t. He hadn’t heard of Armani.

  “Not really,” she said. “Armani is a fashion designer. You don’t go out much, do you?”

  “Only when necessary,” he answered.

  “I see,” she said, though she didn’t.

  There was a long mahogany table in the middle of the room with just two chairs, one at either end, which seemed a very formal setting for a family’s kitchen. Because there were only two chairs, Rachel wondered if Lucas Ravencroft was a widower/divorced/single parent.

  “Do you and your daughter live here alone?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Where’s her mother?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You ask a great many questions.”

  She smiled. “Just interested.”

  “Just interested? I think not. You’re here for another purpose, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not here because you wanted to thank me for giving the boy his football. The boy ‘accidentally’ lost his ball so you could show up with a Trojan horse of a gift, allowing you access to my home. You’re either thieves or you’re working for them, aren’t you?”

  “Them?” she said. “I don’t know who you mean. We’re not thieves, either.”

  “Don’t lie,” he snarled. “A few minutes ago, I heard the boy sneaking out of the bathroom while you were keeping me busy. I’m not a fool. If you’re not thieves, then you were sent to find the girl. Which is it?”

  He was frightening her. His paranoia about a mysterious “them” was probably a sign of a mental illness. In the newspapers Rachel had read about deranged people being released into the community all of the time. What if he was a paranoid schizophrenic? She moved slowly in the direction of the door. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Ravencroft.”

  He reached the door before her. He closed it and locked it, trapping her in the kitchen. There was another door leading out into the garden, but it was at the far side of the room. The table was betwee
n her and the exit.

  “J-j-just let me leave,” she said.

  “No, you can’t,” he said. “You know too much.”

  Advancing towards her, he pulled off his gloves, his hard eyes locked on hers. There was madness in them. He looked capable of killing her. Backing away, Rachel reached into her handbag for her phone, but he slapped it out of her hand. The phone crashed against a wall. Something plastic broke off. The little screen was smashed, too. The phone dropped onto the floor, useless.

  “Look, this is a misunderstanding –”

  “TELL ME WHO SENT YOU!”

  She remembered the glass in her hand. She hurled it at his head, hoping it would hurt him (or at least give her a few seconds to escape.) The glass flew towards his head with deadly accuracy – but he casually caught it in mid-air. The water splashed his face, but didn’t even make him blink. Come to think of it, she had not seen him blink once since she had met him.

  The knives! She ran to the counter, grabbing the biggest, nastiest-looking knife in the rack. She spun around – only to have the knife knocked from her grasp by a movement of Ravencroft’s hand so fast it blurred in front of her.

  Now he had the knife in his hand. He had grabbed it by the blade, but his hand wasn’t bleeding. He calmly tossed it onto the table, shaking his head.

  “I don’t need a knife,” he said. “I have these.”

  He spread out his long bone-white fingers.

  Petrified, she saw him reaching out for her throat.

  He was going to strangle her.

  She started to scream a warning for Ryan – but his right hand shot forwards covering her mouth, locking her jaws shut. She thought of her brother because he would die next if she didn’t warn him. She had to scream. But no scream came out, no matter how hard she tried to fight back. She kicked at his Ravencroft’s body - but it had no apparent effect. She could not break free. He was too powerful.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said. “After I’ve dealt with you, I’ll deal with the boy.”

  Her eyes widened in terror.

  *