by Matt Drabble
Quinn and his men tore through the camp with sharp blades and cold hearts. The earth ran red with the blood of the weak and the hungry; the men were slaughtered and the women and children violated in grotesque fashion. The bodies were strung up towards the entrance to the valley as a warning to any who would seek entry to the town, and they successfully dissuaded all from approaching. The legend of Eden soon became known throughout the surrounding lands and it became a town known of horrors and nightmares. A bedtime story for children who would misbehave and shame their parents: eat your vegetables or I’ll drop you at the gates of Eden, where they eat naughty boys and girls after dark.
Tolan knew that after the massacre there would be members of his own congregation that would voice their disapproval and he knew that in the days and weeks following he would need to be strong. He would have to offer iron leadership and suffer no challenge to his voice. Quinn was designated to handle the repercussions and relished the task. Tolan retreated to his forest and the voices within and waited as Quinn brought him those tainted with a lack of faith. Tolan gathered the town into the forest as the church became empty and obsolete. His preachings were now being taught under the shadow of the huge dark trees as the wind whispered through the lush leaves and around the kneeling congregation. Faces were upturned and bathed under the soothing words that flowed through Tolan and over them. Disbelievers were not tolerated, and the worst were crucified on the largest branches; hung to die as a reminder to the town of just who they all answered to. Tolan was the word and his was the voice that guided them all.
Eden prospered in her seclusion as the outside world went about its business. The days were hot and sunny, the sky was blue and the lands lush and bountiful, and all for a relatively small price that had to be paid from time to time.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The town library was as old and as quaint as all of the other colonial style buildings in Eden. Michael and Thom crossed the town square and Michael felt an inexplicable need to walk nonchalantly, as though they were under constant surveillance. He looked over all too casually to see Thom smiling at him, barely suppressing a laugh.
“What are you doing?” the young man asked.
“Trying not to draw attention to ourselves,” Michael replied quietly.
“Walking like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re in a bad movie. Just relax. No one’s looking at us; no one cares what we’re doing.”
“Cheeky sod,” Michael murmured under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Michael said sulkily.
The library building was a smaller, similar version of the town hall. As always, the outside was pristine white. A protruding pitched roof porch had four large columns and smooth wooden banister railings.
They passed under the entrance porch and into the building's foyer, finding that the air was blissfully cool compared to the perfect weather outside. The foyer was decorated with posters and banners, all advertising the upcoming Woodland Festival - Michael was already sick of those two words. The foyer walls were also lined with cute pictures drawn by what would appear to be elementary aged children. Colorful swirls depicted buildings and figures, homes, and people. There were images of the school, the square, the town hall, and carnival, but Michael’s eye was pulled to the pictures of the woods beyond the town. The trees were drawn with traditional colours: waves of green circles atop long brown stems, but there was also a lot of black. Dark black scrawls beneath the foliage canopies. Some of the pictures also had drawings of stick figures, small figures obviously meaning to represent the children. Most disturbingly for Michael, some of the figures were vertical, but some were horizontal with crosses for eyes.
“What do you make of these?” he asked Thom in a hushed whisper that seemed appropriate for the setting.
“Not really my taste, I’d prefer a Pollock,” Thom smiled.
“No, I mean the…, hey, what do you know about Jackson Pollock?”
“Born in Cody, Wyoming, in 1912, youngest of five sons, a major figure in the abstract expressionist movement.”
Michael stared at the fourteen year old, more and more impressed with the young man’s attitude and intelligence. The child that they had lost in the accident back in the UK had been a boy and Michael couldn’t help but wonder what his son would have turned out like. He hoped that he would have been strong and smart like Thom.
“You mean the woodlands, the dead looking children?” Thom said seriously. “Pretty creepy right.”
“There’s a lot of darkness here,” Michael said, half to himself. “Under the surface, and beneath the night, there are buried corners in Eden where people don’t want to look, Thom.”
“Until now,” Thom said gravely. “Something happened to my father here. One day he just upped and left us.” Soft tears began to fall as he spoke. “My mother told me that he left us and wouldn’t say any more than that. Every damn time that I’ve asked her since she just won’t talk about him.”
“What do you think happened?” Michael asked gently.
“I think that the same thing happened to him that happened to the others. I know that he wouldn’t have left me, not without saying anything first. But I got sucked in here like everyone else. The perfect weather, the perfect life, facilities and activities all under the hot sun. I should have asked more questions, I should have looked deeper for him.” Thom was openly sobbing now, “I should have looked.” He punched his clenched fist down onto his skinny leg.
Michael put an awkward arm around his skinny shoulders. Thom suddenly seemed like a small, lost boy again, all pretence of adulthood and maturity melted away. They stood like that for a few minutes until concerned glances from townsfolk entering and leaving became uncomfortable. “So let’s go do something about it,” Michael said, firmly releasing Thom from his embrace.
“Fuck, yeah,” Thom said, wiping the tears from his eyes and smiling through with bravado.
----------
Emily and Sarah-Jane hopped off of the tram at their next stop. Emily found it difficult to ignore the glances and stares of the tram’s passengers. It seemed that everywhere they went at the minute, someone was watching.
“Take it easy, ladies,” Eddie said as they alighted.
Emily smiled pleasantly in return, but for some reason she could not bring herself to completely trust Eddie’s agreeable face. His smile seemed a little too forced and his eyes a little too watchful. She took Sarah-Jane’s arm for support and they headed across the road towards their destination.
The churchyard was deserted as they entered through the impeccable black iron gates. No creepy creaking graveyard entrance for Eden.
“What is it that we’re doing here again?” Sarah-Jane asked quietly.
“When we were here for Janet’s funeral I caught a glimpse of the graves. The dates all seemed to be a little unbelievable,” Emily replied in equally hushed tones. “I wanted a closer, slower look at the tombstones. Here … look,” she said, leaning towards the nearest one and reading aloud. “Jacob Hawksbee, born 1907, died 2010. That’s 103 years old,” she said, quickly doing the maths. “Here, another one: Melissa Lupton, born 1898, died 2003, that’s 105. Look … they’re everywhere.” She swung her arms around pointing to the headstones. “Check out the ages: 110, 108, 100, 99, 111, 103… how is that possible?”
“Everyone seems to live to ripe old ages here,” Sarah-Jane shrugged. “Good living, good weather, low illness; it doesn’t seem like a bad thing does it?”
“It depends,”
“On what?”
“On what the price is,” Emily said ominously. “Maybe we should try and talk to the deacon.”
“About what, my dear?”
Both Emily and SJ positively jumped into the air. Both women gasped loudly at the sudden arrival and the voice from behind them. Emily turned to face Landon Sheldon-Wilkes, the deacon. His smiling face was suddenly contorted in concern at their upset at his hand,
more so when his eyes dropped to the swell of Emily’s pregnancy.
“Oh, my dears,” he said with genuine distress. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Torrance, please come inside and sit down. I didn’t mean to startle you both.”
Emily let herself be led into the church with Landon and Sarah-Jane taking an arm each. In truth, she felt fine but figured that it would perhaps be best to play faint in order to poke around and ask a few questions.
Landon helped her to a pew and sat down beside her, with SJ on the other side. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Torrance?” he asked warmly. “Can I get you anything?”
“Perhaps a glass of water?” she replied.
“Oh, I can get that for you,” Sarah-Jane piped up, sensing the cue to make herself scarce and poke around. “Through here, is it?” she said, standing and moving quickly towards the rear of the church and the door that led through to the private quarters.
“Uh, yes,” the deacon said a little unsure. “Through the door and there’s a small kitchen to the left.”
Emily watched as SJ disappeared. “Is it always this quiet?” she asked, looking around.
“We do weddings and, unfortunately, funerals mainly here,” Landon said in a slightly strained tone. “At my last posting there was always too brisk a trade in sorrowful tales and hopeful advice. But it would seem here that folks tend to be happier, and less in need of spiritual guidance. I suppose it must be the weather.” He laughed hollowly.
Emily glanced around the surroundings; the church interior was spotless, the pews were gleaming and well polished, and the kneeling cushions were unmarked and looked pristine as though never used. “What about services?”
“Oh, yes of course; we are always here for those who need us,” Landon said a little too quickly.
Emily watched the deacon surreptitiously; his manner seemed confusing. He appeared nervous and awkward, but not sinister, as though he held a dark secret; a secret that was his to know but not to own. His eyes darted around towards to the inner sanctum door where Sarah-Jane had walked through some minutes before, and his fingers wrestled fretfully on his lap. “I couldn’t help but notice the gravestones outside; the ages seem disproportionately high, don’t they?”
“Oh, a little, I suppose.” Landon chuckled nervously, his hands still fidgeting. “I guess God must smile on this little corner of the globe.”
Sarah-Jane suddenly appeared from the back and hurried up the aisle clutching a glass of water which Emily took and gratefully drank from.
“And when are we going to see you and your beau, the good doctor, gracing our doors with a wedding, Miss Mears?” Landon asked, addressing Sarah-Jane.
Emily smiled as SJ’s face blushed furiously. She dropped her eyes and for an instant, Emily thought that she looked desperately unhappy.
“We’d better be on our way,” Sarah-Jane said quickly, tugging at Emily’s sleeve.
Emily found herself being ushered swiftly out of the church entrance, leaving behind a bemused deacon waving them away merrily. “What’s the hurry, did you find something?”
“What? No, sorry,” Sarah-Jane replied.
Emily was concerned to see that her friend was suddenly close to tears. “Hey, what is it?
“Oh, I’m just being silly; it was Landon talking about marriage.”
“What about it?”
“It’s just never going to happen.”
“Oh, come on! The doc’s a smart man; he’ll see sense at some point,” Emily commiserated. “You, my girl, are way too big of a catch to not have a ring put on your finger.”
Sarah-Jane looked off sadly into the distance. “No, it’ll never happen,” she said firmly. “Not anymore.”
Emily let the words hang on the air; maybe SJ and Samuel had had some kind of fight, a falling out. Michael hadn’t said anything from the doc’s side. Whatever the problem, she was sure that her friend would tell her in due course.
----------
Michael and Thom had been plowing their way through the history of Eden via the library’s computerized system. There was only one newspaper in town - “The Eden Times”. Stories were mainly vapid pieces of a perfect small town, carnivals and public events, summer evenings on the square, dog shows, and bake sales. As he searched, Michael began to notice a chilling pattern through the decades. There were disappearances, suicides, and fatal accidents, seemingly far in excess of what should have been expected for a town of this size. The newspaper articles went back as far as the 1940’s, as this seemed to be the extent of the converting process to transcribe the newspapers onto microfilm. There were similar pieces throughout the years. Michael’s eyes began to tire and pinch painfully as he read article after article, all of which carried a timetable of fatality. As well as the myriad of deaths, there was also another fact that jumped out from the pages. It would appear that there had been a Sheriff Quinn serving as the town law for as far back as the newspapers went. Nepotism was apparently another tradition that was alive and well in Eden.
Michael found many more similar instances dotted over the decades. “Notice anything strange?” he whispered to Thom who was trawling through his own research.
“Yeah, I never read a report that had so many facts presented so quickly before,” Thom said.
Michael was impressed yet again with Thom’s quick mind; he’d always assumed that everyone under the age of about twenty five should be spoken to at an automatic level of derision. “Exactly. You’ve got newspaper reports here stating gossip as fact; teenage pregnancies, intoxication, gambling debts, all giving the impression that everything is explainable.”
“But why doesn’t anyone ever ask the same questions?” Thom asked, puzzled.
“I honestly don’t know. Perhaps if you are born here, or have lived here for a long time, then you just don’t ask questions full stop. There seems to be a fog that falls over most eyes in town. People lead blissful lives and don’t want to look beneath the surface.”
“Yeah, it’s like loving hotdogs but not wanting to know how they’re made,” Thom added succinctly.
“Hey, Mr. Torrance?”
Michael looked around the library nervously before locating the source; Deputy Kurt Stillson came bounding over between the large imposing bookcases. He was wearing civilian clothes and a tight expression.
“Deputy,” Michael responded, suddenly feeling guilty. He noted that Thom was desperately trying to shut the computers down before Kurt could get a good look.
“Easy kid,” Kurt said grinning. “I’m here to help.”
“How?” Thom asked
“With what?” Michael asked, casting a disapproving eye towards his young companion.
“With whatever the hell’s going on around here,” Kurt said.
Michael took a furtive look around their immediate surroundings; the library was a two-storey building but only the ground floor was open to the public. The long open space was well lit and airy. Large bay windows ran the length of the room, flooding the area with natural light filtered through special glass to avoid damaging the books. The bookcases were built from the same timber that most things in Eden were constructed with: dark wood shorn from the thick trunks of the forest. Michael found that there was a welcome absence of the usual overhanging fluorescent lights that burrowed into your brain with a painful throbbing hum. There was a brisk trade in residents coming and going, armed with texts and laden with hope. It was somewhat difficult for Michael to find a quiet secluded corner in which to converse. He and Thom were secreted on the furthest table that contained the state of the art computers. He had limited technical knowledge, but even he could appreciate the standards set in the public library.
He motioned for the deputy to sit in the empty chair opposite. “What exactly is it that you think is going on here, Deputy?” He flashed a “be still” look towards Thom; he wanted the cop’s thoughts unfiltered.
“Something pretty damn odd actually,” Kurt replied, his voice conspiratorially low. “I haven’t been here tha
t long, but it’s long enough to get a weird vibe. I know about the teacher.” He looked gently towards Thom. “I also know that the story is already all over town that Stark committed suicide.”
“Do you know differently?” Michael asked.
“Well, I do know that Tommy and I were first on the scene, and that I got real up close and personal with the body. Then, not more than an hour or so later, the sheriff is telling everyone about the suicide note, but there was no note on the body. I’d have seen it.”
“What else?” Thom asked.
“Well, have you seen any of the graffiti around town?” Kurt answered.
“Yeah, sure. The ‘Wake Up’ signs,” Michael said. “What about them? I figured that it was just kids, some new band or movement that they got caught up in.”
“Can you see any of the kids in this town spraying graffiti?” Thom said incredulously.
Michael opened his mouth to say of course, but shut it with a firm snap. Could he really see these kids being antisocial? He had never seen such politeness around the town. There was no litter, no scrawling, and no defacement of any kind. “Well, what is it then?” he asked Kurt.
“All I know is that the sheriff has been going nuts since no one has been able to stop them. And I do mean nuts,” Kurt said, taking a look around over his shoulder to make sure that they weren’t being observed. “And then there are the locals,” he whispered.
“What about them?” Michael asked.
“Stepford?” Thom answered.
“Yeah, major league Stepford,” Kurt nodded. “You know I’ve been seeing this girl from the sheriff’s department and I can’t even get my hand up her jumper without her speaking about marriage. It was kind of quaint at first, but now it’s just kind of creepy.”
“You know what I could never figure out?” Thom said. “Why, in every horror movie, every character has never seen a horror movie.”
The three of them pondered; whilst they did, they were being observed.
Marina McFadden was keeping a close eye on the two men and the young boy sitting and scheming together - in broad daylight, no less. Marina had run the library for the last twenty seven years. She was a vigorous woman, one who had never married and was childless. Now, at seventy-four, she was happy in her self-imposed exile from most modern conventions. Her duties lay squarely within the four walls of the town’s history. She was the keeper of truths and hider of lies. Every corner of the library ran to her explicit will; every display, every shelf, every book lived under her roof. Her position brought with it a certain level of respect within the town and she was revered by those around her and indulged in her desire for control. She was a tall woman, handsome if not attractive. She walked with a straight back and her shoulders were not stooped by the common afflictions of age. She wore her blonde white hair in a short bob cut and she favoured loose skirts and floral blouses. The library was expertly air-conditioned and the temperature was moderate. She recognised the new writer, the Bray boy, and the new deputy. Of course, everyone that wasn’t born in town would always be new to her, no matter how long they had lived here.
