Gated II: Ravenhill Academy

by Matt Drabble

  The building had passed through several more hands, including an ill-fated hotel venture that had been the brainchild of a Spanish investor looking to open a luxury hotel destination. Tales soon spread of bumps in the night and members of staff became harder and harder to keep on the payroll as most left quickly. One of the biggest problems with the hotel was that the place was just never warm enough despite a small - followed by a large - fortune being spent on heating systems.

  There were long periods of relative quiet between incidents. Several home owners lived long terms in the house without stirring up any ghosts, but these owners had never truly felt at home and most sold up quickly.

  During the 1970’s it had been bought by a private owner who had used the site to rent out for movie and TV productions. The Gothic building and long dark hallways lent themselves to many a horror movie from around the world. Several of the classic British horror productions had used Ravenhill and many a caped Count had descended the main staircase. But there had been countless accidents on differing sets. Props had been all too realistic and numerous stunts had gone badly wrong. Despite the growing cursed reputation that Ravenhill was getting within the industry, or perhaps because of it, production crews flocked to the isolated location. Eventually, when the bubble had burst in the British film industry, the place had fallen silent once again.

  There had even been a time when Ravenhill had been owned by the government as some kind of testing laboratory. During its days as a government research facility the labs were producing nefarious chemical weapons until a spill that wasn’t quite as accidental as was reported. Dr Thomas Yardman was a genius with a mind for chemicals but not the consequences of his creations. Ravenhill was his home for over 10 years and he never left the place. The cold of the building and the screams of blood and death seeped into his bones over the years until one day he snapped. EKR24 was his baby and it was supposed to be the future of chemical warfare; the only trouble was that it worked too well. They were yet to be able to produce a material that could resist the compound. Every trial had led to EKR24 eating though anything and everything. One Friday evening, Dr Yardman had locked himself in his lab and stayed there undetected through the weekend. He had whipped up a batch of EKR24 very much against protocol and unleashed it first thing Monday morning. 28 scientists and support staff had been eaten alive by the weapon as their flesh melted from their bodies. Ravenhill had been condemned for a further two years whilst the government kept a firm lid on the outbreak. It took the finest minds in the service to eventually discover a method of cleansing the basement levels and ridding the place of EKR24.

  After the fiasco the government sold the place on the quiet and on the cheap. The only constant throughout the ages was that one of Maurice’s ancestors had maintained an employment of some kind or another at Ravenhill. Sometimes they were cooks or cleaners, but for the last four generations they had all been caretakers.

  It had been Maurice’s father that had filled Barnaby’s father in on the disturbing history of Ravenhill. Most of the local villagers had their own versions on what had happened within the heavy stone walls of Ravenhill. He had figured that if the place was going to be filled with children then Barnaby Snr at least deserved a fighting chance. The Headmaster had, of course, dismissed the stories as the simple products of simple minds.

  Upon first viewing the property, Barnaby Snr had looked for an army of villagers marching on the place with lit torches and pitchforks. He’d had a vision and a plan to implement it. He was to turn the ramshackle building into one of the finest schools across Europe. The building was already one of the most impressive sites that he had viewed and he knew that first impressions went a long way in attracting the sort of clientele he was looking for. He had sought out the best teachers that he could find and polished the place with signs of history and classic British elegance. It was soon after that Ravenhill Academy had first opened its doors. The whole place reeked of a long and distinguished past that stretched back through the ages and Barnaby Snr did not discourage the image.

  Barnaby Jnr had grown up alongside his father inside the walls of Ravenhill and his childhood was one of austerity. His mother had died a few years before of something that his father would never discuss even after he grew to be an adult. He idolized his father and would never have dreamed of defying his wishes by pushing the subject further.

  He was removed from the expensive fee paying pupils and grew up with no real friends to speak of. He had wandered the great halls of his home alone and below the sightline of the other children and staff. His father placed him below the rich students but above the staff and as such he was forever alone.

  He had grown into a man and followed his father into education. The unwritten rule had always been that he would succeed his father as the head of Ravenhill Academy and continue an unbroken chain of command and ideals.

  CHAPTER 16

  “What about the school? Surely you’re not saying that Barnaby is an evil man?”

  “It plays the long game. You have to understand that everything happens for a reason here. Barnaby’s father coming here and setting up the school, Barnaby’s mother dying and the boy becoming ensconced here, it’s all connected somehow. It’s all leading up to something and I’m too bloody old and tired to see what,” he sobbed.

  “Are we in danger?” she asked nervously.

  “Always.”

  “That man in the photograph in your cottage, your grandfather, what happened to him?”

  “That’s personal,” Maurice said quietly.

  “Did he commit suicide here?” she probed gently.

  The caretaker pressed his lips tightly together in reply.

  “Did he jump off the roof?” she pushed further.

  “Who told you that?” he snapped.

  “I saw him, I saw him do it. A few nights ago, I saw him wandering the halls and I followed him. He went up to the roof and jumped off.” She waited for Maurice to laugh and grow angry with her, but he only looked sadder.

  “Aye that was him alright,” he nodded. “There’s a real problem here with people taking their own lives. But he was the last,” Maurice stressed. “I swear he was; I’d hoped that perhaps after all these years whatever power this place had was gone. I prayed that maybe the batteries were finally empty, but all the while it was just waiting and planning.”

  “For what?”

  “Now that is the question,” he said slumping. “Something has woken this place up and kicked it into gear. There is something here now that wasn’t before, something has taken over Ravenhill and it’s using the power for something dark and nasty.”

  “Do you think that it’s something to do with the new kid?” she asked, thinking of Joshua Bradley.

  “Aye.”

  “Whoever he is, he’s not some transfer student is he?”

  “Nope.”

  “So what do we do?” she asked, scared but knowing that the old man would have the answers - he had to.

  “Lassie,” he said through wet eyes, “I’ve no fucking idea.”

  ----------

  Barnaby retreated to his office in all senses of the word. He was desperately seeking refuge and normalcy within the confines and structure of his inner sanctum. Surrounded by books and files, this was the heartbeat of Ravenhill Academy and the place that he felt most at home and most in control.

  He made for the phone straight away to inform the appropriate authorities that a woman had committed suicide on school grounds because that’s what one did when finding a swinging corpse.

  He lifted the receiver to the sound of silence. The dial tone was dead. He looked out of his office window. The weather was fierce once again and he could see little through the storm. At least we have power, he thought, before he could stop himself from tempting fate. The office was a little dim and so he reached for the lamp on his desk. The click of the switch was on a solo mission and unaccompanied by the usual flash of light. In the event of a power outage the school gene
rators should have kicked in straight away. It was yet another lapse from Maurice and the man’s performance was becoming a real problem. He knew that there had apparently been a “Duncan” on the staff at Ravenhill back through the ages, but Maurice was certainly going to be the last of his clan and his end was nigh.

  Barnaby wracked his brains for a way to alert Sergeant Ross across the way in Bexley Cross. Despite the weather he had a duty to uphold and Barnaby expected the policeman to serve such a duty and take possession of the old woman hanging from one of his trees.

  His brain kicked in with a sudden idea and he was glad to see that his senses were still intact. There was an old CB radio somewhere in the school that had a line directly to the police station. It was an antiquated system that had long since been replaced by modern technology and consigned to the obsolete graveyard. The radio had been used a few times in the dim and distant past before the telephone lines had reached this far out with any sort of reliability.

  He strode from his office with a renewed sense of purpose. The CB radio was stored down in the lower levels in the vocational studio. He was not a man who believed in the exclusivity of cerebral education. He’d had a practical area designed and installed in Ravenhill much to the chagrin of many parents. Down there, pupils were taught to handle tools and work with their hands. During the year they had several guest instructors who taught things like wood and metal shop. He firmly believed that education was a well- rounded beast with many mouths to feed. There were all sorts of power tools and electrical items stored down there and he was sure that that was where the radio would be kept.

  He took the stairs two at a time eager to feel a sense of control and forward momentum again. What Ms Mears had said was true; he had been at Ravenhill for a long time, long enough to know an old wives’ tale when he heard one. This was reality and required a stern and sensible mind to combat it.

  The lower corridors were dark without the generators to power them and he suddenly regretted not getting hold of Maurice and making him sort the power out first. But to turn around now would feel like some kind of victory for the more primal part of his brain that was obsessed with superstition.

  He had a small torch on his keyring; the beam was narrow and not particularly strong, but the dim glow was of some comfort and use.

  He was so concerned with his mission that he almost ran into the back of a child in darkness. The girl was suddenly in front of him as he rounded a bend in the hallway.

  “Who’s that?” he demanded in a startled voice, but the girl ignored him and kept walking forward.

  He stood in shock; more at the girl’s blatant disregard for his authority than finding her here in the first place. The children were permitted full use of the school’s facilities during the holidays, but there was nothing for them down on this lower level.

  The girl continued to pace forward unencumbered by the lack of lighting. Barnaby suddenly felt the battle of dueling urges: one to turn and run, and the other to stay quiet and follow. He found his feet pulled towards the latter and he followed.

  This was an old part of the building and not much of the space was ever used. He followed the girl that he now recognised as Anna Thomas along the dark hallway. He tried to remember just what part of Ravenhill this had originally been. He thought that there might have been varying uses for this area during the many different occupations of Ravenhill. It had been servants’ quarters during the times of being a stately home. It had been the place where the worst inmates had been kept during the time of a mental institution, and it had been the laboratory where the chemical weapon spill had taken place. It was not an area of the school that he liked to venture.

  They rounded another corner and the girl entered through a door at the end of the corridor. He crept up to the door and pushed it open slightly. He knew on one level that it was absurd for the Headmaster of Ravenhill Academy to be creeping around in the dark spying on pupils, but he did it just the same.

  The room inside was dimly lit by flickering candles; the flames cast long atmospheric shadows and it took his eyes a minute to focus on just what he was looking at.

  There were at least 13 of the students standing in a semi-circle. Their heads were bowed and their bodies swayed lightly as they listened to the one standing at the front. There was a table placed in the centre of the room and Rosa Marsh was lying upon it. Her face was bathed in radiance and she looked blissfully happy. The dinner lady stared straight up towards the heavens with peaceful contentment ignoring the slender blonde boy who held a silver blade high in the air.

  ----------

  Stuart grumbled his way around the building to the generator sheds. Sarah had noticed that the power was off and had ordered him to go and switch on the generators. He’d been about to tell her that was Maurice’s job and not his, but she had just wandered off with heavy shoulders like the world was weighing on them. So, apparently, now the maths teacher had yet another duty to add to his roster - that of trainee caretaker.

  This whole place was going nuts at a head spinning rate of knots. He knew that Sarah had serious misgivings about the place, and their usually unflappable Headmaster was seeing hanging women who weren’t there. Jemima had gone from acting like a jilted ex-wife to gliding around on a cloud of some kind of inner peace. All he’d ever wanted to do was to teach kids that maths was useful and not dull and occasionally live vicariously through the rugby team. Now he was stuck in some kind of Scooby-Doo investigation in a creepy haunted building. It would be too ridiculous for words if he could just shake the sneaking suspicion that it just might all be true.

  The generators were located in a metal hut out at the back of the school and he hoped that they were easy to operate. The cold was biting and he knew that the boiler and power had to work together if they were going to brave the elements.

  The hut was fortunately unlocked as it hadn’t occurred to him to look for a key first. He ducked in out of the storm and stamped his feet to shake off the excess snow.

  There were two large generators facing him. The large metal beasts stared with dead eyes straight through him as he looked them over with an analytical mind. There were two key slots that were empty and he looked around for the hut keys. There was a small cupboard hanging on the wall and he opened it. To his relief there were two silver keys glinting on hooks and he took them out.

  The keys slid into the slots and he turned them. Immediately the lights all lit up on the generator and he hit the two ignition buttons. He had expected to find antiquated machinery with ripcords, but he was pleasantly surprised by the efficiency of the generators. There was hardly any noise as they sparked into life, just a low rumbling hum.

  He stood back pleased with his work, but not seeing the shadow that fell behind him.

  ----------

  Barnaby was frozen to the spot as Joshua Bradley held the knife aloft before driving it down hard into the stomach of Rosa Marsh. The blood sprayed from Rosa’s gaping wound as the knife ripped through her flesh, leaving a gaping spewing hole.

  A hand flew to his mouth to stifle the undoubted scream that threatened to reveal his presence. He could feel the evil in the room like a thick fog choking his lungs. He wanted to step forward and demand answers of the children, but he instinctively knew that these were not the pupils of Ravenhill; they were now the students of another teacher.

  He had started to back slowly out of the room when the lights overhead burst into life as the generator kicked in and he was illuminated in the doorway.

  His face froze in horror as twelve sets of eyes turned towards him with raw unadulterated hate. His feet tangled together in his fear and he fell backwards into the hallway. He heard the terrifying sound of their small feet walking slowly towards him. His adrenaline levels soared through his body and sheer panic drove him back to his feet. There was no rhyme or reason for what he had witnessed, nor for the instant terror that he felt at the sight of his children walking towards him.

  His mind rebelled at his pr
edicament; murderous pupils and satanic rituals were not supposed to be part of life at Ravenhill Academy. He moved swiftly along the corridor to the vocational studio. He absently straightened his tie as he walked and smoothed out his suit jacket. He ducked inside the room as the sound of approaching footsteps reached the door. He quickly locked it behind him as his eyes scanned the surroundings looking for the prize.

  He began dragging out drawers and wrenching open cupboards as small hands started pounding on the door. The wooden frame bulged as tiny fists beat a frenzied drum beat, desperate to get in.

  He threw pieces of small machinery about the place as he tore through it like a tornado. Suddenly, he glimpsed the sight of shiny black hope. The CB radio greeted him like an old friend and he grabbed it quickly and set it down on the bench. He extended the attached small aerial and flicked the switch. The unit fired into life and the hiss and crackle filled the air. He adjusted the volume and snatched up the mic.

  “Hello? Hello?” he shouted, depressing the button. “Is there anyone there? Please God, let someone be there.”

  ----------

  “Wait a minute, what was that?” Brendon said, holding up a hand to quiet the panicking room.

  “What?” Sergeant Ross said miserably.

  “I thought I heard a voice,” Brendon replied as he tried to listen for it again.

  The room fell silent. The three of them, or more accurately Brendon and Donald, had been trying to think of a way to contact the outside world. With the phone lines down, the mobile coverage being non-existent and the storm pinning them in there seemed little choice but to wait.

  “It’s coming from the cupboard,” PC Paterson said pointing.

  “Yes, brilliant, William,” Donald snapped. “We’ve got The Borrowers in to save the day!”