Okay, this is the second part to my rejected novel, which includes Chapters 3&4
Warning- For some reason my Microsoft Word programme isn't working that well on my new Chromebook, I tried it on my old one as well (which I originally wrote this novel with) and it's even struggling on there. So this copy is a week older than the final version, which could mean that some edits of the final story are missing, there shouldn't, but if there are, they should be minor.
And, I was going to go through this before putting it on here, but to be honest I couldn't be bothered to go through it for the hundredth time.. I'm sure it's okay, I did send it off after.
Enjoy..and let me know what you think on my email or @kgord1 on twitter
Chapter Three:
Reuben left the office just before 6.00 pm, the autumn air was snappy when he stepped outside onto the city streets, it was a short walk to his car. As he sucked up the oxygen and exhaled, his breaths smoked out in vapours. It was the middle of October, but the weather was already wintery, winter was Reuben’s least favourite season in the calendar year. Aside from the city being lit up with pretty Christmas neon lights, the weather was always damp and miserable, the grey clouds fitted nicely with the general mood it created in people, and nightfall set far too early. He enjoyed the snow, but even then it would seem to bring the whole country to grind to a halt, and then there was the street cleaning process afterwards.
The car was cold when he climbed inside, so he waited for the heater to work so he warm his hands. When he was ready he switched on the radio and drove out of the car park. For a few minutes he listened to a talk show, but got bored so he switched on a Franz Schubert CD, aside from a few singers, classical music was the only kind of music that he listened to. It was another process of trying to relax and empty his mind, he found the sounds of the piano particularly therapeutic.
He drove the long way home so he could get a view of the river Thames and the brightly lit London Eye on the embankment, the rippled waters looked superb with the city lights reflecting onto them. He was quick to pass the river by, but it was worth it.
As with routine, as soon as Reuben closed the front door behind him he kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket on top of the telephone stand, and then made his way into his office. He pulled out all of the information from the investigation that he had just undergone, opened the top drawer of his file cabinet, where lying face down on by itself was a black leather cased folder. He lifted it out from the drawer and unfolded it on top of the desk, in blue ink were the words Investigations into the Unknown on the first paper page.
The remainder of the folder was full of plastic wallets, each investigation would be split in two and separated by coloured tabs, with the name of the article written on the front wallet. In one folder would be all of his findings from the investigation, and in the other would be the final article which he had written on his investigation.
One day he hoped to publish all of his articles in one big anthology book, when the time was right and when his time at the magazine was over. So far he had not thought about any other ambitions away from the magazine, he simply wasn’t interested in taking his experience in another direction, so he couldn’t imagine himself working for another publication from a day to day basis.
As soon as he filed his work, he dropped it back into the cabinet and locked it away. He sat down to his computer again, typed Ravens Gate prison into the internet once more, a quick skim through the pages found nothing new. The name was peculiarly strange and distinctive, the raven was a bird associated with death, in Egyptian culture it was seen as the carrier of death. It was too early to say whether there was any meaning to the name, if there was any at all.
He quickly grew tired, the skin under his eyes began to sag so Reuben decided to leave it for the night, he checked his emails, there was nothing of any importance, so he shut down the computer and left his office. For a few minutes he sat in the living room and watched the news channel, he did this for five minutes and then switched it off.
Before going to bed he plunged his head into a warm sinkful of water in the bathroom. The skin on his face was unblemished except for the dark half moons under his eyes, his sleeping pattern was uncoordinated, while it also didn’t help that he spent so much of his time seated in front of a computer screen.
The only remarkable features Reuben had were his green eyes, his mother used to say they were the most beautiful cats eyes she’d seen on a person. It might have just been parental flattery but he liked to believe it was true. He had a roman nose with a bump in the middle, his lips were small and rosebud red, and his cheekbones were low so his smile barely existed, his hair was short, light hazel, and parted to the left.
With his head in the water, he shut his eyes and allowed it to suffocate his face, he did this until his lungs needed the air. When his head was above water he stared at his reflection once again, the skin under his eyes as well as his eyelids felt healthier, so he dabbed at his face with the towel, keeping his skin a little damp.
Again the horrible two tone sound of the alarm woke Reuben early morning, he lay
awake with his eyes staring towards the window. The outside sky was shrouded by cotton white clouds, split by gullies of grey mists, it could not be long before the rain would fall. It was a complete contrast to the day before when the sunlight was only replaced by the clouds and the rain in the late evening.
For half an hour he stayed in bed, the side of his face rested against the soft feathered pillow, he could have lay where he was for hours, or spent the rest of the day lounging around in his pyjama bottoms.
After breakfast he sat down in front of his computer with a cup of coffee, so much of his focus had been on the prison he had forgotten about Forest Meadows, it was the town ten miles south of Ravens Gate (he couldn’t locate the prison on any internet map). the town and prison were located in the county of Wiltshire, it had a population of sixty thousand, it was not quite the village the namesake suggested it was. Like many country towns it had expanded dramatically over many decades, the centre of town appeared small on the maps that he found, but the area and the outskirts extended far and wide as the town had grown.
Details about the town’s history was non existent on the web, so at some point he would need to go to the local library when he arrived in town.
He moved onto the issue of the Ghost hunters who went missing as they ventured in the forests around the abandoned prison. The team of investigators were a bunch of amateurs, they went by the name of ‘Ghost Seekers’, they spent overnight visits in apparent places that were haunted, in hope of finding ghostly activity, and filming it. He had never come across this particular set of ghost hunters before, but ever since the absurd craze of reality television, many shows had been made with apparent ghost hunters. The structure of the shows all followed similar formulas, where separate groups of people would spend the night in an apparently haunted place, filming their experiences as they went through the night.
Reuben had always been skeptical of their authenticity, knowing for sure that much of the material was staged, often to just get cheap jump scares out of its audience. Everything seemed too conveniently put together for it to be real. Since the disappearance of two of their members, the whole production had stopped, and no videos had been uploaded onto the web since.
When he was finished using the computer, he showered and then dressed into a new set of clothing. If previous experiences of staying in small town hotels told him anything, it could be the last time he could shower with any comfort.
When he was dressed he packed two pairs of trousers, and a shirt for every day of the week he could be there. Other items he packed were for the purpose of aiding him in his investigation, these included a tape recorder, a small but powerful torch, a set of batteries, and a silver compass. Reuben was first and foremost a journalist, very rarely did he use equipment associated with amateur ghost hunting.
Before setting off, he spoke to Mark over the phone, to iron out a few things, and to remind him that he would only continue with the investigation if he felt it was worthy of his time. It did feel strange to leave home so soon after returning back, knowing that he wasn’t going to come back later in the evening. Wiltshire wasn’t that far away, so it would be easier for him to drive there, it was only when his work took him far north that he ever journeyed by train. With a map, and if the traffic was clean he could get to forest Meadows within three hours. It was no surprise to him that Ravens Gate didn’t exist on any of the map books he owned, or any of those he found on the internet.
Because it was late morning, the motorways were not heavily congested, for a while he listened to the radio, the topic of discussion was the high cost of living. Reuben could only tolerate about ten minutes of it before switching on a Johann Bach CD, the soft harmony relaxed him. He had only ever been to Wiltshire once before, and that was when he visited Stonehenge when he was a child, he could only remember the experience through vague photographic memories, it was only in later years that he knew of its significance.
He stopped off once before he reached the outskirts of Forest Meadows. It was to get a quick snack at a service station, in doing so he broke one of his own promises, and that promise was to never stop off at a service station, everytime he would visit one he never wanted to go back. He found them to be depressing places with their hyper inflated prices, fast food restaurants and dour atmosphere only confounded by the sullen expressions of those that occupied the food tables inside.
He came out once again promising that he would never stop off at one again.
The countryside surroundings on route to Forest Meadows were beautiful, the lush green acres were a complete contrast to the grey monolith of London that he left behind. Rays of sunlight broke through the clouds overhead, the entire scenery made for an astoundingly picturesque landscape.
The immediate outskirts of Forest Meadows were sparse of any inhabitants, the few houses that there were, were reasonable sized detached houses for middle class residents. They became more frequent the further he drove through, so too did the number of pubs, they were different to most of those which occupied the street corners of London. They were a lot bigger, and looked like they might have once been small country homes centuries before, they were the kind of places families would go to on a Sunday afternoon lunch.
The road ahead quickly became wider, and the streets aligned with houses attached to one another, the expansion of the town was evident in the change in pattern of the streets, and the change in exterior of the houses. Which on entering town were so cohesive, were now completely different from street to street, fewer and fewer had front gardens, the brick structures changed in both style and colour, some of the front doors were old and wooden, others less intriguing.
With the map pressed against the steering wheel he followed the directions into a small square in the centre of town, where a clock tower commemorating the hometown war dead was stationed in the middle of the square. On all sides were rows of commercial shops, some were enchanting independent businesses with wooden window panes, while there was the usual banks, and a mini franchise supermarket, which was confirmation that the town had not escaped the trappings of modern day economics.
In the far left hand corner of the square was the Golden Swan Inn, sandwiched between an estate agents and a coffee shop. At four floors high It was the tallest building in its vicinity, so it stood out from everything else in the town square. Two wooden benches were to either side of the entrance, despite the clouds opening up and a little sunshine cutting through, no one was there. It was one of the few places with accommodation in town that he had found on the internet, its central location was convenient for his use at a decent price.
Reuben followed the road to the east of the square until he found a parking space about two minutes away from the Inn. When the car was parked he slumped into the seat, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, he savoured the moment knowing that he would have to focus the the rest of his time on the investigation, and because the investigation was insisted upon him, he was still struggling to find the usual enthusiasm he had on arrival at his destination.
He unloaded his small suitcase from the boot of the car and followed the narrow road back to the square. The shops he passed were small and old fashioned, the old wooden window panes and ordinary front doors presented a charm and personality to the outside exterior. It was a reminder of what town centres across all parts of the country would have looked like before they became clones of one another, before they were taken over by big business and franchises.
Before entering, Reuben stood and gazed at the Inn, to the far right hand side hanging under one of the first floor windows was a signpost which depicted a gold crested swan against a black backdrop. On each floor were two windows, they were the old fashioned kind split into two, where the bottom half opened by pushing it upwards so that it was in front of the top window. None of the curtains were draped, and it was too dark to see inside.
He pushed one of the doors forward and entered the Inn. Two fruit machines were to his right, a young man in a baseball cap was already standing in front of one, inserting coins, hoping that perhaps this might be his lucky day. From the entrance he could see that the ground floor stretched far back in length, while its width from one side of the wall to the other couldn’t have been more than twenty to twenty five feet. The bar to the left took up about a third of the floor length. High stools and tables were scattered around, against the walls were cushioned seats, and at various points were flatscreen televisions.
The small windows at the entrance was the only real source of light breathing into what was otherwise a very dark room. However, the decor was warm and inviting, but claustrophobic at the same time, the gold framed paintings, as well as the dark mahogany pillars and floorboards made it feel small and a bit impersonal. There was a staircase in the centre of the room to the right side wall, which he assumed must have led to the accommodation on the upper floors.
He stood at the bar where a middle aged man with grey, fading, but slit back hair quickly approached him,
“can I help you?”
“I need a room for a couple of nights, please”
“Just give me a minute”, he walked away to the other side of the bar.
As he waited, Reuben observed the few customers who were present. There was a young woman with a pram, seated with a woman older than herself, he assumed it was a mother and her daughter eating over lunch. Sitting a few tables along were a couple of men, not quite middle aged, drinking over pints. And sitting directly beneath a flat screen was another couple of suited men, as they talked in conversation one seemed more interested than the other. Seated at the other end of the bar was an elderly gentleman wearing a grey cardigan, and a large pair of old spectacles lodged onto the ridge of his nose, he had a pen in hand, trying to figure out a newspaper puzzle.
For some reason he had the feeling that they were all regulars here, their faces expressionless, they liked it here because it was familiar to their lives.
The barman returned and slapped a diary book in-between the two of them, without acknowledging Reuben he flicked through until he reached the page he wanted. He looked away from the book and to Reuben,
“so how long will you be staying for?”
“book me in for two nights, but don’t give the room away because there’s a chance I might be staying for longer”.
“All of the rooms are standard, all include a shower, none are any different to one another in size, and we have a room available on every floor, so which is it going to be?”
“I’ll take one on the top floor please”.
For the two nights the price came to seventy two pounds, which seemed reasonable judging from the description he’d been told. He was given a rusted gold key in return for his cash,
“so tell me, what brings you to Forest Meadows? I don’t mean to be intrusive, I just ask because I have never seen you around here before, and you don’t look like someone who has come for a hiking trip”.
Reuben tucked the key into his trouser pocket, for a moment he paused as he searched for the right phrase of words to use, for some reason he sensed that the barman knew why he was in Forest Meadows,
“Have you ever heard of Ravens Gate Prison?”.
The two of them locked eyes for the first time, the barman’s amber eyes refused to blink as he moved back, the name had clearly caused him discomfort, and behind the eyes he could see that there was also an expression of concern.
“Yes I have, it’s to the north of here, in the forests, why do you ask?”
“I’m writing an article about it, nothing too special, is there anything you know about it that’s worth sharing with me?”
His demeanour relaxed, his eyes weren’t as sharp, the iris’s not as perpetuated,
“Before I start, can I get you a drink?”
“An orange juice, please”, it was too early to drink anything alcoholic, not that he drank alcohol very often anyway.
He paid for the drink, and took a sip immediately, the barman rested his elbows on top of the bar, and hunched forward so he was a little closer,
“most people in town, well those who’ve lived here for a long time, know about the abandoned prison, but they choose to ignore its existence. Although the prison has long been left to rot, the forests to the north of town are very popular with the locals as well as hikers, in fact there’s a beautiful lake that I go to. But within the forests are countless routes that run through them, one of those routes leads deep within the forests, towards the areas around Ravens Gate. They have either been forgotten about or never spoken of, they are more commonly known around town as ‘The Outskirts’, for the simple reason that it is a no go area”.
“And why is it a no go area?” Reuben gulped down half of his drink, he wanted to know what his acquaintance had to say and how it would differ from everything else that he already knew,
“Because they are said to be... ” for a moment he searched for the right word, “haunted”, which he said with little conviction, “but I’m sure you already knew that didn’t you”.
Reuben said nothing, and rolled his eyes.
“Endless screaming, ghosts walking through the forests, lamps moving through the forests when there is no plausible reason why they should be there, but the most common stories are those of these white eyed shadows. In truth no one knows what they are, they just linger in those forests like lost souls. Much of the same has been said for the inside of the prison, few visitors last very long before they leave”.
“Interesting”,
Reuben had little else to say, until he visited the prison for himself he wouldn’t know whether anything that he had been told was genuine, or mere spook stories. He had been to many places before, and on many occasions the spook stories were often vastly over exaggerated compared with what he had witnessed in his investigation. It was only on the very rare occasion that the spook stories turned out to be just stories. The mind was very sensitive, prone to fearing what it doesn’t understand, while also very imaginative. The combination of the two could be very dangerous.
At certain moments our senses betray us, and our mind plays tricks. Sometimes there was a valid reason for such things, depression and grief were one such example. It was common for grieving people to see the apparition of a loved one who had passed away, at some point in their life. It’s common for those knocking on death’s door to suddenly stare up towards the sky and call out one of their parents. Mum was more frequent than dad. It was no coincidence that apparent ghost experiences also occurred after someone had awoken from a deep sleep, when their senses and state of mind were not altogether intact.
But Reuben had experienced enough of the supernatural to know that it was real, and he had his own theory, but it was just a theory, like so many others. None of it could be conclusively explained.
Another customer needed serving so the barman walked away briefly and then returned, it was clear that he was intrigued in regard to the subject of Ravens Gate Prison.
“So tell me which magazine it that you work for?”
“It’s called The Unknown. As the name suggests we write about everything from the occult to the supernatural, with a few entertainment reviews and other stuff in there as well”.
The barman apologetically said “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it”
“It’s not one of the biggest magazines on the market out there, the circulation is decent but a bit niche, so they might not stock it in a countryside towns like this”.
“So do you investigate ghosts?”
“I would prefer to be called an investigative journalist, only the things I investigate are a little different from the norm. For the benefit of the two of us, can I ask what your name is?”
“It’s Harry, I own this place”
Reuben thought as much. He held out his hand, Harry obliged, his large laboured hands were rough and the grip tight, but he let go swiftly.
“Nice to meet you Harry, how long have you owned this place for?”
“It runs in the family, it was originally just a pub, and upstairs were the living quarters. But about ten years ago I made the place into a bit of a hotel as well. The hotel side of the business has never really made a lot of money, just about makes a bit of profit, to be honest I’ve been thinking about selling up at some point and moving out of town”.
“Have you lived in Forest Meadows all of your life?” Reuben asked
“Spent all of my childhood here, in my twenties I moved around a bit, stayed in South Shields, and then briefly in London, Stratford to be precise, among a few other places. But I’ve been here for the last twenty five years now”.
Reuben swigged down the rest of his drink and rose from the stool, he said goodbye. As he walked away, from behind him Harry said “whatever you do, just be careful”.
For a second he stopped in his tracks, he didn’t think the advice warranted a response so he continued to the stairs.
A function room probably for parties and gatherings was located on the first floor, the third and fourth floors were where the rooms were situated. There was twelve rooms in total , two to either side of the corridors, and four on each floor. When he came to his room the gold door handle was so clean and new he could see his own looming figure reflecting back at him as he stretched out his hand.
He dropped his luggage on the floor before he could even get a good look inside, the room was small and looked just as he expected. The walls were coloured in simple cream paint, there was a wardrobe and a long desk with a small television on top, pressed against the right hand wall, to the side of the desk was a door leading into a bathroom. To the left hand side on entering was the bed with a small cabinet to the side.
With little furniture or ornaments the room was deprived of any personality, and lacked warmth.
The bathroom was much nicer than he expected, it was a big step up compared with a few of the dives that he had stayed in over the last two years.
Regardless of how well the investigation went he was not going to stay for too long, so he didn’t pack. In fact he never packed his things when he was away from home on work duty. With the door shut he placed his workbag on top of the desk after he closed the door.
The view overlooked the town square, he could hear the passing cars go by but it wasn’t loud enough to cause him any distraction, not that he was planning to spend too much time in the room at once, it was a place to sleep and nothing more.
He stared out of the window for a minute or so to take in the view, the rest of Forest Meadows was flat in terms of height, like most country towns the connecting buildings grew outwards rather than upwards. The tallest building he could see from his window was the church just off of the square.
He moved away from the window and collapsed onto the bed, and for a moment he stared at the ceiling, which looked like it might not have changed since at least the eighties, as the pattern lines were beginning to pierce away.
He wanted to get started on the investigation right away, he didn’t like wasting time so he dialled Dean Wilson’s number, which Mark had given it to him. He was the journalist who’d written the story of the injured police officers who searched the forests around the abandoned prison, the one that Mark had shown him in his office, when he suggested the investigation into Ravens Gate.
After five rings the phone was answered.
“Hello”
“It’s Reuben Elza, I work for The Unknown magazine, I was told to contact you in regard to a story you wrote five years ago on Ravens Gates Prison”.
There was slight movement in the signal before he spoke, “I’m busy at the moment so I can’t meet you until later, tell me where me it is that you’re staying in town and I’ll meet you there?”
“I’m staying at the Golden Swan Inn, what time are you able to get here? because I was hoping that you could take me to the prison right away”
“I Suppose I can get off of work for a bit, around four, so I’ll be there then, i’ll meet you outside”.
Before he could put the receiver down, Reuben thrust a question at him, “Are you able to take me to the prison tonight?”
“I’ll see you at four, and we’ll discuss it then”.
Chapter four:
For an hour Reuben stayed in his room and did a little more research on the internet, but it was getting him nowhere, no matter where he looked the information was scant, almost non existent. For another hour he left the room, and ventured around the town centre, there was a certain charm in exploring the many narrow alleyways between the buildings, all of which connected into one another. He passed an independent bookstore, as well as a toy store, the inside was old fashioned, there was wooden puppets, numerous rocking horses and various kinds of ventriloquist dummies. It was a reminder of times when people amused themselves by making things with their own hands and imagination.
How the shop made any profit was beyond him.
When four o’clock came Reuben waited outside the coffee house, with a newspaper under his arm and a coffee cup in hand. The clouds had begun to form as the blue sky disappeared, in a matter of weeks, the days would feel shorter as nightfall would set at an earlier hour, and the weather would get colder, the sky hidden for a few months by the dour overcasts.
Until spring arrived.
Reuben had an impatient nature, while always making sure he was punctual, he hated waiting around, so his thoughts went astray and the images of the abandoned prison were fixated in his head. The out of the ordinary shape of the building and the location was of great interest to him. And with everything Harry had told him in mind, he wanted to know whether it was all just a big hoax, a bunch of scare stories that had gotten out of hand and then managed to manifest into something which it did not warrant.
He waited until it was ten past before he sat down at one of the tables in front of the Inn, he couldn’t stop the compulsion to keep checking his watch every minute or so. Ten past quickly became twenty past, there could be a plausible reason why Mr Wilson was late, newsrooms could be very busy places, even the local press, but surely it would have been polite to at least notify him. By half past Reuben called him but there was no answer, he was hoping that he hadn’t been forgotten about.
When it was a quarter to he thought that he might have been stood up, he called him for a second time but again there was no answer. He bit his lip and strayed from one side of the pavement to the other. He watched each car pass by, in anticipation to see if one would stop by the side of the road.
He continued to wait until a black four by four pulled up to the kerb and hooted, Reuben walked over and let himself in. Dean Wilson was a plumped face man, his tightly knit wavy hair was showing the first strands of receding at the front, and greying at the sides.
A large frown stretched across his face as he looked at Reuben sit down, when the car door closed he put out his hand, while still frowning he waited for Reuben to return the gesture before introducing himself,
“sorry for being late, bad traffic on the way here”.
Reuben wasn’t convinced with his excuse, his demeanour showed no sign of concern or regret. And he couldn’t work out where the traffic in Forest Meadows would have come from, regardless, now that he was finally in the car, all of the anger that had built up in the pit of his stomach had evaporated.
After a few minutes of small talk about Reuben’s first impressions of Forest Meadows, the conversation moved on to why they had met up in the first place.
“Can I just say that I am a big fan of yours, since I’ve got back in touch with Mark I’ve read all of your articles, I find them so fascinating even though I’m not sure that everything in them really happened in the way you think they did”.
Reuben did not like flattery, he could deal with appreciation mail of which he occasionally received, but praise he was uncomfortable with, especially if it was a backhanded compliment, which his work seemed to get a lot of from those in the same profession he was in.
He ignored Mr Wilson’s remark and changed the subject, “so I take it you knew Mark before you got in contact with him about Ravens Gate”
“For a year or so, I worked for one of his magazines in the early nineties, when the printed press had their last great swansong. We kept in touch for a few years and then we stopped. I recently got in touch with him because I came across the magazine, when I see that it was published by Mark’s company, I decided to gave him a call. It was good to chat to him after all of these years”.
Reuben knew there was something more to the story than he was letting on, everything seemed too convenient, but he decided to not press any further.
They left the town centre and began to pass through the outskirts, and into the country lanes.
“You don’t mind if I light up do you?” before Reuben could even voice his answer, Mr Wilson lit up a cigarette, followed by a haze of blue smoke flumes smothering the air, it caused Reuben to splutter before he opened the window slightly, and softly said ”go ahead, it’s your car”.
“Mark showed me the article you wrote, at some point I’d appreciate it if you could give me the contact details to Police officer Hamilton”.
He could have found his own way of contacting the police officer, but with Mr Wilson already acquainted with him, it would be useful to cut corners and use him as leverage to get an interview arranged.
“I’ll see what I can do, it shouldn’t be a problem”,
“Thank you, there is very little information on the internet about the prison, do you know if there are any records that could be made available?”
“you can try, but it will be very difficult unless you know the names of the prisoners that were sent there, but to be honest, old records of anything related to the prison could be hard to find”.
Reuben was sure that there must be some kind of register of prisoner records he could try and find, it was a longshot but an angle worth looking at.
The flumes seething from the end of Mr Wilson’s cigarette were beginning to make him feel nauseous and wide eyed, so Reuben wound the window down the whole length. Mr Wilson looked to his side and caught on to Reuben’s discomfort, so he dragged at his cigarette one last time and then stubbed it out.
Reuben said “I find the name interesting, Ravens Gate must have some kind of reasoning behind it, as well as the shape of the building from the images that I have seen. Most prisons of that time period were large and intimidating, Ravens Gate is just one long tower in the middle of nowhere”.
Mr Wilson replied in a casual, unbothersome manner “Raven is obviously a black bird, but anything else I haven’t got a clue”.
From then on it remained quiet for a while, Reuben scanned the countryside as they passed through the narrow lanes, his thoughts were weighted with anticipation, while his acquaintance’s was focused on the road ahead.
When they entered the forests the road became narrower and their surroundings became garrotting. The clouds were getting darker, and the daylight was heavily concealed by the leafage above them, their surroundings now cast in shadows, it was Mr Wilson who eventually broke the silence.
“you don’t mind if I put the radio on do you?”
“Go ahead” Reuben replied plainfully
It was tuned into some rock station, he was glad that the volume was low because he couldn’t tolerate listening to such noise at a high level.
To take his mind of off the music Reuben had a further question to ask “How many times have you been to Ravens Gate?”
“I have only ever been once before now, it was only from the outside, I was unashamedly too scared to go inside. Take away the fact that it is haunted, from the outside it is a hideously ugly building”.
The deeper they travelled through the forests, the more that the road snaked, twisting and turning from left to right. The acres of forestry became more dishevelled and ugly, the open spaces had grown into dying foliage from the dearth of light. It was a complete disparity compared with the enchanting lanes that ran through the country fields at the beginning of their journey.
Reuben was mindful of where they were driving, for he would need to be when he made the journey by himself.
Mr Wilson slowed down drastically, “from this point onwards, this part of the forest is most known as ‘The Outskirts’, because no one willingly ventures here for a reason. Ravens Gate is not far away now, you’ll notice the big gates that lead to the front of the abandoned prison”.
Reuben didn’t say anything, but in such a secluded area it was easy to see why perhaps so many people could hear strange noises and experience hallucinations, it only had to take one instance of something frightening to happen for someone to scare themselves, and lose their senses, and become paranoid. If there was one thing which set off paranoia more than anything else, and that was fear.
Thirty seven minutes after they had left the front of the Golden Swan, they had arrived at their destination. The tall, black, spiked gates to Ravens Gate came into view, it was tangled in overgrown vines, and at either side of the opened gates were stone walls which reached into the forest at either side of the road.
The gates were already open so they drove through and followed the narrow path.
From all sides the car brushed against the confiding overgrowth, and the vehicle rocked from the unstable concrete path underneath them. Reuben held onto the ceiling handle to keep steady. He could only wonder what it must have felt like for the prisoners who made the same journey, knowing that their freedom was being ripped away from them, the rest of their life spent in the middle of a forest they would never venture into, and an outside world they might never see again.
At the end of the broken road was a large circular gravel paved courtyard, It was riddled with unkempt plantation. At the back of the courtyard, just in front of the trees, towering high in the air was Ravens Gate Prison.
Mr Wilson stopped the car and pulled the keys out “well here we are, what are your first impressions of seeing it in person?”
“It’s much bigger than I expected”.
He had little else to say, it was certainly far more imposing to see it in first hand view, which was not usually the case when you see old architectural structures in photos, before seeing it up close with your own point of view.
But there was nothing grand about Ravens Gate, its ugly outside shell was a reminder of its purpose. His own estimations had the stone brick building rising about two hundred and fifty feet from the ground, it was shaped like a lighthouse but much bulkier in width.
Above the prison, the sky was a lustrous orange colour, and the clouds a shade of dark blue sea. For a moment he stood and listened to the gentle brisk in the background, from behind him he heard Mr Wilson’s footsteps grazing against the ground as he walked up behind him,
“we can’t stay for too long, it will get dark soon, and this is a place I do not want to be in while it’s dark”
“That’s fine” Reuben replied “Are you not coming inside with me?”
“I don’t think there is any need for me to do so, you can go in if you want, but as I said, don’t be long, it will be dark soon, and I need to get back to the office, I have a deadline for tomorrow’s paper”.
Reuben passed on the opportunity to say anything, and headed to the prison’s entrance. As he stepped on the gravelstones which led to the front door he couldn’t help but think that each one held thoughts and memories of those who had made the same walk, knowing that their freedom was being taken from them.
The arched front door was made from the strongest of steel, its surface was old and discoloured, not even a dozen men could break through while locked. Reuben unlocked the bolt and pushed the door inwards, he stood at the threshold of the entrance, with no source of light breathing though it was pitch black inside, so he pulled out his torch and stepped through.
He held it in front of his eyes, the smell inside was unusual, a musty aura of decay, and the air was sweltering, the fabrics of his clothes clung to his skin.
He stood in the centre of the tower and circled the light around the stone slab walls. On closer examination he realised there was no floor structure, the entire prison was one long cylinder that rose up from the ground. Along the side was a stairwell which spiralled from the ground floor to the very top, along the path were single steel doors, there was thirteen in total. Each with a small round window at eye length so the inside of the cells could be observed from the outside. Between each of the cells were large gaps in the walls where burned out fire wood had been left.
He stopped at the first cell he come across, opened the door and looked through with his own eyes, the only glimmer of light came through from the tiny square gap at the back of the cell, he didn’t enter because Mr Wilson cautiously stepped an inch into the prison and shouted through “Have you seen enough yet?”,
“I’m coming” Reuben called back.
He was fascinated with the prison, he had come across many old buildings in his previous investigations, but not for the same purpose and not designed in the way to fit a particular purpose in such an unusual manner.
Reuben shut the front door behind him as he made his exit from the tower, the last echoes disappeared as the door was sealed. Mr WIlson was already in the car when Reuben climbed in, his acquaintance was quiet when he drove back through the narrow path, away from Ravens Gate, and for the remainder of their journey back into town. His demeanour had changed dramatically, the confident body language was replaced with agitation, he was also driving much faster through the country lanes, and back towards Forest Meadows.
