Welcome to Warmington Falls

“In 1972, hikers in Harriston Wood found a rusty gate standing alone in a copse of dead trees.” Karen read as they walked. “Exploration of the area found no other structures, but local rumours claim the gate was part of an estate which once stood only yards from the stream.”

“And we care because?” Stephen asked his bride, a smile softening his words. An over-loaded wicker basket bounced against his leg. “What did you pack in this thing? I thought we were having a picnic?”

“Maybe I plan to work up an appetite,” she replied coyly before returning to the pamphlet. “Apparently one family owned all the land surrounding Warmington Falls.” She paused, engrossed in the sepia images. “They look so stern.”

“Old photographs look like that. It's easier to hold a frown than a smile.”

“But what about the disappearances?”

A shiver crawled up her spine as they neared the stream. Watching the water gently pass by, she wondered about the stories her new friends had told last night. She never should have told them where they were going.

Stephen chortled at the idea of people vanishing in such a peaceful place. “They're just stories. Look around. The birds are singing. The sun is shining. Does this place look dangerous?” A soft breeze lifted his hair as he stared down at Karen. “The day couldn't be more perfect.”

Looking around, Karen reluctantly agreed. Bubbles formed as the water played among the rocks. Spreading out the red gingham cloth, she set out their lunch. The afternoon passed slowly. Soft summer grass caressed their bare feet as they enjoyed the late June afternoon.

Karen stared up at the blue sky peeking through the branches as she stretched out on the blanket. Stephen sipped his wine before leaning in for a kiss. The kiss deepened, their interest firmly on one another, and the world faded away.

Stephen stopped, his hand frozen in mid-air.

“What is it?” Karen whispered, her own hands flying to pull her shirt closed.

“I heard something.”

“Is someone there?” Karen's voice trembled, instantly recalling the tales of the wood. The stories couldn't be true. Could they?

“I can't tell. Wait here.” Stephen straightened his clothes and walked to the edge of the glen. His figure became a shadow that blended into the undergrowth before vanishing altogether. Long minutes passed without his return.

“Stephen?” The sound of rushing water was her only reply.

Karen hurried to her feet, brushing leaves from her clothes. Some tumbled into the stream, the water moving faster than it had a few hours ago.

“Honey?” she called as she neared the treeline. “You're scaring me,” a hint of terror tingeing her voice.

“Karen...”

“Stephen!” She rushed into the trees, her bare feet catching in the exposed roots.

A quiet thud had her racing back towards the stream. Over the sound of rushing water came another sound -- a high-pitched squeal like fingernails on a chalkboard that shivered down her spine. Karen wrapped her arms tightly around her small frame.

“Stephen?” she squeaked. “Where are you?” Her voice sounded childlike as the rapidly flowing stream rumbled towards a makeshift bridge of downed trees and moss-covered rocks.

In the fading light, Karen saw a smeared footprint, the toes splayed out in the dirt. The leaf litter was disturbed, but Stephen could not be seen. Faintly, a metallic squeak drifted above the gurgling water, an unnatural sound in counterpoint to the splashing rapids.

Hurrying back to their picnic site, Karen gingerly shoved her cold, dirty feet into Stephen's socks and shoes, her sandals being impractical. Blood marked her scuffed hands. A multitude of scratches and small cuts stung in the cooling air.

Twilight was nearly upon her. Grabbing their picnic blanket, she wrapped it around her shoulders as the sun fled the sky, taking the warmth of the day with it. More than just the dew chilled her as an owl called and the cry of its prey stabbed the darkness. Mist rose over the banks to curl along the ground, reaching for her feet. Karen scurried back to the path, her breath puffing into the gloom to mark her passage.

She wanted to scream and run until she could see the lights of Warmington Falls. Looking longingly towards the distant road, Karen knew she could not leave him here alone. Something was very wrong.

“Stephen,” she called. “I'm not leaving without you!” Her voice wavered as she stepped towards the ebony hollow of the wood. “If you can hear me, make a sound.”

“... Karen...” The word was spoken so softly it could have come from anywhere, the wind playing with the volume as it was carried through the trees. Taking a guess on the origin, Karen moved deeper into the ebony darkness.

“Again!” she hollered, hoping he had one more cry in him. Standing motionless, she panned her head, seeking the slightest sound.

“... over... here...”

Karen plummeted through the undergrowth chasing Stephen's thin voice. Stumbling over a pile of rocks, she fell to the forest floor in a tangle, her sobs covering any noise he might have made. A brushing in the ferns snapped her focus to a glen just ahead. The small animal was gone, but roughly outlined in the starlight, stood the antique gate. Formerly as black as coal, its mottled surface now displayed rust-brown stains. The smell of copper lifted from a circle of stones placed beyond the malevolent portal. Leaves rustled as the branches above her parted. A solitary beam of moonlight cast its glow across the secluded space. The shimmer of wet blood drew her eyes to the motionless form in the centre.

As her scream died away, the silence was absolute.

Harriston Wood stood quiet.

Until the gate swung on its tired hinges, breaking the night with a final iron chorus.