The Eye of the Snake
Chapter 1;
The Manor on the Hill
No one in the little town of Ashbrittle, not even the eldest, could remember the manor being built. Just that it was there, and had been. It wasn't exactly accepted in the village; in fact, it was grumbled about almost as much as the seasons abnormally torrential rains. The years had worn the once gloriously polished stones down to a weather-beaten brown, and creeping vine and Spanish moss had covered what was left of the once majesty of the house. But the fact remained that for as long as anyone could remember, the manor had been there, and always would be.
More peculiar than the manor itself had been its past residents. A reclusive group of the snobbiest people you would ever have the misfortune to meet, what with their pious airs and superior walk. Especially their son, whose pale, gaunt face and platinum blonde hair had made him somewhat of an oddity in such a dull town. His parents, a cold, hard-hearted man in his later years, and a sleek, venomous looking woman with midnight black locks and matching disposition, were sometimes seen talking evening strolls with their son. That was before the rest of Ashbrittle's residents had moved into the village, and the last of the oddities had moved out.
The small town had once played host to a series of heinous witch hangings, leading most other surrounding villages to believe that Ashbrittle was haunted. Most of the villages current residents didn't believe in such "bed time poppycock," except for some of the elders, who claimed that at night, the voice of a woman falling to her death was carried on the wind. Naturally, the hangings were all too soon forgotten, as was the haunting, and people carried on again with heir lives, perfectly content that nothing ever again should disturb their town. How wrong they were.
The owners of the manor rarely occupied the place, and when they did, it was for sporadically brief periods during the middle of the summer holidays, and then only for a week or so. The only sign that the stone manor was ever used at all were the lights in an upstairs window, and then only faintly. The villagers of Ashbrittle had taken the strange family's comings and goings as that of a wealthy family, come to take a bit of break from wherever they normally lived to stay in what was apparently an inherited property. And so, when the home remained vacant and dark that entire summer, the villagers took no notice, having only glimpsed the family once or twice.
Being vacant as it so often was, and as there was next to nothing to do for entertainment, a group of boys had taken to hiking up the hill and breaking into the house to smoke cigarettes and terrorize the town on Friday nights. It just so happens this Friday our story begins, with that very group of six boys up to no good.
The group consisted of the two eldest McKinnon boys, Rupert and Benjamin, red-headed and 6ft tall, whose father owned the only pub in the village. So, by general unspoken consensus, and because they were the biggest, richest, and meanest, the McKinnon's were the leaders. Next was Bobby Porter, a tall, gangly, be-speckled boy of barely 16, who had moved to the village the previous summer and, for lack of other friends, had reluctantly joined the troupe of pranksters. Thomas Finland, with rust colored hair and a million freckles, was by far the largest and dumbest of the boys, and in charge of ensuring Officer O'Hanley didn't decide to have a look in the manor on his routine Friday evening stroll. Lastly, were the lackeys, Trevor Cunnigham and Harry Grange. Now, although Trevor was by far the most intelligent of the group, the fact that he was barely 5"2 and an asthmatic kept him from having any real say in the weekly plots, and was really only used because of his knowledge of locks and most especially, how to pick them. Harry, lastly, due to his inability to be of no use to any plan made and because he was the skinniest, held feet when the gang was climbing in or out of a particularly high window or slipped in the basement window well to unlock a dead bolted door.
The boy called Thomas Finland checked his watch for the third time that evening, then turned around hastily and looked over his shoulder. It was half past eight and he had been crouched behind a waterlogged hydrangea bush for almost 15minutes. His trainers were soaked through and water dribbled down his face onto his damp T-shirt. He strained his ears and listened, all senses alert. Finally, after what had to have been the loudest quiet he had ever heard, a noise behind him made him lie flat on the ground.
A portly, balding man in his late fifties came strolling up the path, humming off-key and popping gum. He wore and officer's uniform, though he carried no weapon, save for the large torch he was jauntily shining into random bushes along his way. The silver badge pinned to his left pocket caught the last rays of sunlight, and Thomas was able to barely read the name "O'Hanley" before the deathly eye of his torch shone inches from his feet. He held his breath, listening to Officer O'Hanley's boots crunch the gravel for several more seconds before trudging back to town.
As the last of the footsteps died away, Thomas struggled to his feet, wiped the sweat from his brow and whistled softly to a hedgerow several feet to the left of him. Presently, five pairs of eyes and then their accompanying heads poked out and looked about wildly. Waving one porky hand in the air, Thomas signaled the gang "all clear" before forcing his way out behind the hydrangea bush and up the sloping lawn to the manor.
The McKinnon boys jogged ahead of Thomas, cackling mischievously and brandishing a crowbar between them. Bobby followed suite, looking paler than usually and carrying a limp flour sack. Trevor and Harry made up the rear; Trevor stopping every few yards to wheeze and take a long drag on his inhaler.
Finally, the group arrived at a previously unknown side door. Rupert, the oldest, moved in front of the door, stuck his crowbar in the crook of his arm, and cleared his throat, smiling wickedly.
"This is the night, boys!" he hissed, should anyone overhear. "Now, them old weirdo's haven't been here all holiday, and like as not they've abandoned the place for good, so this leaves us in a very good situation." He rubbed his hands, as a general murmur of excitement and exchanged snickers passed through the boys.
"Now, from what Finny tells me," (Thomas smiled at his nickname) "O'Hanley's left for the evening, and we should be alone for the rest of our…stay, here."
The boys laughed silently, as Bobby produced a torch from his flour sack and shined it on the almost petrified door.
"I dunno, Cunning Little Ham," he snickered, "this one looks right sixes and sevens if you ask me" he finished, indicating the large, rusted iron padlock barring the gang's illegal passage to the room beyond.
"I-I-I c-can unl-lock it." Trevor wheezed in spite of himself, leaning against the slick moss-covered walls.
"You sure, Ham?" Benjamin looked the white-faced boy up and down.
"I-I CAN! I'M FINE!" Trevor shot back, steadying himself enough to stand erect.
"Right, then." Rupert nodded, signaled to Harry, who produced a long, lethal looking instrument from under his wind breaker, and handed it to Trevor. By familiarity and unspoken agreement, the gang inched back to let Trevor work his magic. Tense seconds slipped by. Finally, after a decade and a day, there was a faint click, scraping, and with a deep thud the rusted padlock fell to the ground. Bobby pushed the door. The rusted hinges screamed in protest but relented once Rupert added his weight.
"Nice, Ham! 'Think it's a new record!" Thomas smiled, indicating his watch. Trevor blushed at the recognition.
"You can fancy a look at each other inside." Benjamin barked from the doorway, ushering them in with a torch. The boys jumped and scurried through the door inside. After one last look into the dusty night, Benjamin bent down, scooped up the padlock, mumbled "nice work," and without a backward glance, swung the door shut.
The boy standing in the shadows on the balcony above thought so too.