The Curious Tinkling Bell

 

Autumn, the season of fading light and melancholy hints of winter’s fast approach. Nature explodes in colour as she celebrates the preparation for winter’s long sleep and the hope for the reawakening of life in the spring.

You can smell the season’s transformation as the earthy scents of fallen leaves and bonfires fill the crisp autumn air. The nostalgic smell of wood smoke evokes images of hearth and home settling in like long-ago memories. All of human history lies within that fragrance.

A frail fox, its shiny red coat growing longer and thicker in preparation for winter’s icy blasts, meandered warily across the empty street in search of a cozy den, taking momentary refuge under a scraggly privet hedge desperately in need of pruning. Glancing around stealthily then vanishing in a flash of red under a once elegant and ornate Victorian front porch, now sagging under the weight of experience, its grey paint cracked and peeling from the ravages of time and neglect. Ever vigilant, its nose twitched on alert for any danger lurking as it nestled into the safety of the inky darkness beneath.

A street sign creaked as it dangled precariously from a post partially obscured by an ancient, overgrown rowan tree affirming that I had arrived at Graves End Lane. “DEAD END, NO EXIT” warned another sign on the post. It seems there is no escape from Graves End. Four very grand residences lined the cul-de-sac. Three were red brick, one white frame with green trim and three were enclosed by low stone walls and neatly trimmed hedges. Each was set on a very large property. My destination was a secluded and desolate Victorian mélange of architectural persuasions of Queen Anne, and Gothic design surrounded by a crumbling stone wall. A rather creepy aura seemed to emanate from the decrepit edifice, indeed, there was something uncanny about the whole street.

Somewhere in the vicinity, a dog barked setting off a cascading rejoinder of yips, woofs, and howls signalling the neighbourhood watch was on alert.

Not to be outdone a murder of ravens that had assembled ominously on the roof of the old house began a chorus of hoarse, discordant, and annoying croaks, clicks, and rattles as I approached, creating such a din as to awaken the very dead.

The barely legible sign on the cockeyed wrought iron gate informed all those who visited that they had arrived at, fittingly, Ravens Roost. The rusted latch held fast as my fingers worked to unfasten it. Then with an almost inaudible grating of rusty metal on rust-encrusted metal the latch released and the gate swung drunkenly inward on one hinge, squealing, as if in protest. I walked up the overgrown path bordered by monstrous, unkempt sentries of the red trunks and purple leaves of Castor plants and the clusters of white florets and green stalks of Hogweed. My progress was impeded by the rapaciously clutching of enormous burdock and Scottish thistle grabbing greedily at my clothes. Approaching the stately, yet forlorn, old dwelling I watched the murky and darkened windows for any signs of life. Mounting the broken-down steps, swaybacked and timeworn from a lifetime of wear and tear and neglect, I thought I heard a low, mournful crooning emanating hauntingly from somewhere deep inside the old house. An ethereal funeral dirge, as fleeting as a lover’s sigh, seemed to drift on the gentle breeze.

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