The Tragedy of Eden's Gate

1 - Welcome To Hell

In any case, either the phone or my mother's own memory leads us out the other end of town, where we leave the dismal buildings behind for a dismal lane overshadowed with gnarled oak trees stretching over the car and blocking out what little light there is overhead.

The road — though that's a rather ambitious name for the winding, lurching river of pebbles we've found ourselves on — eventually leads us to a rusted iron gate lurking behind overgrown hedges.

It looks like the entrance to an asylum, I think bleakly. A great start.

I have to jump out the car to swing open the gate (though there is a padlock, it's old and broken and unlocked already), and it shrieks ominously as my mum drives through, like there are souls trapped in the metal and screaming for peace.

Not that I was expecting anything particularly miraculous, given the state of the town, but the house is like something from a nightmare you might've had as a child. The sort that warps itself into a mess of darkness and dread. The sort that has you checking over your shoulder even when you're certain you are alone, just in case. Brick walls pale beneath the onslaught of time; dark windows yawn and gape; ivy crawls its way up the walls, a waterfall in reverse; roof tiles hanging on by a thread.

Home sweet home.

Solus Estate, the place is so aptly and fondly called— the name is engraved in stark letters arched over the gate, and they are apparently the only thing about the house that isn't broken. It sounds creepily like soulless, I have to admit. According to my hasty research before my data ran out halfway through the drive, when curiosity got the best of me, 'Solus' is Latin for 'alone'.

And that seems rather fitting, given the circumstances.

The house — which, gazing up at the bleak monstrosity before me, is a bit of a lie — belonged to my gran. Apparently it was a steal and, since no one else wanted it and my gran fancied herself a lover of renovations at the ripe age of sixty, she bought the dilapidated place almost twenty years ago.

The only problem with that ambitious plan to turn a contender for a horror film house into a home was that none of the local builders, plumbers or electricians wanted anything to do with it, and calling in favours from out of town was expensive and borderline impossible. Renovations ground to a halt. My gran made the place liveable, just about.

But now, given my gran's no longer with us, the house has fallen into disrepair once more. Smashed windows, frames bent and brick walls cracked, garden overgrown and unkempt. A mess, to say the least. The sort you turn your back on and ignore for as long as you can.

We haven't been here in years— well over a decade. For good reason, my mum tells me. According to her, when I was five and more forgiving of traumatic events, she left me alone upstairs in the nursery (yes, the house has a nursery, which is horrifying enough) to do some laundry, only to return to find me laughing and having a conversation with a dark corner. When she — rightly so — scooped me up and hightailed it out of there, I screamed bloody murder and begged her to let me play with my new friend.

My gran — a stout, firm woman who never raised her voice but, never one to be wasteful, put the fear of God into me if I didn't finish all my food — only waved off her fear and said it was just a child's overactive imagination. But I was hysterical and, no matter what my mum tried to distract me, I begged and begged and begged for my nursery friend.

It's no surprise, really, that she packed our things that very afternoon and never looked back.

Until now, that is.

Visits with gran became phone calls, which became sporadic texts, which became overbearing silence. My mum only realised the pit she'd fallen into when it was too late. When she'd already lost all her friends, all her family, all her independence. Her wedding ring was a cage— one she's broken out of. One she's determined to keep us both away from.