It was the early 1900s and the house belonged to a family, a father, mother and three young children. The winter had been harsh and they lost the youngest child to whooping cough. The mother had taken the loss badly and was not showing any signs of ending her mourning for the child. Many of her duties as a mother have now fallen to the servants, as the husband was kept in London by his work. The servants believed he did not want to return home, his love for the family damaged by the loss and his wife’s darkening presence. As the following winter approached and the first snows fell, there was little sign of improvement in the family, and the children became more and more isolated from their parents. Despite warnings from the servants not to wonder beyond the wall, brother and sister went into the woods after a scolding from the maid for disturbing their mother’s rest. It was many hours before the maid called for them, as the evening meal was to be served soon, but her call was not answered. A search by the servants was quickly brought about, the house, the gardens and the woods, both larger and more wild than today. No sign of the children was found as the last of the daylight disappeared, and all that could be done was to send word to their father in London and to rally help for first light. The children were never found, only sign that they had even been in the woods was the young girl’s toy, a rag doll given to her by her mother. The loss of the children broke the family, the mother took her own life within a few months and the father was found drowned in the Thames a year later. The events had fuelled local talk for many a year after, with elaborations on the suffering and deaths of the parents. But no man, woman or child ever embellished the fate of the children, for it was only one fact that convinced them all of what happened to them. The girl had always carried that doll, battered and worn, as it was her favourite and rarely left her side. It was found by an old statue in the oldest part of the woods, where a circle of trees stood like tall, wooden entities true to whom the statue embodied. Over the years, with nature taking its toll upon the stone, time had distorted its true representation in the minds of men and women alike. Some said it was a pagan witch who feasted upon the flesh of children when the great trees where just saplings, others said it was older than even her. But all knew it was something to be feared and respected. The old ways still had their part to play.
…
My eyes slowly become accustomed to the darkness inside the folly, and I then noticed an engraving upon a centre brick in the back wall. It read ‘In memory of John Connelly’. I had no idea for whom this not inexpensive tribute was, the surname not manifesting in any of the legal documents I had read. It was something I could investigate upon my return to the City, as my position granted me connections in such matters with ease, but I cursed that no dates had been carved in the beautiful ornate script. With the thought of a man’s final demise lingering, the inside of the folly seem to take on a dark and damp atmosphere, which felt almost tomb-like. I shuddered and quickly stood up to leave the folly, and as I stood my eye caught another inscription on the stone floor. Unlike the more formal dedication, this was scratched crudely by what looked like a knife blade, and it only said one word: ‘Lilith’. Another shudder fell across me and I hurriedly left the folly, letting the rose thorns scratch me as they pleased, more concerned with seeking the light than protecting my exposed skin. Those brief few seconds had turned my mood suspicious and unnerved. The sky still gave off a blue hue and seemed so much brighter than before I had entered the folly and it had quickly helped dispel the foreboding sensations.
Another wooden arch covered in ivy stood over the continuing path into the woods. I went through it and began to follow the path. I could see now just how like a labyrinth the garden was, it was not a maze as many might assume, but followed one path, as a true labyrinth would. The only difference was the destination was not the centre, but then I thought, that depends on your perspective of what the centre is. For this garden, I felt it was the woods. The path twisted and turned, so had it not been for the nearing tree line, I would have easily lost all sense of direction. Sometimes statues of angels and mythical beasts stood set back into the planting beds, the overgrown branches allowing them to hide in wait with unknown intent. The Victorian zeal for the Gothic evident in each piece of craftsmanship, nature adding its haunting quality in the green and red tones of the moss and lichen that lived upon the stone. I revelled in the overall effect of the garden, it was beautiful and full of mystery, it let my imagination run wild and filled my heart full of morbid delight in the fading light that brought an air of sinister excitement to the place.
Before long, I had reached the end of the labyrinth garden and could see the distinct line of the woodland ahead, which was bordered by a tall brick wall with a single ironwork gate allowing access to the woodland. I recollected seeing the wall in the plans of the grounds and thinking how strange it was to have such a defensive wall inside the grounds. Many reasons came to me now that I stood there. Like the statues, it was more ornate than its purpose required, but the walls seemed too high and the gate too solid and simple to be just pleasing to the eye. Recalling the tale of I was told of the missing children, it would have prevented them from playing in the woods, assuming the gate was kept locked. It was the thought that maybe the wall kept something out, something in the woods or the woods themselves, which troubled me. My mind wondered with too much morbid suspicion and folklore. I approached the gate, gently pushed against it, and it opened with the expected squeal of unkempt hinges. Once the unbearable high-pitched noise stopped, I realised how quiet it was. No birds sang and no wind moved the trees, it was a deathly silence and momentarily made me hesitate about continuing. But I told myself it was the environment and my own mind which created this sense of foreboding. There was no wind in the still night and many animals would be resting and it was still too early for the night time creatures to be noticeable. I pushed the gate fully open and stepped through.
