Chapter Text
Jon stares down the narrow, overgrown road stretching away beyond his driver’s side window. It looks like little more than an animal trail, sprouted with grass and hemmed in by thick, overhanging hedgerows that he’s not entirely certain the hatchback can squeeze through.
He squints back down at the ordnance survey map in his passenger seat. Something in him half expects it to have changed, but of course it hasn’t; bold red pen still circles the same spot on the byroad, almost halfway between two junctions. And the same words are still scrawled beneath it: Entrance to Old Bacchus Road. Jon has driven up and down this stretch of road twice for good measure, and found no other offshoots. This little laneway, it seems, is what he’s looking for.
“This was a stupid idea,” he mutters to himself. Stupid, to drive all the way to Cumbria on the strength of a suspect statement and a few marks on a map. Even more stupid to do it after being expressly told not to by the Research department head; as she reminded him, in a tone that said he really should know better by now, the Magnus Institute does not accept or investigate statements about dreams. Stupid to waste his weekend on a wild goose chase when he could be—well, more than likely he’d just be at work in any case, if he’s honest. Still.
Still, Jon can’t shake the sincerity he heard in Anthea Taylor’s tone when she told her story. She had been at a low point in her life, feeling like things were never going to get better, when she received a strange gift via a friend of a cousin of a friend: a map marking the location of something called the Old Bacchus Road, and a heartfelt plea that she should visit it. She was skeptical, of course, but eventually decided to follow the advice. The worst that could happen was that she would waste her time, and at least she would get out of London for a day.
The evening before she was due to depart, she made preparations: filled up on petrol and checked her spare tire was in good shape, bought snacks and drinks, and even made egg-and-cress sandwiches in a fit of nostalgia, because that’s what her mum used to make for drives in the countryside when Anthea was a child. And then she went to bed.
And woke up the next morning with an inexplicable feeling of lightness and joy, more refreshed than she could remember being in years. All the personal problems that had seemed so mountainous to her yesterday still existed, of course, but she now felt as if she’d been equipped with top of the range climbing gear; she knew she could overcome them.
She also had the strangest sense that she had returned from a long journey. Had she visited the Old Bacchus Road after all? The calendar confirmed that she had not, but there were odd flashes of memory that said otherwise. She remembered a winding road at sunset; a vast tree and a river that was clear as glass; the taste of egg-and-cress sandwiches. Anthea went to her fridge and found the sandwiches still there, waiting to be eaten. Just as her entire life was waiting to be changed.
“So what did you do?” Jon asked at this point in the story; Anthea smiled.
“I ate the sandwiches. They were very nice.”
Anthea admitted freely that her story was lacking in details. Perhaps she had just had an unusual dream. Perhaps the intent to try something— anything —to make a change had been enough for a breakthrough. Perhaps all she had needed was a good night’s sleep and a fresh perspective. But she sincerely believed that the Old Bacchus Road had changed her life, and wanted to share her story in the hope it could do the same for others.
Along with her story, she shared a map, which now sits in Jon’s passenger seat, waiting to see if he’ll follow its instructions.
“Stupid idea,” Jon mutters again, his eyes lingering on the sun-dappled path stretching away between the trees. This is probably someone’s driveway and he’s going to be shouted at by an irate farmer for trespassing; he doesn’t know why looking at it makes his chest tighten with something like anticipation.
The car idles impatiently beneath him, engine chugging as if eager to move. Jon glances down at the clock on the dashboard, which reads 4.27PM. He has well over an hour before it starts to get dark, and the circled sliver of road on the map can’t extend more than a couple of hundred yards.
“Just a quick look,” he decides. Just to satisfy his curiosity. And when it turns out to be an elaborate practical joke, well at least he can say he got out of London for a day.
Jon shifts the car into gear, and pulls away down the overgrown road.
He drives slowly at first, the car bumping gently over ruts and grassy tufts. The lane is serpentine, and as he rounds each tight bend Jon braces himself to meet a dead end or a car coming the other way. After a while, however, the path widens and smoothes out beneath his tires, and Jon relaxes a bit. He’s surprised he still hasn’t reached the road’s end—clearly it’s longer than the map indicates—but it’s a pleasant drive, through the lush green of brambles and taller trees, stretching up towards a sky now streaked orange and dusky pink.
Jon frowns; has he been driving that long already? He looks at the dashboard clock, which reads...still 4.27PM. His frown deepens, and he fishes for his mobile, glancing quickly at the lock screen. It tells him that the time is 16:27, and also that there is no network available.
“That is...interesting,” he mutters, trying to ignore the nervous feeling bubbling up in his stomach. It could just be a coincidence, or a localized electromagnetic anomaly that affected his devices. Or it could be something more significant—some sort of time dilation effect, perhaps? That might explain why the sun is hanging low in the sky, though it feels as if he’s only been driving for twenty minutes. And how Anthea Taylor believes she spent a day traveling despite the evidence of her calendar. Something to research further when he returns; maybe he’ll even file a formal report, though the head of Research is sure to disapprove.
It does occur to Jon that if this road truly is paranormal, continuing to explore it alone may not be a good idea. But on the other hand, he doesn’t want to return without having learned anything concrete about the nature of the phenomenon. He’ll carry on a bit further, see if he finds anything else of interest. Just a little bit further.
He’s just beginning to think that he should turn on the headlights, when he rounds yet another bend and a figure appears in the road ahead of him. Jon slams on the brakes and the car lurches to a halt, jolting him painfully forwards against his seatbelt.
He takes a few deep breaths, adrenaline coursing through his veins. His hands are shaking on the wheel. Out the front windshield, the person he almost hit is staring wide-eyed at him. It’s a man—or male presenting, at least—tall, white, and stocky, with reddish hair. He’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, no jacket despite the chill of the early March evening. The man blinks owlishly from behind his glasses, and then lifts a hand to wave hesitantly at Jon.
Jon unfastens his seatbelt and steps out of the car, watching him warily; aside from any paranormal possibilities, this man is also a lot larger and stronger looking than he is. It never hurts to be cautious.
“Are you all right?” he calls. “I almost didn’t see you there.”
“Oh, hi!” the man calls back. “I—I’m fine, thanks. Sorry about that.” His voice is soft, with a Northern lilt to it.
“You know, you really shouldn’t be out walking on a road like this without lights or reflective gear.” The man nods slowly, looking around as if taking in his surroundings for the first time.
“I, umm, I didn’t actually mean to…” he trails off for a moment, and when he continues there’s a note of alarm in his voice: “Where are we?”
“I believe we’re somewhere called the Old Bacchus Road,” says Jon. “Have you heard of it?”
“No,” the man says anxiously. “I, umm, I think I missed my stop on the bus? I just got off back there.” He waves vaguely past Jon, who frowns; he certainly hasn’t seen any bus stops on this road, nor on the road he had turned off of onto this one. In fact, he hasn’t seen any traffic at all for quite some time.
“Look—what’s your name?”
“Martin? Martin Blackwood.”
“Where do you live, Martin?”
“Stockwell. But, uh, this doesn’t look like any part of London I’ve been to.”
“Well observed,” says Jon dryly. “We’re in Cumbria. Or at least, I was in Cumbria. I’m not entirely sure whether we’re still—ah, never mind.” No point alarming the man any further with wild speculation about time dilation and planes of existence; he’s already sounding close to panicked.
“Cumbria?” Martin demands. “I can’t be in Cumbria, I have work in the morning!”
“It’s all right,” Jon tells him, lifting his hands in a calming gesture. He’s the professional here, after all, even if he’s not technically on official business. “I’m a researcher from the Magnus Institute. We regularly deal with paranormal occurrences, and I can assure you that—as far as I know—you are not in any danger. This place is—well, it seems to be rather complicated, actually. Look, it’s getting dark, and I was just thinking about heading back to the main road. I can give you a lift to the nearest town, and you should be able to get a train or a bus to London from there. All right?”
“I—I mean no? Not really.” Martin gives a nervous laugh. “But I’ll take the lift. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Jon—Jonathan Sims.”
“Right. Okay. Well, nice to meet you I suppose,” says Martin. “Even if I still have no bloody idea what’s going on. But that’s fine! As long as we can get out of here.”
He starts towards the car, and suddenly there is a thunderous crack from over Jon’s shoulder, followed by a long, creaking groan. Jon spins on his heel, just in time to see a venerable elm tree topple ponderously down across the road, blocking it off completely.
“Oh,” says Jon.
“Bloody hell!” says Martin. “We need to call the—the police I suppose? Or the fire brigade? Who deals with fallen trees?”
“I, uh, I don’t know,” Jon admits. “But I’m not sure we’ll be able to call anyone. I haven’t had any phone signal since I started down this road. Do you?”
Martin fumbles in his pocket for his phone and pokes at it hopefully, lifting it to his ear for a moment and then shaking it, before putting it back in his pocket. He turns to Jon with a defeated expression.
“Nothing,” he says. “So, what now?” He’s looking at Jon expectantly, and Jon is reminded that he positioned himself as an authority figure not two minutes ago.
He hesitates, looking at the tree that now blocks the road. It looks possible to scale; they could climb over and go on foot. But he doesn’t like the idea of abandoning his car. And with night rapidly approaching, on a road that he’s now fairly sure has paranormal properties, he doesn’t much like the idea of walking, either. Besides, the timing of the treefall seems far too convenient for coincidence. It seems this road wants them—both of them—to continue on.
Jon is reminded of something Anthea said in her statement; not a factual detail, but a feeling she described. That whatever she had experienced—real or imagined—had ingrained in her a desire to always move forward, never turn back or retreat. Perhaps that’s the key to it, then; the only way out is through.
“We, ah, we’ll keep going this way,” he says, gesturing past Martin. “We’ll find our way to the end of this road eventually.”
Jon hopes he sounds more confident than he feels. Judging from the skeptical look on Martin’s face, however, he has his doubts.