The Secret Held By Rybbeford

The sun had all but set by the time I arrived in the village of Rybbeford. The last glimmers of its rays shone dimly through the trees of the local wood, but illumination was by now commanded by the Moon, dominating the ever-darkening night sky. Stood alone in this rural hamlet, I found it to be both picturesque and eerie in equal measure. It felt as much as if it were looking at me just as I was looking at it, like it was the singular eye of the cosmos itself.

As a chill ran down my spine, I turned away to chain my bicycle to a nearby bollard and then, with the Moon’s reflected light to guide me, searched for an abode at which I could spend the night. I needed rest if my expedition was to be a success and could do with a comfortable bed on which to lie and, if luck was with me, perhaps a desk on which to write. However, as I wandered through the unkempt streets, I found naught in the way of tourist accommodation.

Rybbeford was a small parish, dominated by thatched cottages that must each have been centuries old, and the immense trees of the local forest which enclosed it on almost all sides. It seemed positively stuck in time, for in that moment, it could have been any of the past five-hundred years. There was no sign of any modernity what-so-ever; electric lighting was merely a memory, and I was forced to dig out my torch to guide me, for the moonlight itself had become obscured by the gigantic trees which towered above my head.

The bright beam of the torchlight revealed a traditional cobbled street, the sort often found in medieval towns and cities across the world. The paving was uncomfortably uneven, and more than once I found myself stumbling over particularly protuberant stones. Indeed, the condition of this avenue suggested that it had not been maintained or repaired for some considerable amount of time. My pace was slowed as I was forced to navigate both the darkness of the street, and its jarring surface.

Whilst conducting my search for accommodation, I strolled past many houses and before long noticed they all had something in common, for every entrance gate had a certain identical insignia etched into it, the same one time and time again. It was not a symbol I recognised, and yet, I could not help but notice a strong and distinct energy emanating from it. I could feel this mysterious force reverberating through my skull each time I laid my eyes upon it, and I continuously had to resist a strange, almost voracious urge to touch it. I was relieved to finally reach the end of the street, and as I did so, I felt its strange aura wane and relieve me of its power. I realised I was sweating, and knew it must have taken extreme effort not to give in to its compelling attraction.

Though this experience had unnerved me, it also was not wholly unexpected, for it was not through chance that I found myself in this quiet, isolated settlement. Whilst growing up in a neighbouring town, I had often heard rumours and whispers concerning Rybbeford and its secluded community. Some elder residents even told tales of its inhabitants, claiming that they had gone mad over the years, that they had been driven to insanity by an ancient artifact hidden somewhere within the confines of the parish and now led unevolved lives more akin to those of our ancient ape ancestors than their contemporaries beyond the village.

While clearly hyperbolic in nature, these fables continued to fascinate me throughout my adolescence and onwards into adulthood. Though I would move to London to further my education and pursue a career in journalism, I never lost my urge to one day venture forth into the village and investigate the truth behind this local folklore, for what could there possibly be that invoked such inflation and superstition?

Having always assumed that these tales were no more than mere myth, I had expected the village to at least feature a public house, where both residents and travellers alike could eat and drink until late. However, it seemed that no such place existed, and so I wandered on further in pursuit of a bed in which to stay the now-black night.

Before long, a small church hoved into view, with a broken steeple and marvellously coloured windows. It occupied the very centre of the village, as if it were its own star, and the houses were objects caught in its orbit. Curious, and with frankly no other option in sight, I moved hastily towards the door as the first few raindrops of an impending shower sprinkled upon my head. Like the houses that preceded it, this door also had the same wretched insignia emblazoned upon its surface, and I again felt my head pounding as I approached it. At first I knocked, eager not to startle any potential inhabitants, but when no answer came, I slowly opened the door to find the place devoid of any life.