Inexplicably it showed the land beyond the gothic gate to be just a lake surrounded by forested hills, and  little else...

Charlie stared thoughtfully into space. If that was the case, then what was the reason for the nervousness of the old man? And why were the crows following him?

Something was wrong, he thought, and tomorrow he'd go back there and find out what it was.

Chapter 3

The next day was a Sunday. Charlie woke groggily, realizing that something was bothering him—it was the encounter with the old man at the gothic gate the previous day, and the crows that had followed him home. Were they still in the back yard or had they given up the ghost? Climbing out of bed, he sidled up to his bedroom window, and sneaking open the curtain, peered down into the yard. Sure enough, the crows were lurking upon the lawn, regarding him resentfully.

Charlie slowly lowered the curtain. What do they want? he wondered. Are they spies?

Disconcertedly, he got dressed, went downstairs and found his dad sitting at the kitchen table, fixing a computer monitor. There were pieces of it all over the table alongside the dirty dishes from yesterday’s dinner. Charlie found a place amongst the clutter, pushed some electronic components aside, and began to eat his cereal.

"Don't eat so fast," said his father, peering up at him from his work. "It's not a race. If you eat too fast you'll choke, and then I'll have to do CPR, and that'll be a problem because I don't know CPR. Then I'll have to spend the rest of my life feeling guilty because you choked on your cereal and I didn't know CPR. So eat more slowly, OK? Do you have some homework to do?"

"I told you, I did it," Charlie quipped.

"School related weekend activities?" inquired his father. "Sports?"

"Nope," replied Charlie, shaking his head.

"Undesirable misfit friends who hang about doing bad things in grocery store parking lots?"

"I don't have any friends in this neighborhood," said Charlie.

"Well, why don't you go and find some?" said his dad. "Just go up to someone in the street and ask them if they'll be your friend."

Charlie could see that his dad was a bit engrossed in his work. "I guess that I could go out on my bike," he suggested.

"Good idea," replied his father, so Charlie went and got his coat. When Charlie got to the door, his dad, without looking up from his soldering iron said, "Charlie, I was just joking about going up to strangers. Stay away from strangers—especially anyone who looks like a gang member or a drug dealer, or anyone who is generally shifty in any way."

"OK, Dad," said Charlie. Throwing his jacket on, he turned to leave.

"Oh, and Charlie," said his father. 

Charlie turned around. 

"Stay away from people whose eyebrows meet in the middle of their foreheads, because they're probably Satanists. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Dad," replied Charlie, rolling his eyes wearily.

His dad went back to his soldering, but he wasn't finished talking, "...and women who have moustaches, they're not to be trusted..."

"No, Dad."

"Or people who have a missing limb that is replaced by some kind of prosthesis, because, you know, that prosthesis could be a deadly weapon—like, have a pincer or a hook on it, just as easily as a hand."

"Yes, Dad," said Charlie. Slamming the front door behind him, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He was out in the fresh air again. He peered up at the sky—it was gray and overcast, and better still, there was no sign of the crows.

Charlie pulled his bike out from the garage and pedaled through his neighborhood. All the while, he wondered what he would do when he reached the gothic gate. He would slip between it, he thought. That is, if he could get the gate open. If not, he would try to climb it. Once on the other side, he would have a look around, serrupticiously, of course, and if someone caught him poking about, he'd just tell them that he was lost, or he'd think of something else to say. Anyway, that was the plan.

He rode over the hill past the partially constructed houses, and coasting down the forest road, came at last to the gloomy gate. It was just as it had been yesterday, and there was no one around, so he hid his bike in some ferns, and unlatching one of the heavy wrought-iron doors, creaked it open and slipped through to the other side.

And wasn't that a wonderful feeling? The air was sweet with the heady scent of pungent moss, lichen, decaying wood, saplings, and old growth trees, because, for as far as the eye could see there was deep tangled forest in every direction save for the bracken path in front of him, and the gate behind.

Glancing about to make sure that he hadn't been seen, Charlie serrupticiously hurried down the winding path between the giant redwoods and majestic cedars. Above and around him, the forest in all its deep dark places felt alive and listening, yet Charlie could not see so much as a bird or an animal. 

In time, he came to a standing stone; a rough-hewn, ancient obelisk thrust awkwardly into the earth.