The Tower

There stood a tower at the end of Gatecliff drive, just a few metres away from the edge of the cliff itself.

Built of dark, soot-stained brick, it was around 23 metres high and 16 metres wide and round. It had a door and long, narrow windows on each of the five floors, and the roof was flat and fenced.

If one turned down Gatecliff drive, either with car or bike or by foot, the tower would already loom at the very end of the road. Green moss and grass grew all along the way and surrounded the foot of the tower, but there were no flowers. There were never flowers. Some claimed it was because of the salty air from the sea just beyond and below the edge where it stood, others claimed that it was just coincidence, and that sometimes flowers just didn’t grow in some places. Local legends, however, asserted that the reason flowers shunned from Gatecliff drive and its dark tower was because the place was either cursed, haunted or damned; that it had once been a psychiatry, or a retirement home, or an orphanage; and that it was soot-stained because a fire had broken out or been set and killed all the crazy, old, or parentless people. The story varied depending on who you asked. 

Whatever story one who comes to the small, rural village called Towromouth believes, it is general knowledge that the tower is off limits and should not be investigated or, God forbid, even entered. There are no signs of warning, no skulls or big red “go away” placards, no barriers. Anyone and everyone could simply come up Gatecliff drive and enjoy the beautiful view from the edge of the cliff, watch the waves crash against the rocks below with a loud swoosh or the sun set behind the many little overgrown islands or the ships as they sail across the never-ending ocean glittering silver in the night’s moonlight.

But no one ever did. Not until today.

It is often said that young people just don’t know any better. That they lack knowledge, respect and have no sense for safety. So, it came to no one’s surprise when two young women and one young man strolled through the small village that rarely saw visitors right towards Gatecliff drive and down the long straight road towards the tower. It was waiting for them already, and if its brick walls had been able to, they would surely have smiled as it saw them, licking its imaginary teeth with its imaginary tongue. But alas, it was simply a tower, and so it did not. 

The three of them walked to the tower and looked up as it loomed over them. Some villagers had assembled at the far end of the path where it merged with the village’s main road and watched in awe. No one said, “go away,” or “it’s dangerous.” They simply watched as the three young people disappeared into the tower without a second thought. Some of them shook their heads then, sadly, as if to say, “such a tragedy,” or, “ts ts ts, young people.” The three young people, however, they had a lot of knowledge about this place. They respected the tower. And they believed it was safe to go inside.

It was just a tower, after all.