W.I.N.E.
Paul stopped his blue VW Polo in front of the wrought iron
gate. As he took his arm out to press the button, he scrutinised the intricate
leaves chiselled to the smallest detail in the massive gate. It was as if he
was trying to extract answers from them.
He was visiting the local vineyard, whose wine everybody
claimed to be the best the world had ever tasted. Cape wine and Porto wine were
mere grape juice compared to that drink of the gods. The owner, a certain Norbert
Edgecombe that Paul had never seen, had become a legend. Not only he had
produced wine, but he had produced the best wine in the world according to the
local connoisseurs and sommeliers. What’s more, people seemed to have forgotten
about all their troubles. They were genuinely happy. So happy and carefree that
the recent disappearances in the town didn’t bother them in the slightest. Not
even the police were disquieted. In fact, Paul observed, the only people who were
alarmed were the few town’s non-drinkers like himself.
His oldest sister Sophie had recently accepted a job at the
winery as a housekeeper. Paul had never seen her again. As the bright
journalist he was, he didn’t take long to place all the pieces of the jigsaw
puzzle together. The handful of individuals who had vanished into thin air had
accepted jobs at W.I.N.E. or gone there directly to buy bottles. When Paul went
to the police to present these facts, the officers shockingly laughed it off.
‘That man Edgecombe has performed a miracle, why would we suspect
him?’ one of the officers asked without even raising his eyes from his mobile
phone to look at Paul.
‘These people disappeared after visiting the vineyard. Are
you telling me you’re not doing anything about it?’
To say Paul was outraged was an understatement. So, after leaving
the station, he made the decision to investigate by himself. He had to find out
what had happened to his sister.
The gate opened and Paul drove in. His senses were all
alert. A million questions and doubts invaded his mind as he thought again that
no picture of Norbert Edgecombe had ever been published in the papers, including
the one he worked for. Apparently, the vineyard owner was no fan of pictures
and insisted on keeping his face unknown. Paul didn't know what the man looked
like.
'Greetings, lad,' an old man greeted him, his bald head like
a huge egg surrounded by a thick nest of white hair. He was wearing the most
eccentric clothes Paul had ever seen on someone that age. Corduroy trousers in
black and red squares, green leather shoes, and a shirt so bright yellow it
hurt Paul’s eyes.
'A most delightful sunny day,' the weird man said, somehow
amused with Paul's discomfort.
'Good day,' the journalist returned switching off his Polo.
'Are you Mr. Norbert Edgecombe?'
'Aye, lad.'
Paul looked around. He had expected to see staff working in
the vineyard, but those were strangely deserted. Instinctively, he took his
hand to the Swiss knife in his pocket which he had taken with him just in case,
but all he got from it was a feeble sense of security.
‘It’s good to have visits every now and then,' the vineyard
owner said, offering his skinny hand for a handshake, that Paul reluctantly
returned. ‘It’s quite solitary here. May I ask what your name is, lad?’
'Paul Campbell. My sister has recently started working for
you. Since then, I have not seen her or received news from her. I was expecting
to talk to her now.’
Norbert Edgecombe was unaffected. He just smiled and patted
Paul on his shoulder.
‘Why of course, lad,’ he said walking towards the vines and inviting
the journalist to do the same. ‘What’s your sister’s name?’
‘Sophie.’
Mr Edgecombe smiled.
‘A most charming lady. Allow me to guide you through my
vineyard. You will be able to see her shortly.’
Paul swallowed hard to the perspective of seeing his sister
again. He tightened the Swiss knife in his hand though. He couldn’t lose his
focus. Nothing so far had told him he had nothing to fear. Norbert Edgecombe
seemed amicable but so had the worst serial killers the world had ever known about.
He followed slowly, observing everything around him.
‘I have been blessed by luck and fate,’ Edgecombe said as he
guided the journalist through the dirt path leading to the vines. ‘The secret
to good win is so much more than good climatic conditions, fertile soil, and
wooden barrels. There is art to it. An ancient art that has been taught throughout
generations.’
‘An ancient art?’ Paul asked, looking at the old man for the
first time since they had started walking.
‘Oh yes,’ Edgecombe said. His pace was slow and his face
pensive. ‘Look carefully at the vines.’
The journalist stopped and approached the dark green leaves
and stalks twisting around skinny but tall sticks heading skywards. The
vineyard was immense. It stretched down a valley where each set of vines formed
a corridor keeping a neat distance from all the others around, as if every inch
had been carefully calculated. It was in excellent shape. Not a leaf showed
signs of withering, powdery mildew, or funguses. Keeping it like that certainly
required much and qualified staff. Yet not a single soul was to be seen even in
the far distance.
‘Do you take care of all this all by yourself, Mr.
Edgecombe?’ he asked in disbelief.
The man smiled warmly.
‘For sure. As I said, I have been blessed. The secret of
this art that wine production is has been with my family for generations.’
Paul was confused. An old man could not possibly take care
of all that by himself. That was when he noticed the grapes. He was no expert
but none of the grapes he had seen in his life had such a vivid, liquid currant
colour. He looked closer and was puzzled. Those weren’t ordinary grapes. The film
around them contained no pulp or seeds inside. It rather contained something
liquid. As if those grapes were made of wine already and all it would take would
be to pop them open and empty them into bottles.
‘Most peculiar, isn’t it, lad? These are ancient and very
rare grapes. So much so that my family named them after our own name. Edgecombe
grapes.’
Paul held one with his index and thumb and pressed gently.
They were unexpectedly warm even on a sunny day like that. That was when he
felt it. A throbbing. A throbbing inside the grape, as if… Paul pulled his hand
away. As if a small heart was beating within.
He stared at Edgecombe. The old man grinned and touched the
leaves and the grapes too, as if he was petting a kitten.
‘Yes, they are alive, lad. My babies are very much alive.’
The journalist was suspicious by now. Those words weren’t
just metaphors coming from someone who deeply cherished his garden or, in this
case, vineyard. Norbert Edgecombe sounded like he meant every word. He picked a
grape and crushed it in his hand. As he opened it, Paul was horrified. That was
no wine. No wine at all. That was… blood.
‘Would you like to go inside for a sip, lad? You would feel
better. You look pale.’
‘No, thank you. I don’t drink alcohol. I really would just like
to see my sister. Can I please see her?’
‘Oh, so you are like your sister too. Sweet Sophie didn’t
drink either and…’ he stopped as if recalling something. Something that made
him smile. An intriguing smile because it looked sad and delighted at the same
time.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Do you know what W.I.N.E. stands for, lad?’ the old man
asked.
‘Mr. Edgecombe, I have no time for this. Please let me see
my sister, I implore you.’
The man let out a deep sigh and looked at him.
‘It indeed looks like I have no choice, lad. I shall let you
know what happened to her.’
‘Happened to her? Is Sophie alive?’
Instinctively, Paul drew his Swiss knife out of his pocket
and pointed it at the vineyard owner.
‘You shall go through all she and the others went through,’ Edgecombe
said, opening his arms in a gesture of fake defeat. His hand was still dripping
with the grape’s blood.
As the old man eyed Paul, an alarm burst inside the
journalist. Something cold and slimy grabbed his left wrist. A stalk. The
journalist pulled his arm, but its grip was strong. He tried to cut it with his
knife but all he managed was to have his right wrist gripped too. He looked down
at his feet in sheer horror as the stems and leaves did the same to his ankles.
He pushed and kicked, but those seemingly fragile stalks didn’t loosen a bit.
‘What’s happening?’ he yelled at the old man. ‘Stop this.’
Mr Edgecombe just shrugged and kept observing the vine
slowly imprisoning Paul in a macabre embrace.
‘Wicked Infusions Norbert Edgecombe, lad. That is what
W.I.N.E. stands for. And I am afraid you are about to find out why. Just know too
that had you accepted a sip, you’d be walking out happily by now. I tried to
save you, but you left me no choice.’
Paul screamed as the vine crooked its stalks around his thighs,
waist, and chest and pulled him into the depths of that horrifying jungle. He kept
kicking but the stalks didn’t give in. If anything, he was getting more
tangled.
‘Sophie!’ the thought of his sister being tortured like that
was unbearable. He was sure now that she was dead, just as he would be very
soon.
That was when he was pricked. First his arms, then his legs,
then his whole body. Tiny pricks as though an army of thorns was attacking him.
‘Heeeelp,’ he shouted, knowing no one but the wicked vineyard
owner would hear.
He panted. His body slowly surrendered to the enemy, too
weak to keep fighting for freedom. Cold flooded his body and his senses were
kicked away by nausea and dizziness. The only time he had ever felt like that
was when he donated blood for charity. He still remembered the nurse calling
his name and patting his cheeks to bring him back to life.
He tried to scream again but only an imperceptible mumble
left his throat. There was no nurse. The vineyard was sucking his blood, his
life…
‘If that makes you feel better, lad,’ he heard Norbert
Edgecombe shout. ‘Know that your blood will make countless people happy.’
And all that was left was silence and darkness.
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