The Devil's Landscape

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Dr Owen Barrowman thought that the long stretch of cracked and broken track was never going to end. It seemed an age since he’d left the main road, having almost missed the small, neglected turn-off sign for Moorlock Hall and was now surrounded on all sides by barren moorland. It had been raining heavily and there was no way of estimating the true depth of potholes filled with water until his wheels hit them. The rain had stopped but fog was drifting across the track, varying in density and prompting him to wonder why anyone would want to build a hospital in the middle of nowhere, but of course, he knew. It had been constructed when Queen Victoria was on the throne and Hansom cabs had plied their trade on cobbled, gas-lit streets, a time when polite society preferred not to acknowledge the existence of unpleasant things. Moorlock Hall had been built to house the criminally insane — out of sight, out of mind.

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