Neil was scared – but he didn’t know why. Not at first. The dark had never bothered him … until now.
As the trees reached up around him and the wind stirred the bare twigs, he sensed something was there. Something alive. It wasn’t far away and it was watching him.
The beam from his torch swept across the darkness and seeped into the woods. The deep blackness inside soaked up the light. He could see nothing, but he knew something was moving. Dead leaves crunched. Something was there. An icy shiver ran down the back of Neil’s neck.
He went back to the pile of timber and took a box of matches from his pocket. He would feel safer once the bonfire was burning. A warm glow of orange light might melt the fear. The matchbox shook in his clumsy fingers.
As he bent down to strike a match, he heard scraping behind him. The match snapped and the spark died. His heart pounded and his dry throat tightened. His fingers fumbled for another match – anything to kill the choking darkness.
Neil felt so stupid. He knew every inch of those woods. He’d lit bonfires after dark
many times. It was his job to burn the dead wood when all was quiet. He was used to being alone. That’s what he liked about being a gamekeeper. He loved the woods and being out in all weathers. He loved the quiet when no one was about. But now he knew he wasn’t alone.
The eyes blinked. They flashed tiny sparks of light as flames licked the paper and curled round the dry twigs. The pile of branches was soon alight; hissing, crackling and sparking in the darkness. As the breeze fanned the flames, the whole pile was a blaze of dancing light. Smoke rolled upwards into orange branches and roosting pheasants.
Neil hurled dead leaves into the flames and watched them flare. He turned to peer into the wood – just as the eyes hid behind a tree. Thick smoke swirled into the night and drifted across the moon.
An owl screeched above him and flapped away into the blackness. He turned suddenly – sure the eyes were following his every move. Sure the deep growl was just a few steps away. He spun round in the mud, stumbled and ran in a spray of matches.
The fire fizzed and spat in a final flurry. It soon shrank to a small, red puddle of light before dying once and for all, when feet kicked smoking embers into the damp grass. The same feet that prowled each night through silent woods. And the same eyes … staring upwards – always upwards – to greet the Hunter’s Moon.