6 October
The Rottweiler’s eyes are twin burning coals as it tenses its hind legs, ready to leap.
If I try to kick, I’ll lose my balance and fall, for sure. All can think to do is pull my fists inside my sleeves, then cross my arms in an X shape, but it’s not enough. Can’t protect every vulnerable part of my body all at once.
As my whole body stiffens, so does the Rottweiler’s. It slides back a couple of steps, then scrabbles around in the dirt. Those eyes now harbour something that looks a lot like fear.
I’ve no idea why this is happening, but want to strike while the iron’s hot. “That’s right, you little shit. You should be fucking afraid. Now fuck off.”
The flailing mutt actually whimpers, then whines as it backs off away down the slope.
Only now do I realise that those carbon-black eyes aren’t directly fixed on me.
No, they’re looking behind me and up.
Something ripples in my spine. What has a Rottweiler seen to put the beast off my tasty flesh?
And now I catch a hint of pale blue reflected in the dog’s eyes.
I taste the copper in my mouth.
Leaning against a tree for support, I dare to look up the slope, and oh shit, there it is.
Something distant, but steadily, purposefully, coming down the hill.
Something pale blue. Something that jerks and strobes, a good few feet above the dirt, bathing all the trees with an unearthly shimmer.
With a rush of vertigo, I teeter backwards, waving propeller arms to steady myself. This ghost looks bigger than its predecessors. Can’t help but picture this thing flying out of the occult ring of trees that crowns this hill created by the Devil, then sweeping down in search of juicy playthings.
My legs almost give way altogether as the ghost wends and weaves towards me, down through the trees.
Literally through the trees, too. It flies behind the trunk of a mighty oak, disappears briefly, re-emerges from the side closest to me, then resumes its smooth descent. Forks of jagged light pulsate through its body like a network of veins.
I want to run, I really do, but I can’t take my eyes off this thing. Ten trees away, the phantom has me mesmerised. Some dark and infinitely stupid part of me – some instinct, maybe – wants to see the face.
Never mind the fucking face, put yourself as far away from it as possible.
Eight trees and closing…
Scott’s phone must still be down at the base of the tree at my feet, but I can’t stop watching this phantom.
As this thing jerks closer, I can make out the vague, fundamental features of a face. Eyes, nose, mouth.
Four trees.
What in the galloping fuck am I doing?
I am a startled deer. One that’s managed to snap out of the hypnotic sight of its hunter, then turn tail and run.
When I picture myself charging back down through the black with this phantom in hot pursuit, the thought makes me want to burrow six feet beneath all this soil and get it over with. So I snatch up the phone and hold the torch out before me as I attempt to skid back down the hill.
Fear transforms me into wretched, retching, hunted prey. My phone torch flashes crazily around. A pendulum of copper drool swings from my chin.
Dare I risk a glance back over my shoulder, back up the slope?
Best not to know how much ground this thing’s gained on me. When the Devil’s on your tail, there’s no time to check his progress. You assume he’s right behind you, and speed the hell up.
“Get away!” I yell through sheer desperation, as if that’s going to change a phantom’s mind when it didn’t even work on a dog. “Leave me alone.”
Hey! Look behind you. Check the Devil’s progress.
Trees rush past. I am a skier on the world’s most narrow and treacherous slalom. I try to keep my feet side on against the slope, to steady myself. When I try to move too fast, I lose purchase and slide down, on the very brink of a fall, before righting myself again.
Go on. Take a look. Surely it’s best to know. Yes, you can see the blue light of this thing reflecting on the trees ahead of you, but exactly how close is it?
The question squeezes my heart, makes my blood pump even faster and speeds me up, like I’m trying to escape my own burning tail. Any second now, I know I’ll lose control altogether and fall arse-over-tit down the hill.
You’ll be fine. One look won’t cost you any time. There’s no need to slow down. All you have to do is snatch a super-quick glance.
Oh, please let me see nothing. Please let the phantom have vanished into thin air. Life can sometimes be that nice, right?
Preparing for the worst, I look back around as far as I dare.
In the corner of my eye, one ragged breath away, flies a juddering mass the colour of ambulance lights.
My whole body becomes a scream.
Firm ground disappears beneath my feet, and now I’m falling through the big black nothing of night.
My shoulder jars against a tree root. Nerve endings stand up and shout. Back in contact with the dirt, I am a rolled carpet, gaining speed as I descend.
Cruel thorns lash my face. A log clips my head as I pass by.
Something big, hard and immovable punches my guts and brings my descent to a violent and immediate halt.
I’ve wrapped myself around one of those trees in the middle of the track.
Feels like there’s a bowling ball in my stomach and my windpipe’s been stapled shut. My sore head fogs up through lack of air.
The phantom. Remember the phantom.
With a broken wheeze, I haul myself around to sit back against the tree. My vision starts to fill with rapidly multiplying patches, darker than the night itself.
Through the gaps between patches, I see the phantom swoop this way, close enough for me to properly make out its face.
Despite the ghost’s flickering blue essence and black-hole eyes, I can see that this…
Oh my God…
I can see that this is the ghost of Scott Palmer.