The Dark Somnium - There is Something Strange out in The Woods

Episode Date: April 29, 2024

This Creepypasta scary story is from the creepypasta website, written by Michael Whitehouse, make sure to check out more of his work here:https://www.amazon.com/stores/Michael-Whitehouse/author/B00D791RUI Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Sitting at his table, illuminated by a small bedside lamp, Robert Francis poured over a map, jotting down notes each time his eyes fell on some point of interest. It was 10.30 p.m., and he reckoned that if he set off at 6 in the morning, he would be able to avoid the early traffic and catch the first train to Mill Guy before cycling from there, making it to Abbefoil Village in a couple of hours. His itinerary was set, and he was filled with excitement at the thought of finally being on holiday. It had been eleven months since he had so much as taken one day off from work. So the thought of spending eight whole days cycling through the Scottish wilderness,

with only his backpack and tent for company, was frankly exhilarating. He owned a number of bikes, but for this adventure he would take his favorite and most trusted one, with a custom paint job reading Rob in large white letters across a frame of black. This was a bike which had never failed him, no bumps, no bruises, not so much. much as a punctured tire. In the morning, Robert woke filled with excitement, starting the day with purpose, negotiating the little traffic there was in the city with glee. Before he knew it, he was hopping off the train in Milgai, making his way along quiet country roads towards Aberfoil. Scottish summers are notoriously unpredictable, and it was colder than Robert had

expected, but he did not care. As he made his way through the open countryside, passing the occasional car or rural household, a smile crept across his face. Cycling was his passion, and Robert was in his element. A couple of hours passed as the sparse, yet rolling green hills soon gave way to a more imposing and altogether impressive setting. Slight hills soon became domineering mountains. Pockets of woodland gave way to thick and visually impenetrable force, and wide-open road soon made way for their narrower and less-troddened.

It was not long before the welcome side of the village of Abafoil came into view, flanked on one side by a steep incline dotted with picturesque cottages, and on the other a wide-open plain stretching out towards a mountain range in the distance. A childish excitement grew in the pit of Robert's stomach. Abafoil was the last evidence of humanity which he wished to see for the next eight days, and on leaving it behind, he would truly be alone, able to relax in the serene beauty of the Scottish countryside. It was now on to Queen Elizabeth Park, one of Scotland's largest nature reserves, and into the true wilderness which it contained.

After stretching his legs on the unusually deserted Abbefoil Main Street, Robert embarked on the last leg of his journey for the day. Within minutes, he was out of that small, innocuous town, and into the unknown. For the past three months, he had been in a quandary about where to go on his adventure, but when he passed over an old stone bridge with a babbling stream underneath like a thousand voices whispering for attention, and found himself face to face with a forest which covered the hills, mountains, and valleys like a blanket, for as far as the eye could see, he knew he had made the right decision.

A dirt road cut through the labyrinth of trees, and it occurred to Robert that as he Cycled further into the reserve, the sun seemed to diminish with each mile, blocked by the huge pine trees on either side, as if light itself was an unwelcome visitor. By six o'clock, the sun was dipping towards a line of craggy mountains on the horizon. It was time for Robert to find a suitable place to camp for the night. He continued onwards, struggling over uneven hills and patches of wet mud, scanning his surroundings for a suitable location to camp in. Finally, he spotted a small clearing in the forest not far from the road. Clammering through some thick underbrush and entangled bushes, Robert managed to haul his bike through a tree line and into the clearing. It was a small pocket of grass, and several fallen trees were spread across the area,

trees which Robert assumed had created the clearing in the first place. After finding a flat patch of grass, he set his tent up for the night, gathering some dry wood nearby, which he gleefully turned into a campfire with the aid of some lighter fluid and matches. Building fires was one of Robert's favorite parts of camping in remote areas. He often thought that there was something of an arsonist about himself. But that was a fact he kept only for his trips into the wild, and in any case he loved nature and was always careful not to harm it. Night fell, and unimpeded by the false light of man, the stars shone bright and bold. After a few hours of sitting next to the warm glow of the fire, Robert reluctantly turned in

for the night, excited by the prospect of another day's adventure in the morning. In the early hours, the fire still smoldered, and Robert felt refreshed and rested, more so than he had done for many years. Packing up his belongings and making sure the fire was extinguished, he set off once again. It had rained slightly during the night, but thankfully the road was relatively dry. After cycling for another hour, Robert noticed a change in the landscape. It had become more unkempt, less constrained. The trees seemed closer together, and any occasional gaps in the forest scenery were filled

by clearings in small fields, which had obviously been left unattended for countless years. Robert realized that he traveled far enough into the forest that he was now out of reach of even the park rangers who would normally maintain such a place. It seemed as though, beyond this point, the land had been neglected by its carers for some time. The thought that even those familiar with that wilderness were afraid to tread there flirted with his attention momentarily, before being quickly dismissed as a flight of fancy. The sky grew gray as the day wore on, and it was clear that rain of a substantial volume was well on its way.

After pushing his bike up a steep incline, which he felt was too uneven to cycle on, Robert reached its peak, revealing a landscape which opened up, sprawling forward between pockets of woodland, and still stagnant pools of water, slumbering in a deep-set valley, below which stretched across the land for miles. It was populated by sparse areas of long, vibrant grass, which, in places, gave way to the wandering boundary of the forest. With rain imminent, Robert decided that he would set up camp early in a wide circle of grass he could see at the foot of the hill. Still, not half an hour later he was there. The tent was up, and all that was left was to gather some firewood. It was important to get a fire going as quickly as possible, as the Scottish Midgeys,

a type of fly which feeds on blood, were out in force, and the smoke would help disperse them. The only problem was that Robert had picked a camping spot dominated more so by grass, bushes, and shrubs than trees. He would have to venture out across the valley for a little while, and gather from one of the wooded areas nearby. A collection of pine and fir trees, which seemed to form an isolated island of woodland, about half a mile across, was close enough to his camp, and after ten or fifteen minutes of trudging through the long green grass, occasionally sinking his foot unwittingly into remnants of a marshy bog below, Robert found himself at the edge of the woods. Its boundary

was dominated by older trees, which had long since withered, covered by thick brown hanging moss. Nature's own burial shroud. The broken trunks of once beautiful and majestic pines and sycamores littered the ground, open and rotting from the inside, not unlike a poor wounded animal. It occurred to Robert that these woods seemed somehow out of place. The trees did not belong to the landscape as others did. The long grass which characterized the entire area seemed to thin out and change from a healthy natural green color to a morbid yellow-brown.

As this thought ruminated, accompanied by an increasing sense of unexplainable dread, Robert realized that he was looking at a large dead ring of grass, which followed the tree line perfectly, encircling that pocket of woodland as if marking the limits of a tomb. On their own, in a forgotten part of the world, many would have been cautious of such a sight, but Robert quickly shook off his initial sense of vigilance, finding the area to be an intriguing natural occurrence. and with a bold stride stepped over the woodland threshold into the dim light within. On the forest floor, he could see many relics of the past trees lying on the ground, but the wood was soaked through, as if it had lay there for countless years at the bottom of a river.

And Robert rationalized that dead wood, further into the area, would be drier, as the canopy above grew increasingly thicker with each step, sheltering below from the rain. Scanning the floor, Robert looked up and suddenly realized that he had wandered quite far into the woodland interior. Indeed, while it was daylight outside, the woodland trees were now blotting the sun from the sky, and if he had not known better, he would have sworn it was dusk. At least he found a collection of broken branches and logs which were dry. Robert knew this was as far as he should go, as it was becoming increasingly difficult to

navigate through the trees, which seemed to be growing closer and closer. Their branches often interlinked and touching, as if trying to keep those inside from escaping. What a silly thought, Robert smirked to himself. It had started to rain, and although he could hear the drops of water pelting off the leaves above, his surroundings were perfectly dry. It made sense to make his way back and get the fire started as soon as possible, because once everything was wet, it would prove increasingly difficult to do so. He quickly gathered up the last of the wood into his arms, but just as he turned to leave and follow his own tracks on the pine-covered floor out of those unnerving woods, something caught his eye. Several feet away, obscured by a ring of trees,

particularly close to one another, appeared to be a strange arrangement of stones on the ground. Robert, being Robert, he just had to investigate. After clawing his way through a net of branches, he found himself staring at what looked suspiciously like a grave. Hundreds of uneven gray stones the size of a fist, and some substantially bigger, had been piled on top of one another, about three feet wide, seven feet long, and a couple of feet off the ground. It looked as though a mourner had marked the resting place of a body. A shudder crept up Robert's spine as he momentarily experienced a feeling as of being watched.

He soon abandoned this frightened state when he noticed that, Lying around the stones was a collection of randomly scattered belongings. Several empty beer cans lay strewn on the floor, a jumper covered in rotting leaves out on the ground, while a sleeping bag, scraps of newspaper, and even some old food cans betrayed the grave for what it really was, someone's campsite. Robert breathed the sigh of relief and surmised from the surroundings

that a few students had possibly come here in the summer, got caught in the rain, moving into the woods to remain dry. The stones were probably just placed there out of boredom, or even as a prank to creep out any passer-by in the future. University summers really were great, Robert thought, casting a fleeting eye back to the memories of summer trips with his friends. One thing about the stone configuration, however, intrigued him. Sticking out between two plain gray rocks on the side of the pile was a stone which appeared

to be markedly different from the rest. triangular in shape, it was wider than a human hand, smooth in places, and not dissimilar to black marble, tapering off to a dull point at one end. Before he really considered it with any degree of scrutiny, Robert dropped the firewood, bent over and tugged at the stone. It felt polished and cold in his hands, but it seemed to not wish to leave its home, wedged as it was so tightly amongst the other rocks. Growing slightly exacerbated, Robert wrapped both his hands. hands around the stone, and finally, with an exerted jutter backwards, it was free. Staring at it intently, it looked suspiciously like an ancient axe head.

Whether it was or not, Robert was not qualified to answer, but it certainly looked like a man-made object, and he could see chisel marks along its side. Perhaps the previous campers found it nearby and then used the rock in their construction without knowing of its significance. Robert was excited by the prospect and knew instantly that on his return home, he would ask a friend of his, who had studied archaeology at university, whether it was what he suspected. After examining the object for some time,

Robert was reminded by the sound of rain above that he should really make his way back to his campsite. Pocketing the stone, he bent over to pick up the firewood, but as he did so, he heard a noise. It appeared as though one of the stones on the pile had slid off and landed on the stone. the ground. A creeping sense of unease slowly started to exert itself upon Robert's nerves. He quickly picked up the firewood, leaving the rest of the stones unmoved, and began to make his way back. With every step, something deep within himself was telling Robert that he was no longer alone. And in fact, he was being followed by someone in the woods, but with every glance backwards,

he could see nothing. A few times he even fancied that he heard the sound of twigs and pines, cracking underfoot, but again, no one was there. Breathing a sigh of relief, the tree line came into view, and Robert was filled with the light, knowing that in a few moments he would be back out in the open, but just before he reached the periphery of the woods, he heard a crack again. This time it was definite, it was louder than before, more pronounced, and accompanied by the hairs on the back of his neck rising in unison. He was convinced that someone was standing just a few feet behind, staring at him. Caught between the fear of knowing and the fear of not knowing, Robert finally turned around slowly. Yes, there it was. He saw it, only for a moment, but he saw it. A shoulder or arm,

something disappearing behind a tree nearby. Robert's mouth grew dry, making it difficult to swallow, and his heart started to thud deep within his chest. He began to backpedal slowly, hoping that he would not trip on an unseen root or weed on the floor, leaving him vulnerable on the ground. With each step, the forest grew lighter, and as he neared its edge, the light from outside bathed its interior in a bluish hue. He did not take his eyes off the large sycamore trunk where that shadowy figure seemed to be hiding, not for one moment.

It was peculiar, but an overpowering sense of safety out in the open dominated his thoughts. Normally, a person feels exposed and vulnerable in the open wilderness, but not Robert, at least not in that situation. As he edged slowly towards the grassy plains outside, the subtle, foreboding sound of leaves rustling and swaying, almost in anger, progressed into a crescendo of sound. But there was no wind to gust, no breeze to disturb. There was only one conclusion to be reached. Something was moving.

And then he was outside. out of the woods, away from whoever had been following, not following, stalking him. Robert was not a superstitious man. You could not afford to be one when camping alone in such remote locations, as the mind tends to play tricks twisting the benign sounds of nature into something much more malevolent. But regardless, he did not wish to stay around long enough to find out who his unwanted companion in the woods had been, dropping all but the sturdiest piece of his sturdiest piece of his of wood, which Robert reckoned would make a good makeshift weapon, he ran as fast as he could

towards his own camp, all the while glancing back at that strange island of trees surrounded by dead grass, but nothing emerged from within it. Arriving at his tent, out of breath and agitated, Robert packed up his belongings as quickly as possible, carrying his bike up a hill and back onto the dirt path. Waiting not one moment longer, he cycled hard and fast, hoping to put as much distance between himself and that place and its strange resident, before finding somewhere safer and more welcoming to camp. The road was now nothing but a single track of mud, which covered Robert in a shower of dirt every time his bikes slashed through an uneven depression in the ground.

The weather was bitter, unusually so at that time of year, and the rain, accompanied now by a freezing wind, battered his face, making each foot of progress feel like a hundred. Robert tried to continue onwards for as long as he could, hoping to leave the necessity of making camp until the last usable ray of sunlight. But after a couple of hours, the sky opened up further and the rain came down in sheets. He had to find shelter and quick. Robert concluded that he had put at least 15 or so miles of winding, difficult track between himself and that bizarre coven of trees. Regardless of whether it felt enough or not, it was simply impossible. to continue due to the elements. On the left-hand side of the path, there was a rather steep drop,

which led down into a large field, but it would not provide the shelter Robert knew he required. To his right was a humble gradient of grass, which rose up into another wood. Following his strange experience from earlier, some hesitancy did present itself to him, but he again dismissed this as preposterous, and after pulling his bike up through the grass, entered the forest. The torrential rain filtered through the tree canopy, and it took a while before Robert could locate a suitable spot to camp. Finding a large bush under several tightly knit fir trees, he pitched his tent there, as the area remained relatively protected from the horrible weather outside in the open. Using some dried roots, grass, and twigs from the forest floor,

he was able to start a small campfire, which allowed him to cook some food while raising his spirits. Night began to close in, and the wind and rain diminished. The sounds of sausages sizzling in a frying pan on the fire provided the first sense of well-being and comfort that he had experienced since the morning. Thinking over his experience in those woods, Robert began to rationalize the events. He had found various belongings in there, a sleeping bag, clothes, food, and beer cans. It was obvious now that he had just disturbed a fellow camper. Someone who no doubt became frightened, seeing another human.

being wandering around their campsite in the middle of nowhere. That must have been it. The man, and he was reasonably sure that it was a man from the little he had seen of him, probably hid behind that tree because he was simply scared or unnerved. Robert relaxed into a sigh of relief, but just as he did so, he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. Touching its cold black surface, he had completely forgotten about the unusual stone he had picked up from that collection of oddly arranged rocks. Removing it from his jacket pocket and observing it in the low red light of the campfire, Robert was certain that it had been shaped by human hands. It felt old, ancient even, but he would wait to contact his archaeologist friend before getting his hopes up too much. He would have to admit,

though, that the idea of finding a relic from the past was something which thrilled him deeply. Since he was a child, he was always obsessed with hidden or undiscovered history, which perhaps explains his fascination with exploring the Scottish countryside, a land steeped in stories and myths of strange and forgotten peoples. Above all else, he hoped that it was of Pictish origin, that mysterious indigenous people who vanished without a trace over a thousand years ago, something which historians still ponder and puzzle over. Of course, in all probability, it was a modern replica, but the romantic side of Robert's personality hoped that it was so much more, and enjoyed entertaining that hope.

As he stared at the relic, something unusual began to filter into his awareness, something different. Above the crackling sound of the fire, the now subtle wind, and the occasional rustle of a woodland animal nearby came a noise. It was distant. How far, Robert could not tell, but it echoed out through the ridges and valleys nearby, scattering through the trees in the dark.

It repeated again and again, with only the same. a moment's pause between utterances, and it was an utterance of some description. An animal, perhaps? Robert cannot identify it, despite his impressive knowledge of the local wildlife. The sound possessed strange characteristics of a creature unknown to him. In some ways, it was reminiscent of a bird of prey, parts high-pitched and shrieking, but under this lay a painful, wretched noise, more akin to that of a fox crying in the night looking for its young. That was it exactly. It sounded like it was looking for something. For the next three hours, Robert lay awake, listening to the screeching noise ebb and flow, as whatever was producing it moved closer

than further away. As he eventually drifted towards sleep, the thought occurred to him that the movement of the sound was not unlike that of a search party, yelling and shouting, looking for someone lost in the wilderness, following a distinct search pattern. In the cold light of day, the noise was gone, and while Robert had accepted that what had scared him yesterday was simply a timid camper, cautious of a stranger nearby, he still could not shake a feeling of impending dread deep from the pit of his stomach. The day passed quickly, and while Robert made good progress, he did not do so with the delight that he had previously exhibited. Something toxic lay in his mind, just as to be able to be.

outside of his awareness, something which suffocated his spirits. That night again he camped in a clearing, and yet again, that same horrible shriek screamed out across the wilderness looking for something lost, something precious, shrieked with one subtle difference from the night before. It was closer. Sleep did not come easy once more, and Robert fancied that during the night he had heard footsteps nearby, but attributed these to the simple nocturnal wanderings of a lone deer or stag.

While the following day remained overcast in gray, the wind and rain were gone, both the distant memory but for the occasional accumulation of water on the dirt track. Robert moved onwards, negotiating a network of paths while realizing that he had strayed from his intended route at some juncture. He was confident, however, that he knew where he was, and that this change would simply be a small detour and nothing more. At times he made great progress when the ground. was even enough, stopping occasionally to take in a variety of deep-set valleys and rising peaks.

Uncharacteristically, however, he kept his distance as much as he could from the woods and forests, which often accompanied the road. While dismissing it as merely his imagination, at times he felt like there was something within them, peering out from the dark, watching. It was late afternoon, and Robert was beginning to feel tired, most probably due to a restless night combined with the unrelenting pace he had set himself throughout the day. In the back of his mind, he was still somehow running from something. The path he had been on for the past couple of hours had been rather predictable for the most part, but it now curved sharply around a grassy hill to reveal a change in the landscape, which had been previously hidden from view. A long stretch of dirt and

uneven track penetrated a thick forest of fir trees. What Robert found interesting about the path was that it was unnaturally straight, and what he found oddly frightening about it was that it was so narrow. Only a couple of feet across, spreading your arms, you could touch both sides of the forest. This proximity provoked the deepest feelings of overexposure and claustrophobia. If he had been a soldier in a war zone, Robert would have highlighted this narrow path as a perfect place for an ambush. Standing with his mountain bike, only a few feet from the beginning of both forest and track, he felt uneasy about the current situation. It was clear that the path was the only way forward, and while it appeared as though it

exited the forest a few miles onward, there was something inherently dubious about it. What, Robert could not tell, but he did feel that he did not wish to traverse it. Weighing up the pros and cons, he realized that both the way he came and the unknown land ahead provoked trepidation in him. For that reason, he dismissed the sense of dread as a figment of his overactive imagination, and with measured movement slowly sat off down the long, straight track, hoping to quickly pass it and out of the forest without incident. A black cloud hovered above, and as Robert negotiated the overly uneven path as quickly as he could, the feeling of foreboding which he had so nonchalantly dismissed began to ferment in his stomach, rising up and through his

body, forcing the hairs on his arm to stand on end. He kept his head down, for the most part, occasionally glancing ahead at what he assumed was his exit in the distance. He just wanted to be through and out of that place as quickly as possible. Just over halfway down the path, an unnerving yet unwelcome familiarity overtook him. A sensation which had accompanied him for days, but now seemed to be sharper, grating more profoundly on his nerves, filled Roberts every thought. the feeling of being watched.

Stopping for a moment to catch his breath, he tried as best he could to shake the unmovable sensation that he was not alone. The path stretched out ahead, and, as is common amongst those who attempt to reach a goal or threshold, without thinking, he looked back to measure his own progress. He had managed to cover a substantial amount of the track's length and was quite confident that in a short time he would escape that narrow stretch of dirt. Just as he turned to continue onwards, something caught Robert's eye further down the path

in front of him. He immediately wished that he had not taken the route he had chosen, that he had turned back and started home. It was there, unmistakable, unwavering, and utterly paralyzing. Some distance away in the direction he was heading stood a figure. Robert could not entirely define or make out the discrete features of the person because they They were standing on the side of the path between a cluster of trees, covered in shadow, but this was certainly not his imagination.

Someone was standing there, watching, and while Robert was a distance away, it felt to him as though the figure's presence was almost on top of him. Its stare accompanied by an uncommonly potent sense of, well, malice was the best way that Robert could describe it to himself. Then it was gone, disappearing back into the forest. But the feeling of danger, of the necessity to flee, did not diminish or decline, but grew in intensity. The sound of something moving between the trees rang out across the emptiness, increasing in volume as it neared. Robert panicked, turned, and cycled as quickly as he could in the direction he had come from.

So eager was he to escape that narrow passage flanked on all sides by the impenetrable forest that he did not see a deep hole in the ground. The front wheel of his bike crashed into the depression, sending Robert flying over his handlebars, scraping along the ground. Dazed for a moment, the shambling sound of broken branches and displaced leaves, which was nearly upon him, quickly brought Robert's mind into focus. Blood dripped from a wound in his leg, and his arm was badly bruised from the impact, but all he cared about was escaping that suffocating pathway, away from whoever seemed to be moving in the woods. Robert's beloved paint job across the etched letters, Rob on his bike's frame had been scratched slightly in the crash, but that did not concern him. Two spokes on the bike's front tire were broken, and that most certainly did. The last thing Robert needed was to be completely stranded here, so he would have to ride carefully and hope that the wheel would not buckle, lasting long enough to carry him home. Home.

And that was exactly where he intended to go, as quickly as possible. And as he was now facing in the direction he had been traveling for days, there was no time like the present. The moving sound in the trees continued, and as Robert carefully, yet at pace, negotiated the broken ground, he hoped above all else that his trusted mountain bike would get him out of there. Despite his obvious advantage of speed, the sounds seemed to be only moments behind, and as he came closer to the end of the forest path and out into the open, he heard a noise which chilled him to his very core.

From within the forest spewed the same shrieking, tortured cry from the nights before, echoing out, piercing Robert's ears and scratching through his nerves like a shredder. Was it that figure who had been wandering near Robert's camp at night? Surely no human could make such a sound. Panicking, he increased his speed as the front tire of his bike wobbled and creaked under the pressure and strain. Finally, he was out of that narrow place, but Robert did not stop, cycling for his bike. hours without once looking back. Only when sure that his pursuer could not have followed did he stop to rest.

Night was once again drawing in, and now every sound, every smell, and every part of what had always made the countryside fascinatingly inviting to him, took on a new, ominous, and menacing form. He decided that tonight he would not set up camp, no fire, no tent. Robert was sure that the person following him had been able to do so because of the noise and light which he had made from night to night. It would not be present. It would not be pleasant. It would be cold, wet, and uncomfortable, but Robert wanted to make sure that he could not be tracked. There were various paths and dirt tracks in the area that he could have taken, but hopefully

this man who was stalking him, for whatever reason he was doing it, would not be able to find him. Robert knew, of course, that his tire tracks could easily betray his location, if his pursuer was smart enough to follow them. The bike marks were. obvious. For this reason, Robert backtracked slightly off the path in an attempt to confuse anyone following. The worst thing he could do would be to sleep next to where his track ended. Finding a large bush, with space underneath the sleep, which was satisfactorily fair enough from where his trademarks ended, Robert hid himself and his bike for the night with one question on his mind. If this stalker was able to keep up with his progress each day,

he must have been using a bike or vehicle of some kind, but where were the tire tracks? Sleep did not come at all that night, but around three in the morning, that wailing, inhuman noise did, moving around the area, searching. By now, Robert was beginning to suffer from the lack of sleep and rest, but in spite of this, at the first sign of daylight, he quickly uncovered his bike from its hiding place and started on his way once again. Not one foul noise was heard that day, nor any evidence that his stalker was anywhere nearby. Rationality began to overtake Robert's fear as night once again settled in. He covered much ground throughout the day, and he managed to take care as best he could

of his bike's front wheel, which, bar the occasional creak or groan, was performing admirably. Robert concluded after much soul-searching that he had allowed himself to get carried away by the isolation of his surroundings, and the admittedly unnerving person that he had seen in the forest over the past few days. But surely it was preposterous to believe that he was being followed. Perhaps the individual he had seen was not the same from that strange island of trees. It would make more sense that it was, in fact, just another camper. Maybe there were a few of them, and that explained the noises.

As for the unfamiliar animal screeching at night, it must have just been a species of bird in the area, which he had never heard before. That night, Robert would set a camp. He would cook his food, eat well, and enjoy the solitary countryside as he intended to for such a long time since planning his holiday. After locating a suitable spot in the forest, this is exactly what he did. He cooked on a roaring campfire and sat for hours gazing at the night sky through the branches of the trees above. There were no noises, no strange shrieks, no shambling footsteps in the darkness. Nothing. Confident that his unwelcome, traveling companion had been left far behind, Robert retired to his tent, exhausted, in much need of a well-earned rest. Two paltry hours of

sleep later, however, Robert woke to the sound of something stirring outside of his tent. He had left the campfire burning as he was uncomfortable in spending another night in the darkness, and its flames seemed to dance, shifting and changing shape in the night air, casting shadows all around on to the thin canvas of Robert's tent like a naturally occurring cinema screen. Casting one shadow in particular, the shadow of someone sitting by the fire, Robert froze. His mouth went dry and his breathing became shallow and anxious. He could not believe that he had been so stupid to persuade himself that no one was following him. In lighting another fire, he had led them directly to where he slept, and now they had the upper hand.

God knew what they wanted. After a moment of utter terror, Robert realized that he needed to defend himself. Sitting up and slowly pulling his sleeping bag off and out from under him as quickly as possible, he scanned the tent, looking for something he could use as a weapon, but anything of any weight was in his backpack, and he stupidly left that outside the tent. He cursed himself for being so reckless and could scarcely believe that he had left his bag outside when he always kept it inside, away from rain and wild animals. Exhaustion was the only explanation, but that did not help his current circumstances at all.

He then remembered the old axe had, the black rock he had found at the stranger's camp. Indeed, if it was a hand axe as he suspected, Robert reckoned it could still deal a nasty, perhaps even fatal blow. Running his fingers along its once sharp ridges, Robert composed himself, never for a second taking his eyes from the shadow projected by the fire onto the tent wall. The door to the tent was luckily unzipped, but the two flaps from the outer fly sheet were draped over the entrance, obscuring his view. With one eye, he peeked through the slit between the two flaps of canvas slowly. There it was. Someone sitting at the campfire.

By his build, Robert was certain it was a man. The backlight of the campfire made it difficult to decipher any of his features, but the shoulders were broad, strong, and it was clear that this man had been in the wilderness. for some time, as it appeared that he was wearing rags of clothes which hung loosely around him. His head was covered in long strands of black, wet hair, which had clumped together in places, presumably because it had not been washed for some time. Staring at the back of the man's head, Robert tried as best he could to subdue his fear. He thought that he could conceivably sneak up behind him and knock him out with a blow to the back

of the head with the black stone. But that could be murder. And Robert did not even know if the man was violent. Perhaps he was a nomadic type. A gypsy, a traveler? Yes. Maybe it was best to wait. Maybe he would just wander off into the woods, although that seemed unlikely. Just as Robert affirmed to himself that if the man made a move towards the tent,

he would rush out in the open and fight him head on, he noticed something. Something that was odd about the way the man was sitting. First of all, he was sitting still, so still that he was still that he was. that you would be forgiven for mistaking him for a statue. Not the slightest movement was made, nor was there any indication of life at all. No subtle shifting of weight, no rising and falling of breath, nothing. While this stillness was unnerving, it was Robert's second observation which bothered him the most. The man was sitting forward, facing the fire, but the shape and position of his upper body and head was somehow off.

They did not seem to quite add up. His frame seemed unnaturally positioned. A crackle from the fire, followed by a wayward flicker of light, reveal the truth. The flames lit up the area momentarily, the light bouncing from tree to tree, even onto Robert's tent and reflected back onto what surrounded it. Two pinpoints of light momentarily shone in the night through the black clumps of matted hair. Yes, the man's legs were facing the fire, but his body and head were horrible. contorted, twisted into an inhuman posture. The man's legs were indeed facing the fire,

but his head and body were facing Robert. This was no man at all. How long it had sat there, staring at Robert in that tent, waiting, he did not know. But a creak of movement from its neck was enough to send Robert out of the tent into the woods, consumed by a terror so profound that it was likened to madness. He did not know how long he had been running, nor if he had been screaming the whole time, but his feet were cut in several places, and the first rays of sunlight were peeking out through the still thick branches of the forest. In the distance, Robert could see the flame from his campfire still burning bright, and despite his terror at the knowledge of being stalked by someone entirely inhuman, he had to get to his bike

to stand any chance of escape. For a while, he hid behind trees, under bushes, his nerves absolutely shattered, refusing to go near that fire. His perceptions were broken, but Robert was a strong character, and after a time, a modicum of composure returned to him. Step by cautious step, he neared his own camp. There was no sight of whatever had been sitting at that fire staring at him. By now, daylight illuminated the entire area, and after much self-bargaining, Robert decided to reclaim his belongings, grab his bike, and continue as quickly as he could on his way out

of Queen Elizabeth Park. seemed to be accounted for, and Robert even allowed himself a smirk at the thought that at least the creature wasn't a thief. That smile soon vanished at the side of his bike. Unharmed, yes, but strands of some black putrid liquid covered the seat and front wheel. This was not the time to be concerned with sludge on his bike. It was still working, and that was all that mattered. Had it been a week earlier, Robert would have been angry about the slightest scratch to his beloved mountain bike. But now, he just cared about it getting him home, or at least back to Abafoil Village, to civilization. After cleaning the liquid off and packing up his tent, Robert once

more continued onwards as fast as he could. Robert reckoned, with a hard push, that he could be out of that horrid place in a day and a half, as long as he took minimal rest and cycled for the duration of available light. The weather was not exactly ideal, but while rain occasionally came, it quickly disappeared, leaving long stretches of the journey clear from the wearing effects of the elements. As the day progressed, so did Roberts unease. He felt oppressed on all sides as if he was running from something terrible, yet nearing an undefined danger. A horrible realization bubbled up from his subconscious. What if that thing followed him all the way home? As this thought swirled around his mind, he passed over the crest of a hill

and down again, suddenly realizing what was wrong and why he was feeling so much unease about what lay ahead. A gulf in the land opened up before him. Pockets of stagnant water lay strewn between the stretches of marshland and long grass, and in the center, there it lay, that horrible island of wretchedness. It was the woods where Robert had first seen his pursuer, and then in a flash it all made perfect sense. Call it superstition, call it blind, stupidity, whatever you would call it, Robert knew that he did not wish to see that twisted man again. As a child, he had been told ghost stories of people disturbing graves and the ghosts of dead rising up to haunt the living. But he never took much stock in such things. Not until now.

What he did know was that he had inadvertently triggered the whole terrifying ordeal. He took something which did not belong to him. After hiding his bike in the long grass, Robert trudged towards the isolated pocket of woodland where what he now knew to be a grave lay, minus one oddly shaped black stone. He half expected for that thing to be sitting next to its resting place, but while there was a number of strange noises and movements behind the trees, there was no sign of Robert's unwelcome guest. He assumed it was still out there looking for him. Finally, he found the grave, that elongated pattern of stacked rocks and stones. After locating the gap where he had torn the black stone from, Robert wedged it back in as hard as he could. A noise echoed from

the other side of the woods, and Robert did not wish to hang around to find out what it was. Running as fast as he could over roots, mud, leaves, and fallen branches, he jumped out of that dark place into the open outdoors, filled with a sense of accomplishment and utter relief. It was not long before he was back on the dirt path, moving forward on his bike in search of one more place to sleep for the night, then home the next day. day. A weight had been lifted from Robert's shoulders. He knew he had unwittingly disturbed something unimaginable, unfathomable. But by returning that which he had taken, he narrowly escaped what he assumed would have been a terrible fate, death, or perhaps worse. There was no explanation

of this feeling of elation and survival. He just knew deep down that he had righted his wrong. That night, Robert lay in his tent. It was dark, as he had decided. against a campfire, just to be on the safe side. He was confident that he would be left alone, however, and took great comfort in knowing that he was safe, while looking forward to the next day in the comfort of home. That was a funny thought. A man who had always adored the countryside detesting the humdrum of daily city life, looking forward to a couch, a television, a beer, and a warm bed.

The next year, he would vacation at a sunny resort, lie on a beach for a couple of weeks. one preferably far removed from his homeland. Robert closed his eyes with a smile in his face. The noise he had heard outside for so many nights suddenly screeched to the blood curdling or overpowering volume. Without having to open his eyes, Robert knew. The sound did not come from the woods. It came from inside the tent.

Robert Francis was never seen or heard from again. Scotland is old. It has an ancient and hidden. history of peoples and places long forgotten, but perhaps some traces remain, isolated and alone in the bitter wilderness. So should you ever wish to wander the hills, forests, or locks of this old country, bear one thing in mind. If you find a collection of stones heaped together, not unlike a grave, and they are surrounded

by trinkets of modernity, a sleeping bag, food cans, or perhaps even an old bike with the name Rob etched into it. Walk on. Do not look back. Do not touch anything, whether it is an unusual black stone or a simple piece of forest wood. Above all else, most certainly, never take a souvenir. For those who lie in slumber nearby may just take one from you.