Spooked
The blood moon hung low in the sky, dressing the moorland in a crimson cloak. The hiker, already regretting choosing the longer path, shrunk into the upturned collar of his coat and shivered. Muted howling could be heard in the distance and he wondered again whether the rumours of wild wolves on the moor were true. “Mind playing tricks”, he muttered to himself as wisps of ground mist obscured his feet. “Superstitious nonsense…there is no beast! No beast! No slavering jaws in the night” His leather boot sunk into the peaty earth and he felt a shiver of dread roll over him. Instantly stories of walkers straying off the beaten track into treacherous bogs sprung to mind. He himself had seen the discoloured bones of a horse revealed from a bog pit when the waters receded in the height of summer. He retreated rapidly back to firmer ground cursing, “Mustn’t lose the path, mustn’t lose the path.” The hiker looked around, trying desperately to get his bearings in the changi...