Tikbury Hill

There wasn’t a tree on Tikbury hill. There never had been.

The gravel path crunched under my worn boots as I powered up the steep path. Exercise always helped to clear my head after an argument, as if I were discharging my negativity into the ground with every pounding step. There was a touch of winter in the dry evening air and a distant smell of wood smoke that made my gnawing stomach growl for burnt sausages, and I regretfully remembered that we would have been eating at the party. At the top of the hill, stark against the fading blue sky, was the lone iron bench and the peace it offered.

I liked it up on the hill. The legend of Lady Tikbury led local people to avoid it, even in summer, and there was nothing nearby of interest to draw passing travellers. There had once been an encounter with a ghost hunter, who asked after the location of the hanging tree, but he had left disappointed. I wondered who ever sought to put a bench here in the first place and felt that perhaps we were kindred spirits. My fingers were cold as I brushed my fringe out of my eyes; the ground had become slick with damp leaves and I had to be careful with my footing. A chill breeze picked up as I climbed and I pulled my jacket tighter, the discomfort a willing exchange for the silence.

I was panting for breath by the time I made it to my bench, my throat tight from the cold air. Shows how out of shape I am. The metal was cold and slightly damp when I sat down, but the rest was worth it. From here I could see the town laid out below and across the miles of flat, tilled fields laid out beyond. The sky was now turning a deep red from the setting sun, staining the scene a glowing crimson.

A plume of smoke, presumably the bonfire I had smelt earlier, rose up from the town. I had fond memories of sitting around fires as a teen, telling ghost stories with my friends. Honestly, it had been a better way to celebrate the season than the stuffy gathering I should have been attending tonight. This year I guess I would be spending my evening alone.

Every country town has its folklore; stories of haunted bridges, or graves of witches, to scare the other kids on Hallows Eve. Sneaking in to an abandoned house with the hope and apprehension of seeing a horrific phantom is part of the fun, and yet nobody goes to Tikbury Hill on Halloween. Thinking back to the tale of the accused witch hanged from the old oak, it seemed ridiculous that I had ever bought in to the fear.

The breeze had become a wind, and I felt the chill seeping into my bones. As much as part of me now wanted to prove a point by staying, the gloom was setting in quickly. The shadow of the bench was beginning to play tricks on my vision in the half light, twisting into the brown dirt like roots running down the hill. Unsure if the shiver I felt was from the cold or something else, I suddenly felt a lot less welcome.

I got up as fast as my stiff muscles would allow and began my descent through the darkness. In my haste I had failed to keep in mind the slippery ground and after only a few steps my foot slid out from under me. My stomach lurched as I fell but the impact never came.

It was too dark to make out where the ground should be. I felt a pressure building in my head, muting the sounds of the night as though I was hearing them through water. I tried to move but found my limbs sluggish and tangled. Whatever bound me wound tighter around my torso and throat until I was gasping to breathe.

Blind panic overtook me. The pounding of my heart throbbed hot in my ears and I began to thrash ineffectively against my bonds. Then, out of the endless darkness, came a hazy glow. I stopped struggling, transfixed by the eerie light. My eyes began to make out shapes, carving their silhouettes through the fog. I shuddered as the forms became clearer. Branches, leafless and dead, reaching out like grasping fingers and hanging from one, a loop of rope, limp and frayed with age.

Ensnared tightly, I could do nothing but watch as the clawing branches grew closer. A movement from the trunk of the tree drew my horrified gaze. In the bark a face contorted into a disgusted grimace, and eyes, bitter and flaming, met my own.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to will my body to wake from the nightmare, but through my closed lids I could still see the red glow of its scrutiny, growing in intensity until my eyes stung and watered. I turned my head to the side, the only movement left to me, as a weak attempt to shield myself. As quickly as it had begun, the world returned to black and I plummeted down again.

This time, my body slammed painfully onto the hard ground expelling the air from my lungs, grit digging into my palms. I could smell the earthy scent of wet mud and leaves and, hesitantly, I opened my eyes to see I was lying on the path at the base of the hill. The darkness had lifted and a deep orange sky illuminated the area around me once more. As I pushed myself up to sitting a cascade of dry dirt fell from my hair and clothes.

I scraped myself up from the ground and sprinted. I didn’t want to look back, but as I reached the gate to the main road, I was compelled to. The hill was almost obscured by darkness, but I could still just about make it out: a grey figure, faceless other than two burning red eyes, watching me leave.

I had always questioned why there was no tree on Tikbury hill. I had never thought to wonder why the ground was always covered with autumn leaves.