Dodesteade

Short horror story

The earth is dark, burnt up on the cairn, cold with long-dead ash and the wind that beats down on the rock. There is nothing here, nothing but the dancing grass and unremembered dead, encased in the ground below by hands time had forgotten.

Fifty miles east lay the small village of Craig Hefan, prized into the marsh. In the early evening the yellow lights flickered on the horizon like a funeral wake torch. This wasn’t a place for the living.

The land rover choked across the rough ground, thudding over the heather with an unpleasant force. The men in the back were half asleep, their pale faces sullen in the fading light. Their mouths resembled caves, swallowing in the air as their minds delved into brighter places. It had begun to rain, the thud of the storm beating off the windscreen like a drum, the pace building to a crescendo, blinding Stephen from the road. A dark shape clouded the road suddenly, and he swerved sharply. The car reared of the road into the ditch, forcing the sleeping men into reality. He swore loudly after a short silence, silently relieved at having avoided a worse accident.