A Nightmare on Dartmoor
“I have encountered very few things in my eighty
years that are beyond description but there’s something on Dartmoor
so disturbing, so unfathomable, that I wish it had remained wholly
unknown to me.” I must have looked interested in the Colonel’s
pronouncement because without further prompting, and in a tone most
sombre, he continued thus: “From a point marked by an almost
spherical rock just fifty or so yards north of the coaching inn,
walk into the setting sun for no more than an hour and you will come
upon a sight so grotesque that it will stop you abruptly in your
tracks.” The Colonel’s hair and moustache were almost pure white,
all colour removed by the time he spent under the African sun,
remained the only indication of his advanced years, his eyes, a
light shade of blue were as keen and bright as any man’s half his
age. All evening he had seemed in good humour, but now his
countenance was most earnest and it appeared that he already
regretted, for some reason unknown to me, what he had said. With a
curt wave of his hand towards the waiter he ordered another brandy,
receipt of which did not improve his now distinctly uneasy mood.
We had been discussing little of significance for the past hour,
the state of the Gladstone’s Administration being the principal subject of our
conversation, so this sudden change of tack was somewhat unexpected. Without
warning, the octogenarian then shifted to the edge of his chair as if he were
about to rise. Instead he stared into the middle distance and appeared to be
trying to identify something just beyond the range of his ocular capabilities.
He remained like this for some considerable time. His attention was elsewhere,
his mind on other matters; and from the expression on his face, these matters
concerned him deeply. Seated opposite him, I could see the pain etched into his
aristocratic features.
“Are you quite well, Sir,” I asked, becoming somewhat worried for
his wellbeing.
He didn’t reply, just continued staring, his unblinking eyes
locked on some point past my right shoulder. His body was utterly motionless as
if he had suddenly fallen into some kind of trance-like state. Eventually I
turned to see if I could discern what occupied his attention so intently. This
simple action broke the spell that held him captive and, finally, he sank back
in his leather bound chair looking bemused and, to my eyes, somewhat fearful. I
said nothing more but observed him closely while waiting expectantly for his
next pronouncement but seemingly his tale was told and he had nothing else to
offer, much to my disappointment.
The year was 1881 and we were seated in the relative comfort of
Guards Club on London’s Pall Mall. Taking his refreshed brandy glass in his hand
the Colonel suddenly shivered with a degree of violence unbecoming of the
surroundings and the proximity of the coal fire.
“Someone step on your grave, Sir?” I asked.
He met my gaze then mumbled something quite inaudible. As he
drank deeply from the glass his hand was plainly shaking.
With that he rose, “I’ll take my leave of you now, and bid you
good night, Sir”. I nodded by way of reply, emptied my own glass and settled
back into my chair, his unforgettable words and actions giving me much cause for
reflection.
I did not see the Colonel again. The following week I read of his
sad passing in the Times. Apparently this revered leader of men, who had
been lauded for his valour and tactical astuteness in the Ashanti campaign of
1823, passed away peacefully in his sleep following a short illness. No further
details concerning the circumstances of his death were given; the piece did not
expand on the illness. Members of the Club expressed their shock at his death,
none had expected such a dramatic turn of fortune. To me, he had seemed in good
health and sound reason when we had last met, although it was possible the
shiver may have been the portent of some type of undiagnosed infection.
Though I did not possess the same emotional ties of his family
members, the Colonel’s death was still pertinent to me. In the intervening days
I had formed a number of queries relating to his unsettling statement to which I
desperately required explanations. Other members of the Club could shed no light
on the subject, and it seemed that I was the only one he had confided in. Now
these questions would have to remain unanswered and his exploits in England’s
West Country would for ever be shrouded in mystery unless I took matters into my
own hands.
Being of adventurous character, still relatively young and with
little to occupy my time now that I could no longer serve in Her Majesty’s
military due to infirmity, I determined to verify the Colonel’s claims myself
and put to rest the unreconciled issues that had gradually taken over my
thoughts and, in recent days, preoccupied my waking hours.
Some days later I arrived at the very coaching inn to which the
Colonel referred. Even in the age of steam, my journey, by way of train and
carriage to the edge of Dartmoor in the county of Devonshire, was both torturous
and tiring. My carriage was met by the inn’s hostess, a sturdily built woman of
middle years with an extravagant amount of hair folded and twisted atop her
head, several strands of which had miraculously escaped the many pins and
ribbons that held the bulk of it in her chosen arrangement and fell across her
face much to her annoyance.
“Good evening, Sir.” Her accent was distinctly Devonshire and her
nature both kindly and affable. “Are you seeking accommodation?” she added
pushing the errant hair behind her ear to attempt to hold it in place.
“A room for a few nights would be most welcome,” I replied.
“Husband! Take the gentleman’s bags to the spare room.” Her tone
was authoritative. A man, I presumed her husband, instantly appeared from a back
room and industriously attended to her command. “Would you like something to
eat, we have some cold meat?” she added.
“That would be very welcome, and some ale too.”
“Of course, Sir, my husband will bring it to your room.” I had no
doubt he would if he wished to remain her husband for much longer.
The following day, with the weather set fair, I donned my
strongest pair of leather boots and politely declining offers of company,
resulting due to my undoubted stubbornness and the desire to solve the problem
without any help in equal measure, was away from the inn as early as was decent.
By mid-morning I had found the mark just north of the inn that the Colonel
mentioned. Setting my compass for West, I noted the time on my watch and started
my search. For what I was searching I did not know though, perversely, I felt
impassioned by the thought of uncovering something genuinely shocking.
Two hours later, with nothing of any use identified, I halted my
walk, consumed some of the ale I had with me, and gave thought to a new plan of
action. The Colonel would not be able to travel on foot at my pace, certainly
not through the gorse that was a serious impediment to the strongest of walkers.
So I must have passed whatever he alluded to some distance back. My only option
was to retrace my steps paying even greater attention to the surrounding
landscape.
Hours later, and much to my disappointment, I found myself back
at my original starting point with nothing to show for my efforts except a
blister or two on my feet.
That night I slept well, due to the tiring nature of the day’s
walk and possibly the consumption of ale, until a little after four o’clock when
I awoke with a start. Morpheus had been at work because my sleep had been filled
with the most vibrant dreams relating to the events of the day. More importantly
my subconscious had somehow discovered the reason why I had failed in my
undertaking. I had travelled westwards towards a point on the horizon where the
sun would set. But that was not adhering precisely to the Colonel’s words. He
had said “walk into the setting sun”. I now knew what I had to do: to start my
search much later in the day and follow the path of the sun as diligently as a
working spaniel follows the trajectory of a pheasant after hearing the gun shot.
Ignoring the grave warning from my hostess: “The moor is no place
for a man after dark, Sir, keep your walk short and endeavour to find you way
back before the sun sets,” late the following evening I was back at the
spherical stone with some ale for sustenance and a lamp to help me see my way
should night fall more quickly than I anticipated. Noting the time on my watch I
commenced my walk with a great deal more confidence, this time aiming for the
setting sun.
Despite the different route, the landscape altered very little.
Granite outcrops abounded; gorse dotted with tiny attractive yellow flowers and
purple heather may have appealed to the artist’s eye but both made walking
difficult; and the areas of boggy ground presented a constant danger. I plotted
my path carefully, ensuring I was not deviating from the guidance provided by
that most important of celestial bodies. After about an hour I came to yet
another pile of rocks which, like the others, appeared to have been stacked by
God’s own hand on the top of a small hillock. Unlike the other crags, though,
something was visible near the base of the particular stack. From my lower
vantage point I could not say exactly what it was but, even in the fading light,
I could make out a depression in the ground. I lit my lamp and made my way
slowly towards it. As I closed in on my quarry I could see that it was some kind
of pit. Its depth I could not yet attest to; it may have been as shallow as a
grave, though for all I could tell it could have been the corridor to the
underworld. As I continued my approach, unexpectedly the late evening silence of
the moor was broken by a low indiscernible sound. Had I been in London I would
have assumed it to have been created by a new mechanical invention of the
wondrous industrial age in which we lived. Here, on this desolate, virtually
uninhabited wilderness, I was not so sure.
The closer I edged to the pit, the louder the sound became and a
repellent stench began an unabating assault on my olfactory sense. For many good
reasons I should have turned on my heels and scurried away. However, on this
occasion my desire for discovery was overwhelming and outweighed my common
sense. Covering my face as best I could to protect against the vitiated air, I
continued towards the pit, now in a far more circumspect fashion. As I drew
near I could more clearly hear the sound emanating from the depression. It was
not created by some unique mechanical force; no machine I had ever seen made a
sound like this. On the battlefield, though, it was a sound I knew well: the
sound of brutality.
Pausing at the lip of the crater, I planned my next move. Should
I jump in taking advantage of surprise, my most valuable asset? Or be more
prudent in my approach? After some thought I favoured the latter and like a
Trooper on reconnaissance duty, I quickly peered into the pit before recoiling
so as not to give my position away to any enemy I may encounter. Though my
vision was restricted, what I had witnessed in those few seconds was outside the
bounds of my experience and imagination. The Colonel was correct in his
assertion. My eyes were met with the most grotesque sight to behold any mortal
man. The source of the sound was now apparent: it was created by a beast of some
description in the throes of a brutal attack. During my years with the British
Army I had travelled to parts of the world most Englishmen had not heard of, I
had seen animals the like of which were unknown in the Northern Hemisphere, but
I had never beheld a sight comparable to the horrific scene being played out in
the pit. The creature, I have no better term to describe it, stood on its hind
legs and, from my judgement, was of similar height to a man. It was certainly
not feline, nor canine, because its forelegs were elongated, spindly,
hair-covered arms with inordinately long claws, or talons, where one would
expect paws to be found. Its body was similarly slender and a small, almost
perfectly spherical head, again protected by a thick layer of hair possessed,
what I thought but could not be entirely sure, two ghastly, blood-stained horns.
Evil exuded from every pore of this unique monstrosity of Nature, if indeed
Nature did have a role in its creation.
There was still time to turn and run, there would be no disgrace
in a tactical retreat, but something, I know not what, prevented me from doing
so. I glanced over the rim of the crater once more. And now I had a much greater
concern. This time the prey became visible as the beast stepped back to admire
its unholy work. The unfortunate victim was not some kind of foodstuff in the
form of a sheep or pony that had fallen into the creature’s lair; it was, to my
utter horror and abhorrence, a human being. To be more precise, the target of
the frenzied rage was a soldier; one of Her Majesty’s cavalry officers in full
battle dress. From what I could tell, the poor soul’s left arm had already been
torn off at the shoulder and his tunic, soaked with his own blood, had turned a
much deeper shade of crimson. The time for hiding and prudence had passed; I was
duty bound to save him. Quickly I lay prone on the ground and thrust my walking
stick into the pit.
“Take hold, man,” I cried, “for God’s sake take hold.”
The soldier made no effort to move towards the cane, either too
weak through loss of blood or unable to hear my pleas. The beast, though, was
now aware of my presence and momentarily halted its attack. I ducked for more
cover as the creature surveyed the surroundings for potential threats. This was
not the action of an unintelligent animal. Once it was again confident of its
own security, the blood-thirsty demon threw one of its great arms around the
man’s torso, puncturing him deeply with its claws.
I shifted my position along the rim of the pit so that I was as
close as possible to my stricken comrade.
“Take hold,” I shouted again in desperation. This time I
connected with him audibly and he turned his head slowly in my direction. There
was hope at last; I might be able to save him I thought. In an instant this hope
turned to alarm. The sight of a man, a soldier of the British Army, trapped in a
pit and being shredded by some monstrous creature was chilling in the extreme,
but what I saw as the victim turned towards me was even more terrifying. The
coldness of pure horror coursed through my veins as it had only once before in
my lifetime. The soldier’s face was contorted with fear and pain, his eyes
pleading for a merciful end. Yet I knew it well: every contour, every blemish,
every line that age carves without feeling into our brows was seared into my
memory. It was a precise facsimile of my own.
There was but one option remaining. I extricated my service
revolver and, with trembling fingers, emptied the chamber into the pit in
indiscriminate fashion. My aim was to the bring death to the beast and to bring
blessed relief to the other. Whether I achieved these objectives I know not,
either through fear or some other unexplainable emotional aberration I lost
consciousness.
Author’s Note: this tale was found in a box of papers unearthed
after many years in the attic of a family home. I have reproduced it as
faithfully as possible though in parts the handwriting was difficult to discern
and required some guesswork. The tale piqued my interest and after some
searching I established that the explorer in question was a distant relative.
Examining the London newspapers around the dates given on the document I
initially found little except in one of the more obscure journals I located a
Stop Press notification that included
the following:
A man was found dead in [address]. The shooting is not
suspicious.
This was, without doubt, a reference to my ancestor. After more
searching I found his obituary which included details of his family, his
schooling, and his military service. My relative had been decorated many times
for bravery before losing his left arm in what became known as the Third Ashanti
War. After leaving military service he lived quietly in one of the less
fashionable areas of the capital. The obituary ends with the following: passed
away peacefully in his sleep following a short illness.
End.
