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Let the Dance begin continues.
Although the back of his head was soaked in seconds and ached with the freezing rain, at least he was not fighting the wind, and he put his head down and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He had been walking for no longer than five minutes when he saw it. Or thought he did; when he turned his head there was nothing. Then it came again; out of the corner of his eye - a shape moving along the edge of the woodlands to his left. The road separating Mark from the first few trees suddenly did not seem wide enough. He hurried on, telling himself that he was behaving like a frightened child; there was nothing there, otherwise he would have been able to see it when he looked directly into the forest. The problem was, he felt like a frightened child. Part of him was still ten years old, knowing for certain that there was something under his bed, waiting to seize his ankle the moment his mother turned out the light. Mark began to hum softly under his breath, trying not to glance sideways at the dense black woodland on his left. To his right lay open fields, but who knew what potholes and marshlands waited, like the boogeyman, to take hold of him and never let him go? He walked faster, forcing himself to think rationally. There was nothing there. He even managed to chuckle to himself, 'You read too much Stephen King, mate!' But the soft laughter died in his throat as it occurred to him what he might have seen; something swift, hidden, out in the dark when it was safest from human hunters? God, what if he had caught a glimpse of The Beast of Exmoor? There had long been tales of a large, cat-like creature that roamed the moors in Devon and Cornwall, some said it was a puma, others a strange hybrid mixture of lion and panther - either way it was dangerous, as many farmers would testify, having found the gutted remains of precious livestock on many occasions. The stories had been too numerous, and too similar in content to ignore, however far-fetched they might seem in the cold light of day - and Mark's pace slowed as he struggled with the idea that he might be alone out here with that animal on the loose. He snapped his head sideways - he had seen it again. A low cry escaped him as he saw that whatever was there, was no cat-like mystery beast. For the first time, the shadowy image remained when he looked straight at it, and it was human in shape. Mark kept his eyes fixed on the side of the road and walked faster, until he wanted to run. The shape kept pace with him, although that should have been all but impossible; Mark was on a flat stretch of road, while the edge of the forest was littered with fallen trees, broken fencing, all manner of obstacles. He took his hands from his pockets, knowing that at any moment he would break into a run, but fighting the impulse with every fibre of his strength - for that way lay madness. Once he lost control and began to panic he may run anywhere, even out into the marshlands. The wind gusted hard against his back, and he heard the whisper again, even felt the hiss of it against his left ear. "Join me, Mark. The dance is going to start soon ... "
He screamed aloud, the sound whipped away instantly, and then he did run. Arms pumping at his sides, his jacket torn away behind him, the rain stinging his face and plastering his shirt to his body. His mind tumbled and whirled and finally became mercifully blank, taken over by his body's need to get as far away from whatever shadowed him as possible. The long, straight road turned into a steep hill but he barely slowed his pace, his heart screaming for rest, his muscles aching, his breath coming in huge, sucking gasps. Turning to look at the racing shadow by his side, he felt a shrieking pain in his ankle as it twisted under him and he went down. Sobbing aloud he hauled himself to his feet once more, dimly aware of thin fiery pain in his knees and the palms of his hands, where the road had torn the skin from them. He began to run again before he was fully upright, his legs almost buckling under him again, but somehow he managed, and he heard himself chanting over and over; "God, no. Dear God, no ... please ......"
The top of the hill was finally in view and at the sight of it, Mark's exhaustion almost threatened to take over, but he pushed himself further on, almost tumbling to his knees again as his limited vision blurred and swam. At the top, the road swung sharply around to the right, the open marshland on that side taken over by the high stone wall marking the edge of some property or other. That meant a house somewhere near, he thought with almost hysterical relief. Still he kept running, and as he began to round the corner he heard a sound that made his heart leap in dizzy joy. A car - a car was finally coming and he was safe. Too late he realised that he was running up the centre of the road on a blind corner, and as the beam from the car's headlights swept around the bend they illuminated his stark figure, his own shadow seeming massive as he threw his arms up over his face. Just before his own vision was closed off, he saw the looks of frozen horror on the faces of the car's occupants, and then he was knocked into the air, his body slamming into the solid rock of the high farm wall. ******** All was quiet on the road. The rain had stopped and the wind fallen to a light breeze which ruffled the dark hair of the man lying by the side of the narrow verge. He stirred. He lifted his head and stared around him, there was no pain, but he guessed that he was in shock after such a lucky escape, not to mention numb with the cold. Mark sat up, relief coursing through him. The people from the car were coming towards him, moaning and crying in their fear and he wanted to tell them he was alright, but surely they could see that from the fact that he was sitting up and smiling at them? He climbed to his feet to show them he was miraculously unhurt, but to his confusion they did not even glance at him. He turned as the horrified couple walked past him, and felt a sudden coldness as he saw them leaning over the body of a man - a man wearing his clothes ... who lay in a bloodied and battered heap in the full glare of their headlights. Understanding washed over him like a freezing shower and when he turned back to look towards the woodland again he saw the shadow that had followed him - the very thing that had made him hurl himself headlong into death. Hannah. She had done it after all; and she had come back for him now to make him fulfil his side of the pact. "Dance with me, Mark," she said now, her smile cold, her eyes empty. She reached out to him, and although she was so far away, she was right there in front of him. Her cold fingers brushed against his as he held out his own trembling hand. Somehow he could hear music, but no music like he had ever heard before; light yet eerily menacing, rhythmic yet lifeless. With one last longing glance at his cooling body on the ground, he gave himself over to what lay ahead; for Mark, the dance had begun. The End. Copyright reserved. No part(s) of these publications may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author. |