Peter was breathing heavily, trembling so that the shotgun barrels vibrated on the frosty window ledge, straining his eyes into the whiteness, searching the shadows. But there was nothing. Whatever the thing out there had been, it was gone.
He pulled the gun inside, closed the window as far as the layers of ice would permit, and found himself extracting the spent cases and reloading, sitting on the bed with the old hammer gun cocked across his knees. If anything moved anywhere he would shoot. And keep on shooting. Bravado. Futility. But without it he knew he would go mad.
It was fully light before Peter ventured from Hodre. His features were white and strained, his square jaw unshaven. With the coming of dawn his terror had lessened but it had not fully disappeared. Which was why he still carried the loaded shotgun.
Clear skies heralded a continuation of the hard frost, his breath clouding as he walked on the frozen snow. Occasionally the crust beneath him gave and he sank in up to his ankles but mostly it supported his weight. He scanned the horizon; just as it had been last night in the starlight, a stark white wilderness devoid of life. Even the scavenging raven had gone elsewhere in search of food.
The going uphill was heavy. Every few yards he had to pause for breath. He realised just how tired he was. No man could have slept after that\
The elm stood like a silent sentinel, as if it had seen it all before in its lifetime but taken its secrets with it when the ravaging disease had come. This was the place, about ten yards below its base, some sixty or seventy yards from the house. Oh Jesus God!
Peter found himself backing away, wanting to flee from the stain which had turned the crisp snow into crimson crystals and the trail of droplets going a few yards uphill and then petering out. After that the snow was pure white again. Nothing else, no marks except a few indentations that could have been made by that—
Christ, that was it! The blood had come from the limping buck, from the gashed leg that had bled briefly. Ghosts couldn't bleed, anyway.
He was sweating with relief in the cold atmosphere, then chilling. There was still no explanation for the druid-like apparition. Just a spirit that had materialised and then evaporated, the dead returned to the dead: an astral projection of some kind, not even aware of human presence?
Peter turned away and found himself trying to hurry, slipping once on the crisp surface. Fear churned his stomach even in broad daylight, urging him to run. A few hours ago he had thrilled to the challenge, determined to fight. Now he realised how useless that determination had been, for it was impossible to combat dark forces from beyond the grave. And surely that was what he was up against.
He had made up his mind to leave before he got back to the cottage. No way was he going to spend another night there; long before dusk he would be miles away. Even if the car had not been immobilised, there would have been no chance of getting it through the mountainous drifts that blocked the lanes.
There was only one way out: on foot. And that was the way he was going. After the snow had melted he would return for the car and anything else belonging to Janie and himself.
They had beaten him because they were invincible, an intangible evil foe against which he was powerless.
He was leaving. Now!
Peter made it as far as the first bend, picking his footholds across weird unbelievable shapes that the drifts had formed. He had sunk in up to his knees once or twice, but kept going. Only when he reached the huge drift which had been formed across two gateways and some gaps in the hedges did he face up to the impossibility of his task. Sheer volume had prevented the snow from freezing solid; at the first attempt he went in up to his waist. He clawed his way out and found himself lying on top of something which resembled an iceberg.
He tried to stand up but his feet slid away from him. As he fell, a blinding white crevice opened up, and snow showered down on him. Panicking, fighting desperately, he was conscious of a new fear, that of being buried alive. Catalepsy in a white tomb; death by suffocation or exposure—it was a toss-up which would come first. Something gouged his hand and drew blood, which spotted the snow crimson, making him think about the stains below the circle again. He was gripping a hawthorn branch which offered a lifeline and he pulled himself up with it. He was on top of the hedge but it was strong enough to support his weight if he crawled and didn't mind spiking his hands and knees. Now there was only one way to go—back to Hodre.
Peter bathed his cuts and scratches in the sink and tried to work out a plan of action. If only it would rain, pour down so that the snow was reduced to a thick slush and then washed away. What the hell did these hill people do in an emergency when they were cut off by ten-foot drifts? They phoned for help, and if the snow plough couldn't get to them then the RAF sent a helicopter.
But I haven't bloody well got a phone! And nobody's going to come looking for me in a helicopter.
He knew that he was going to make another bid for freedom, that he wouldn't rest until he tried again. He'd been too hasty, that was his trouble. He had settled for what he'd considered was the obvious route without really making a decisive plan of action. The lanes had accumulated the worst drifts because the high hedges on either side had banked up the snow. So forget the lanes and go across country; many of the steep slopes were bare where the strong winds had cleared them and it would be just like walking on rock.
That was the answer. In his mind he mapped out a direct route from Hodre to Woodside. Almost a straight line from the rear of the cottage, past the stone circle . . . alongside the big forest . . .
Peter tensed at the thought. Jesus Christ, no! But it was the only way. If he started out right away he could make Wood-side by dusk. It was imperative that he was clear of the hills before darkness fell.
Oh God, the place reeked of ancient evil and he wasn't going to risk being caught up in any more. The druids could have their stone circle for all he cared. Ruskin could do as he liked. Peters and Bostock could poach rabbits on the gorse bank every night if they wanted; if they dared. And if the Wilson boys wanted to burn the place up with their scrambling bikes that was fine.
To hell with Hodre, he was getting our right now
Pale sunlight flooded the snowy slopes of Hodre as Peter Fogg left by the back door. Two-thirty—he'd have to get a move on. Much of the snow had fallen off the tops of the trees which formed the fringe of the big forest on the skyline; no longer was the wood able to hide its sinister appearance beneath a virgin white mantle. Still, he' needn't go through it, he'd keep to the outside, to the farmland adjoining—Ruskin's land! To hell with trespassing, he wasn't coming back here again except to collect a few belongings.
The slope was slippery. He took two steps forward and slid back one; but he knew he'd crawl on all-fours if necessary. Anything to get out of here before dark. Maybe he should have brought the gun. No, it'd be too cumbersome and he needed both hands.
Slow progress; almost twenty minutes to reach the stone circle. He tried not to look at the blood-stains in the snow but his eyes seemed automatically drawn towards the crimson spotting. Ugh. He shuddered, remembering the white cowled figure, the sacrifice of the cat and the rabbit, the other things . . .
There was a new urgency, a desperation bordering on panic about his flight now. He cursed when he fell, and had difficulty in getting up again. He wanted to run but realised the futility of it; he only had to slip awkwardly and he could break a limb and lie helpless as night fell, at the mercy of whatever it was that prowled the dark hours and lurked in the shadows.