THE HOWLING

Trekking over Dartmoor

through air heavy, moisture laden;

passing stone farms, long abandoned, ruinous;

bleak hills, heather clad and darkening

within gathering mist that blurs

the boundary between reality and fiction;

our faces strangely luminous, like

those of ghosts - but somehow not.

Such transfiguring disturbs and hastens

the duo of adventurers onward

toward the great mystery, oft sought,

elusive and otherworldly - yet

simultaneously perceived

on hill top, on river bank;

recognisable only by the howling

other than that of dog or fox:

a blood-curdling, long drawn out cry

that spikes terror through the Soul.

Ominous panting nearby.

We break into a run. Padding footfalls follow.

Mist so dense now. Stumbling into rock,

now prickly gorse that plucks

at our clothing. Blood red eyes within

gigantic black dog shape

looms up out of the gloom.

Desperately trying to out run it,

pulses racing, fear all-consuming.

Hope fading, as it's relentless pursuit

drives us onto narrow path

between treacherous bog pools.

Gutteral howl closer now and we run

even faster, lungs almost bursting.

The path turning dark, liquifying

into black ink, flowing from Sir Arthur's pen

as it skims across the page,

defining our fate...

Mentally beseeching him to deliver us

from the frightful curse 

of his dark imagination.

Only he can lift it.

Baskerville Hall appears before us.

But nearing means distancing

from all we've sought so long.

Pages flutter in sudden breeze. 

The book closes.

Sunlight pierces the gloom.