I’m an author. I specialize in ghost stories, but the ones I write aren’t very scary. My tales tend to be more of the cozy variety. Ghost pets, friendly specters and the like. I enjoy what I do, but there’s one thing missing. I’ve never achieved my biggest ambition of writing a truly terrifying tale. I wanted to write a story that will give my readers nightmares. Better still, I wanted to spin a tale that will stop them from sleeping altogether.

I realized the key was atmosphere. I needed to find somewhere away from the suburban streets where I live. Somewhere windswept and interesting. Somewhere on the moors. It had to be Dartmoor, the spookiest part of England. My job gave me four weeks of vacation every year. My wife allowed me two weeks, no more.

“If you can’t write a terrifying tale in two weeks, then you never will, especially surrounded by all that atmosphere. Me and kids need a break, that’s what the other two weeks are for.”

“Just you wait. I’ll bring back a story that will make me famous!”

I chose the remotest corner of the moor. I chose February, when there are no tourists and the weather was guaranteed to be lousy. I deliberately didn’t go through any websites to find a hotel; I didn’t want to choose a location known by anyone else. I simply drove the back roads until I found somewhere I could stay. It took a few hours, but then I turned a corner and there it was. An isolated inn, standing on the edge of a barren, wind-blasted stretch of heath. It was rundown, with faded, peeling timber and a mossy roof. The only clue it was open to the public was a sign hanging from a gibbet at the entrance. The Wolfshead. I parked and entered.

It was one of those old-fashioned places, so beloved by the British. Low ceilings, exposed beams and an array of agricultural equipment on display. An open fire warmed the room. The room was empty, except for a man standing behind the bar. I presumed this was the landlord. He sipped from a glass of amber liquid.

“I’d like a room for a few days.”

“Not a problem, we’re not exactly busy.”

He was clearly intoxicated.

I was shown to my room. It was small, with a low ceiling and a single bed. It was scruffy, but clean. There was a stained desk and chair by the window, which had a view across the moor. This was the atmosphere I craved.

My evening was spent in the awkward company of the landlord. He managed to assemble some bread and cheese for me to eat. I ate this meager meal and sipped a warm beer.

It reached midnight. The landlord, who was very drunk by this time, made a feeble attempt to tidy up a few glasses, but quickly gave up after he dropped one, the glass shattering over the stone floor. He clicked off the lights and stumbled out the main bar. I heard him wobbling up the stairs. It was obvious he’d forgotten I was there. By firelight, I finished my pint and went to bed.

In my room, I glanced out the window. There was nothing but darkness, with only the occasional light in the distance to show the location of an isolated farm. It was quite the contrast to my home in the city. I slid into bed. It was very comfortable and I was tired, so I dropped off almost immediately.

I was woken a few hours later by the smell of smoke. I leapt from the bed and switched on the bedside light. Smoke was seeping under the door. I placed my hand against the wood. It was hot. There was fire on the other side. I dared not open it, I knew the room would be engulfed. My only option was the window. I grabbed my phone, wallet and car keys. I opened the window and looked down. It was a drop of perhaps ten feet to the ground. I eased myself out, hung onto the frame and lowered myself. I let go and dropped the few remaining feet onto soft grass.

I ran to the front of the building, but I could already see that it was engulfed in flames. There was nothing I could do. I tried my phone, but there was no reception. I decided to head over the moors to the nearest lights. Since I didn’t know the roads, I decided to head straight across the heath on foot. It wasn’t the best option, but it was my only choice.

It took me about thirty minutes to reach the nearest farm. I was exhausted, scratched and covered in mud. I stumbled into the farm’s kitchen. Despite the hour there was a man sitting by the fire, drinking from a mug. I was gasping from my exertions.

“The Wolfshead! It’s burning to the ground. I can’t find the landlord!”

He remained sitting by the fire, and rubbed the stubble on his chin; not quite the reaction I expected.

“The Wolfshead, you say? Can’t be. That place burnt down years back. Just a ruin now. Landlord got drunk every night. One night he was killed.”

“It’s in flames right now! Even if you don’t believe me, can I least use your phone?”

“Don’t have one.”

Clearly, there would be no help here. I decided to head back to the inn, hoping the emergency services had been notified. I expected to see ominous red glow of the fire to help guide me, but there was nothing but darkness. I stumbled my way across the moor, wondering what on earth was happening. I found the inn after getting lost twice. I stared in amazement at the ruin I found. It was the Wolfshead, the sign was still there, but the windows were all boarded-up and it was surrounded by metal fencing, with stark No Entry signs posted. A forlorn For Sale sign had been attached to the wall near the entrance. The farmer had been correct, this place had been a ruin for years. My car sat in the car park, a very welcome sight. I jumped in, thankful for the chance to go home, to escape that bleak, haunted place. I tried not to think about what had just happened to me.

My wife was pleased to see me back so early, but disguised her emotions with a display of annoyance, complaining that I’d disturbed her ‘me’ time. I was bitterly disappointed, not just because of my traumatic experience, but because I hadn’t written my story. But every cloud has a silver lining. It was my wife who gave me the idea.

“Not that I believe you about what happened, but if it’s true, it all sounds pretty terrifying. Why don’t you just write that?”

And so, I have!

∼ RJ Meldrum

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