Disclaimer:

The following material is intended as a drafted teaser for an upcoming project of mine and is subject to substantial changes. All works created by myself Pompe11badboy/ Pompe11 are protected under UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 and cannot be used for others' monetary/ media gain. Additionally no AI was used in the creation of my works, my works are not permitted to be used in AI training.

DRAFT TEASER:
The Grey of Hollows

Foreword:Of all the evolutionary commodities the human brain has achieved, a chilling disturbance to the mind upon witnessing the decapitation of such is certainly comprehensible- though one must ponder the relevance of such to those unburdened by anatomical restrictions. Perhaps such happenings are merely Child’s play to the beholder, or a dark show of advanced prowess. Nonetheless, there was only one thing to fear regarding such a conundrum; not if or when, but how it will happen.
Would self-decapitation become a method of calculated ritualistic repair, or perhaps an abrupt abandonment of the human form? Even a show of commodity or dedicated affection to another of their kind- lest they attract uncouth human fondness.
Once more the fear of such a crudely unfathomable action could only be predicted by one statement, that humans are limited to their own making.Chapter 1:Wrapped by the rugged plains of the rolling Scottish countryside, the marshy mid-lands provided shelter to many small critters or cloven-hoofed creatures. With dampness clasped in non-churnable soil clashing with rockery that could put any quarry to shame. Building here was not for the faint of heart. Above, prey seeking sparrows sought out their next victim, oblivious to their obvious silhouette in the ever-greying skies. Whilst sun would grace such oddly barren scenes upon the marsh, it rarely ventured over the chunky hilled horizon. It was these features alongside many others that could be held accountable for the lack of human inhabitancy, though their presence wasn’t completely absent. Rising to the heavens, metallic spirits burst from the condemned ground in hopes of spearing their foes. The great turbines of the West scattered themselves unceremoniously across the marshland, setting claim to land of which held little inheritance. Getting too close to them would only evoke fear to the poor specimens that had such an egregious invader in their habitat, for the giants groaned or huffed with each momentous push to their spiney limbs. Birds flew around, shrews sought refuge elsewhere, whilst deer swayed clear from their direct, overreaching path. It was these features that allowed the marsh to become home to something of a curiously sinister nature, lurking in the darkness, seeking life from the ethereal power-pillars, mustering a name for itself as a local cryptid of which could not and would not be challenged. There, hidden in mysterious shrubbery, festered a spirit not native to this plain of existence. Something truly paranormal, beyond simple human comprehension. T’was a being who cared not for the limitations of human laws; bound by flesh or harbouring soul. For within the bleak stalked a humanoid creature who had lost its head and mind.
-But that was all rumours spread by the youth, perhaps hungry for some international online fame or to bring misdirected tourism to a debatably soulless part of the country. At least, that’s what Itzel had thought.Spritely, yet pessimistic enough to know such stories were merely so, Itzel paid them little attention for all sorts of countryside folklore had already passed through her ears. Having hailed from the Midlands of the south, the migratory woman was more than familiar with big cats, dogs and creeps crawling around the somehow ‘terrifying’ English countryside, why should Scotland be any different? Although she gave the old lore props where it was due, Loch monsters, water spirit horses and haunted graveyards with loyal dogs were certainly more creative than some of the more commonly known southern mythos. Too much talk of powerful Cerberuses turning out to be some illegally released small-big cat left her feeling a sense of disappointment at the overheard bus chatter. It alluded to marshy monsters scampering around some moderately funded windfarm, snatching up victims of the heathery dawn. Knowing the demographic of the locals, Itzel wouldn’t have been surprised if this was merely a poor objection attempt to the creation of such eye-sore, that or a farfetched grab for Anti-Robot extremists. Whatever the mystical origins of such a shuck-like creature may have been, Itzel was here on a solo surveyance of the land, in particular the autumnal invertebrates that ventured on as the cold drew close. With an ever-shifting seasonal pattern, her main interest was to evaluate those who had outstayed their welcome, enjoying the raised temperatures of their autumnal home. Whilst it wasn’t a positive thing, she did look forward to seeing the summer Butter or Dragonflies that still resided by the marshy pools. Their populations were once critically threatened with generic pollution, now it seems they thrive in exotic temperatures that bring forth more migratory species from Europe. In a way they were quite like herself; looking for somewhere away from the buzz of polluted life in a southern bound region, but for now, especially on a bus full of mining town youths, there was little peace.The old budget friendly bus line drew to a stop upon the direct summoning from Itzel’s button, landing just a few hundred meters from a smaller substation backroad that lead into the windfarm. There would be a few team members inside a porta-cabin operating the site’s more manual tasks, fortunately she would not need to make contact with them. Whilst she had little to fear, tradesmen were her least favourite genre of men to run into alone in the middle of a desolate marsh. If anything did go wrong, she could always shoo off a perpetrator with her trusty grid square. For now, she hobbled off the bus, it’s white paint already chipping from the daily hundred mile run jaunt across the countryside. Such a journey around the county was surely tiring to the poor underpaid drivers, yet she would not need to face it herself until her allocations were complete. With that in mind she trudged on up the hill, a pale sandy gravel crunched with a delectable crispness with each step, digging into the protective rubber of her soles. This place was no world for fast fashion or flimsy footwear; this was an unforgiving territory demanding the finest leg coverings and bountiful overcoats. Scaling the grey trail into the lifeless sky of the horizon, Itzel took no time in getting to where she needed to be. The farm was vast, yet easy enough to walk around over a few hours. The marshland that encompassed the midsection of the farm stretched far beyond, requiring bridges and other structures to support the foot network created for hikers or maintenance crews. Soon she would find herself at the belly of the valley, knee deep in some form of mud encased pond no doubt. Of course the higher elevation boasted winds to power the turbines, of which Itzel found mild annoyance at with each swat at her face desperately whacking the stray grey hairs from her temple. In an attempt to work with her environment, she turned he head to the side, beckon the wind to cast her strays away as her metal capped feet wondered fourth down the lonesome elevation. Occasionally the breeze would whisk one of her dyed strands cross her freckles, flashing hues of orange to pink across her vision.Winds around carried word of hardy crickets and tiny chirps from bush birds’ miles away. Their song was gentle, polite, daring not to disturb the hollow ethos of the marsh’s presence. Clutching a sagging saddlebag of equipment, Itzel tried to mirror this vibe. As a newly appointed freelance ecologist, there was still much to learn from the lands she was commissioned to study. Working in the field cleared her mind, allowing for richer thoughts to flow in the periods of stresses’ absence. Though unlike certain artists from before her time, there wasn’t much inspiration to get from the bleak beige-green marsh surrounding her. Songs would come to her in due course, for now the random plotting of grids was a priority, so too general observation. It took the better part of 30 minutes to reach the chicken wire of the constructed footpath near the bottom of the marsh, one where labradors could plod alongside their health-conscious owners on a good day, or perhaps a biker looking for an approachable off-road trail. Though mid-autumnal mornings weren’t exactly a renowned favourite of many to be out in a supposedly cursed marshland. Itzel would not meet another human on her venture but settled for the various crawlies that landed beneath the grid’s unbiased throw. There she counted wriggling larvae, bustling beetles and a handful of worms who ventured too close to the moist surface, abandoned by sun. All was well and statistically normal for such a time and place, yet further numbers proved her hypothesis so. As various summer residents were still faring well, with moths and butterflies fluttering to and from dusty heathers which proudly bloomed across the marsh. Their stalky appearance was due to the wind or lack of sun, but harboured protection from the oddly cosy bushels of dry grass.With a notably sodden pair of tan over trousers, now caked with the rich peaty soil from below, Itzel moved onto the more temporally moist areas of the marsh. There pond skaters, various aquatic larvae and even a secretive newt came to her statistics aid, as it appeared to be healthier than expected on her initial search. They welcomed visitors, showing Itzel deeper into their homes, with a distinct lack of pollutants such as plastic or twine boosting her mood with a subtle smile. Her bag, now lightly wet at the leather clad bottom, produced a water perimeter checking kit from its canvas interior. Due to a presence of peat, the water tested slightly more acidic than one would expect, not enough to poison the porous inhabitants, but worth noting in her cutesy logbook. Such noting only progressed time fourth, leading to the inevitable alarm of her phone chiming with glee as it announced her lunch break’s arrival. Much like her preppy alarm, Itzel felt a wave of satisfaction having worked all morning for a simple taste at life’s greatest gifts; a tuna piece, a rightfully Scottish Tuna sandwich addressed with watercress and peppered to perfection. That and an energy drink.Navigating the terrain to solid ground, Itzel posted herself up on a sedimentary feature from an era long gone. The sandwich offered much gratification to her soul, despite being dreary on any other occasion. Limited signal out here meant doomscrolling through the various influences and friends of hers was futile, though she did capture a few little photos from her perch to edit then upload another time. On account of previous incidents, the last thing she wanted to do was alert any stalkers of her music to find out her current lone-working location, things were eery enough out here. Surprisingly, no one had walked the length of the boggiest part of the moor yet, despite how curiously contractive the natural feature seemed. Ringing with hollow resonance, distant turbined continued their daily stretches, providing a soft white noise for Itzel’s periodic rest.With little time to spare pondering the loam below her, Itzel continued up the moor and into the higher peaks of the windfarm. Her bag, now marginally lighter, loyally joined her side with each humph up the sodden face of the bleak countryside. On her way to the highest elevation, as directed by an offline GPS, Itzel crossed paths with the bright monolithic beings that called this place home. Unlike a weary dog, child or worse, there was no fear in Itzel’s eyes as she was bestowed with their presence, only admiration that they were particularly quiet, a rather captivating instance of engineering. At this point her feet had returned from soggy gravel to crisp claylike pathways, occasionally protected from the wilderness by s small kickboard siding. Welcoming it with every sharp stone in the heel that disobeyed her soles, her destination was achieved. Atop a hill, the largest on the western side of the farm, she could overview the small substation area, boggy-moor valleys and the thousands of bushels of grass that blanketed the moorland in a desolate warmth. Here was a particularly interesting spot, as per her superior’s words, as it would most likely be scaled the most out of the landscape’s peaks as it was closest to the public entryway, furthermore a less improbable goal for armature hikers to set themselves. Yet few would want to wander too far off the public tracks, even Itzel was deterred by such.Once more, these features made for wonderous sporadic data collection, as Itzel was a solo retriever of such, her focuses must be transparent. Guided by her grid, the measuring, monitoring and comparing continued. As expected, fewer aquatic beings inhabited this peak, with Hoppers, Fleas, whimsical white Moths and the occasional misplaced Damsel making up much of the population. On her walks, noted in miscellaneous, approximately two shy rabbits had loafed themselves up against the bristly stands around them to observe the foreigner meters away. There had yet to be any large amphibian sightings, Deer or people for that matter, all of which found their way into her fortunately dry book. Whilst the grids spoke, the wind listened to her work; delicate thumps from the rubber coated grids falling to their wispy bed below. Their noise carried a soft industrial echo across the moor, disturbing the careful monitoring of another surveyor.With the better part of an hour’s work written under her guidance, Itzel decided to clock in a few more notable sites not too far from her current pitch. Though the wind was keenly distressed at such elevation, which was expected in a turbine farm. So fourth her feet carried her to a lower land. Minding the growing ache in her heel, Itzel drew her attention across the scape in hunt of a middle ground to compare her prior findings. GPS would not aid her now; this was an unbiased collection. With eyes fleeting from one perspective of the hill to another, she could see past ridges or angles previously obscured by the peaks. The valleys’ treasured beaten paths wove between populous areas of grass, giving way to Itzel’s next journey. With little thought and clear direction, her body diverged from the public walkway onto the harsh grass below. She gave a rather questionable step over a tall individual on the plain, then set off as before. Itzel couldn’t deny there was a smidgen of excitement to her abandonment of civil path networks, though such excitement was not grand- this was still her work after all. If she had it her way, she’d be at home curled up next to her wooden fire, gently reading another work of her friend’s creation. Larping up fiery radiant blessings, nibbling on her pantry’s offerings. For in her soul she knew she was a cat-person- in a literal sense moreover metaphorical. Soon that warmth would grace her furless coat, embracing her in that familiarity she often craved.Fantasies of home fluttered around her mind, joining the sparce Cabbage Moth that she had previously jotted down. Itzel praised the grey wall that rose form the horizon into space from containing its moisture, but if the forecast prevailed, rain would soon announce its welcome. Across from the beginnings of the trail, Itzel randomly choose an area halfway up the side of a moderately sized hill, here she would conduct the same sampling as before, observing the unbothered critters in their condescendingly bleak habitat. Her mind focused on the inverts as before but grew more distracted by a creeping cold breeze caught up in the bevels of the land. Itzel focused no more on the land’s unwanted offerings, putting work first, only ceasing such dedication to pay notice to the disturbed horizon. At first her peripherals caught wind of a strolling Sheep, blurred by worn wool. Looking up she expecting to see the feral Bovidae potentially responsible for the maintained grazing across the moor. Though a wearily disappointed surprise greeted her instead as the body grew fourth into skyline. There was no rugged mutton within her sights, but a lone stout Horse, dappled much like the clouds above and crowned with a wiry mane. Two unbothered dark eyes stared down at her from afar, with a swish of an equally lush tail to accompany this.

As the equine now scavenged around the moor floor, Itzel sighed in disbelief, the last thing she wanted to do was get involved with an abandoned animal welfare case. She stood aside her work, dodging grass plumes to begin slowly approaching the hefty creature. From here they looked well-fed, perhaps an escapee from a nearby farm. From what she had read, these moors did not have a local population of ponies roaming their fields, though this was clearly a horse of Cob or Draft decent. Recalling her friend’s previous pop-quiz question on ‘What sound do you use to call a horse?’, she let out her first ‘words’ of the working day.“Tck-ck-ck-ck-ck” She called with her teeth, feeling mildly humiliated by the lack of interest the horse had in such, merely twitching an ear at her attempt to become one with the equine.“Damm-“ Itzel uttered, pursuing kissy noises before settling on spoken word once more.“Come here, its okay- its okay” yet her words fell on long ignorant ears.Softly, like her voice, Itzel walked down the slope and began traversing the hill, coming around to flank the horse head on as to not spook them. Struggling not to stumble with her sights transfixed on the blissful grey, she eventually stood a good 20ft or so in front of them. Going off their size and other vacant body features, Itzel assumed they were a mare. Perhaps this clever girl would only respond to some pet-centric gendered praise.“Good girl- ‘you okay?” She prompted wearily. The horse had since ceased her graze, now holding her head rather relaxed, though this changed as she grew closer, meanwhile Itzel’s stance lowered. The mare was built well, muscular but not overly tall, it was clear this was some kind of mixed working breed- Cobs don’t tend to have such defined shoulders and beefy necks. Perhaps this was one of those Percheron’s Itzel’s equestrian friends had mentioned before, certainly not a common breed of horse to abandon, someone out there was looking for her. Now within 10ft, the horse had gained a sense of awareness, throwing her head up slightly in a singular nodding motion. Whilst unfamiliar with farm animals, Itzel knew to step back in case the mare reared in fear. Curiously, that was not the case. She seemed to bounce on her front hooves, with a head bopping up and down to match- there was no overarching defensiveness to her movements. With airy huffs mixed in with an odd whiney, she seemed playful. Itzel could only assume this was the movements of a ‘large puppy’ and flinched not when the grey mare turned with a dramatic fling of her head. Stimulated by her presence, the horse began waltzing off in a gleeful trot off to Itzel’s left, she made no attempt to reach out and grab the bridles creature. Before she knew it, the grey had picked up speed into a bumpy canter down the slopes along a now revealed beaten path and off somewhere more interesting. Leaving behind in its wake a tired woman, now noting down her next moves when reception returned to her phone.“Great…"

Chapter 2:A crispness in the air had returned as the high sun began its steadfast decent behind the horizon, the warmth of the day fleeting with it. After another round of species’ monitoring, Itzel had begun her own retreat to the more civil society she knew. Once there she would raise a standard report to aid in the hopeful reunion of her newfound quadrupedal friend, because nothing could ever be simple or smooth in her life, plagued with mundane interruption. Unlike other pests, the horse did appear in high spirits, a welcomed change for once. What wasn’t welcomed was a rumbling rustle from the grasses beside her, not too far off the final hill past the substation.Twisting her neck to face the disturbance behind, Itzel squinted at the stands of grass tickled by wind that seemed more frivolous than before. Their rustic tips and hazy bottoms obscured any critter that shielded themselves behind the bushel. Hoping to spot a straying fox or brave hare she paused her steps. Once more the bushel twitched, agitated by some movement beyond, ridged and coarse, it seeped forward to the next section of grass with a hesitant confidence. Whilst the air did not carry fourth the sounds of the perpetrator, they did install unease in Itzel. Slightly annoyed by the inconvenience of spotting an abandoned horse previously, she was not up for having to intervene with another oddly curious soul, and on that note- she turned back to leave. A few footsteps into her resumed journey, a high pitch growl, gravely and resonant herald from her side. Joining its presence, the grass snapped in half at its steady base, parting ways in a blur of feverish orange with a rumbling hiss. Itzel immediately reared on her back foot, falling into a sudden gasping pit within her torso. Puffing a squeak of air in shock, her mind flew from fear to internal disappointment as the territorial being dashed by her with minute whoops from the crop of their neck. A perturbed male Pheasant grumbled off to the other side of the path, most likely distracting Itzel from his mate somewhere behind them. Animal induced paranoia had swept through her body, edging reason into the realm of imagination. Taking a heavy purposeful step forward, Itzel had made her mind up; that was enough nature for one day.At least the moor boasted home to one of the prettiest game birds to ever snatch her soul. Without a doubt, the land was alive and well, leaving the young girl once surrounded by Monoblock buildings and industrial glamour well accompanied in the lands of the few. Having made her way to the last peak, she turned warmly to face the scape of today’s happenings, greeted and bid farewell by a familiar silhouette galloping on a hill less than a mile away. The pudgy form of the grey swooped up over the bending bays of the land and onwards with excitement. Something had drawn her interest over yonder. Indeed, that was enough nature for today.Navigating the crooked stairs of the older bus, Itzel revelled in the return to civilisation; manicured yet equally rough around the edges, the inhabitants of the Scottish countryside returned as their old abodes crossed paths with the bus on its journey north. Sensing the sweet relief that was connection to the outer world, Itzel checked the reception of her phone intermittently until it was restored. Although joy was short-lived, as she still had an hour or so on the clock of paid time. For this she gave a sigh, looking up the number for the national animal protection society and raising alarm for the wild horse of the moors. After bypassing the short hold, Itzel made her first proper contact with another being for the day- aside from the horse. Abiding by her duty of care, she provided the receptionist on the other end all relevant information for the case. What, when, where and how were covered extensively, to little interest from the other end. Itzel understood why some people did not care for such things, however felt deep annoyance at the lack of consideration from the person who was employed to care. The middle-aged woman on the other end, most likely blond and slightly overweight, seemed unphased by the report. When detailing where exactly the horse had appeared, the woman seemed to scold Itzel for even convincing the mere sight of the mare in her mind- let alone approaching her. Satisfied with her efforts thus far, Itzel ended the call on a conclusive note of which the agency’s shallow representative did not fully agree with; the horse needed help.Saturday was shopping day. Chore day also seemed to fall on Saturday more often than Itzel would have liked, yet today change was in the air. With the fridge full, bins cleaned and her partially deaf white cat, Bounce, using the litter box for once, she was free. Feeling her spontaneous youth coursing through her veins, she had taken a random bus down from her hometown to a quaint village with scenic walks not too far off her last post. Accompanying her enthusiasm was an atmosphere of gossip on the bus, bursting with intrigue as people became acquainted with the news around them like the whispers of early snowfall in the highlands or disturbances in the estates. Only earfuls of hushed wonder crossed her ear, more so from the teens with their inability to keep excitement to themselves. Spoken with too much glee for the matter, they chattered of kin that had been startled out by the moors. Kneeing the back of Itzel’s seat with every sentence or so exchanged, she had no choice but to drop into their conversation, picking up a curious bit of patter from the two behind; “The rider had been seen”. Assuming quickly there had been a misunderstanding between the grey mare she had spotted and herself, a slight of relief rested itself in a nook of her mind, the horse was probably one of those free-ranging pets and that was that.Coming up to her destination, the bus passed through a populous town known for historic art influences of the romantic eras’ bygone, yet there was no romance in a set of confrontational temporary traffic lights halting the smooth journey so far. Ahead, Itzel could view the electric yellow box encasing the red LED within, around it, standard barriers had been erected to enclose the work of repairs. Curiously, there seemed to be more specialist equipment loaded onto the back of trucks than what would be found at your typical water repair. Beyond that and the less than human operatives that saw to the issue, a backlog of traffic in the opposite direction grew onwards with even more lights further up. Coincidentally a passenger in a neighbouring seat had stolen her thoughts, asking another what had happened here. Fortunately the then unseen hero delivered further news of the day’s happenings: there was a major electrical fault across the village.Working hard to fix said fault beyond the acrylic window, Itzel looked upon the gear cladded humanoid Robots fixated on their job. Some were of standard builds, surveying and advising, others wider, built to carry equipment across sites. They shared similar shapes; curved visors, protected by specialist helmet guards, with bulkier limbs and built in work boots. Covering their expensive plating, baggy clothes protected them from the entrails of tarmac or oil. Some wore factory issue glove coverings, other did not, revealing the intricate joint mechanisms that allowed advanced manipulation of electrical panels connected to the lines beneath them. Each bot sported a different colour scheme, a different way of wearing clothing, all unique but easily digestible. They worked hard and took monumental pride in their labour, especially now that they were free. Most were. Itzel couldn’t deny that she quite fancied certian men who could rise above expectations to make his own, especially a labourer, those spectral colours in her hair weren’t there for nothing!A snarky comment from a passenger behind broke Itzel from her dreamy gaze, she wondered who the mechanical men she sought after were contracted under this south of the city. The unfavourable comments continued, as an older gentleman who seemed less than gentle, tck’ed away over the “lost workforce” and “inhumane existence” the Robots outside unknowingly embodied. It was the south, what could she say? Both their and her kind weren’t welcome here. Elemental industry ruled over those raised here, its past injustices still a fresh wound to many. As long as you nodded at their bickering, ignoring the fact that industry was slaughtered here in the 70’s, they wouldn’t think of you as any different. Supporting a Robot in any way however didn’t yield the same results…After an extensive wait, eventually the bus resumed its journey fourth, proceeding another exchange from the teens behind her which gave some insight into what may have spurred such a fault. In their words: “Someone damaged the mains down from the farm”. Knowing no farmer here would willingly want to harbour electricity for those “stealing” their workforce, there was only one farm they could be referring to. Piecing together the elements in her mind, promptly inspecting of the spritely weather beyond, Itzel changed her course. Unfortunately for her, the bus could not, spending excessive time shut off as the power was restored to secluded sections of the town before her. This was more than a fault.2 whole hours of browsing her phone en-route had passed, leaving Itzel desperate to get up and stretch her lightly freckled legs. Of course they were hidden behind a pair of jogging trousers, a stark contrast to her usually tech-inspired wardrobe. Again she was reminded this was the territory of man and no others. Hiding was necessary. Getting off the bus a stop before her previous moor visit, Itzel enjoyed the walk up to the substation which was not as quiet as before. Still, few beings populated the area, all humans hardly noticing the passerby on her diligent way up the hill. Glancing down at the portable cabins trying to overhear more than human office squabble, her mind was not fixed on the path ahead. Her boots became a little scuffed at a misplaced step here and there but found themselves trembling for a second or so as an aggressive scampering approached her from over the hill. Quick to acknowledge the approaching dust cloud on the sandy floor, Itzel braced herself for something to bound into her. Writhe with pants of enthrallment, clutching at the ground with dull claws whilst hunkering low to its surface, Itzel correctly identified the being racing over the peak of the hill. It was only a dog, a spontaneously athletic dog at that. Before she knew it a brown and white blur of energy burst into her sight and scampered to her feet, then with Olympic reaction, it turned on its Digigrade heels and darted back up the hill mere centimetres form her toes. There was no doubt about it- that was a Collie alright.Looking up to watch the dash of fur run off like every other animal out here, Itzel was enamoured to see a human for a change accompanying the wild fur-child. A woman, somewhere in her 30’s, humbly called the dog fourth to her heel and strolled fourth down the hill, already anticipating the flustered smile on Itzel’s sun depraved face.“I hope he didn’t scare you now?” She spoke with an accent clearly regional, but of a wealthier bracket. It was proper and akin to what the city offered- albeit with more modern John Deere and Cider mixed in there. Itzel seldom revealed her true accent, preferring a neutral one to hide her past. Responding to the figure, adorned with a Trespass jacket, homemade scarf and pixie cut, Itzel spoke with ease.“Not at all!”The chocolate brown and winter white dog returned to Itzel, giving her a weary sniff before being shooed off by their owner, Itzel gave an audible praise at the stimulated pup, noticing that one eye was Icey blue whilst the other limey green.“ackt’- Ignore him, Brie’s always snottering around strangers, ‘working dog and all that”“He must need a lot of walking then!” Itzel responded cheerfully, Brie’s owner shrugging her shoulders with an exaggerated sigh.“Yes, very much so, we like getting out when its quiet- we’re always out here, not seen you before though”“Ah, I’m not from here…” There was no expectation in the stranger’s voice, yet Itzel still tread lightly in this territory. “I’m just exploring new places, you know?”“Well be careful-“ The woman pulled at stray dog bags in her pocket, looking for something then giving up. “ Lot of rumours about this place; vigilantes, crooks, monsters, but I’ve never seen a damm thing”“Oh… I have heard, but uh… Have you seen a horse out here?” Trying to sound casual, Itzel’s question was met with excitement.“YES! The wee- well, I say wee she’s quite big- the big mare?” The woman paused, looking almost reminiscently into the moor beside her” Aye, she roams aboot the place like she owns it”“Is she abandoned or-““No, No, she’s got an owner… I think, SSPCA wont touch her- ‘harassment from locals’ is what they citied last time. I say ‘lack of funding’”“-That’s good, I thought she’d been left here or something, but she looks well fed”The woman adjusted her step and carried on forward, obviously looking to retain Brie’s attention homebound from the cold.“Aye she’s a feisty one- anyway I’m off-skies, dinny be out too long, it’ll be dark-o-clock soon” Still struggling to pick up on the nuances of slang and dialect, Itzel focused of deciphering what she said before fully realising what had been advised.“Will do~” And off they went where she came. Brie plodding along with elegance at his owner’s side.Passing by the point the two strangers once walked, Itzel began retracing her steps to where she had first met the mare. Stifling off the walkway, once more dodging the bundles of spiney dry stems below, Itzel had encompassed the beaten path back up to the peak where the equine stood. Giving the land a thorough once over, she concluded that there was no horse in sight. Having a mild captivation entrancing her mind, little thought had been given to the time of day it had drawn to. The cheerful passerby was right; the darkness wouldn’t be long out. It took half an hour to walk back to the stop before the last few buses arrived, giving her roughly 20 more minutes to walk further into the moorland. Following the flow of the hill out west, Itzel couldn’t see much of interest. Those fleeting 20 minutes came to a close and not wishing to end up falling into a bog only to be preserved for millennia to come, Itzel turned back disappointed. At least she got to explore a space without the worry of her employer’s opinion dwindling at the back of her mind.Whilst the endeavour out here was not entirely planned, Itzel was far from unprepared. Her walking shoes and clothes were there to be dirtied, wrapped in her jacket pocket a suspiciously strong flashlight awaited instruction. Whether the night prevailed or not, she had about an hour before it would come to fruition. Unbeknownst to her prior city living, the sky out here could not be blanketed so easy by light pollution, reigning over the humid midlands like no other. This realisation came to her soon, as footing slipped and distances seemed to stretch further beyond initial perception. Crickets spewed their chatter into the late afternoon, time accumulating immensely around them in the hollow atmosphere. Sudden shrubbery shifting was beginning to get on here nerves, even the dyed hair over her very scalp began to thwart that pale skin of hers. A growing fear that some cutey creature would turn sour in the earliest points of the night just to scare her grew. The Earth was pleasant, plentiful in rich experiences, yet what it harboured in the moor had grown sceptical of the lone wander’s intentions.“-Goddammit” Itzel cried to herself, having stepped on a perfectly manicured pile of rabbit droppings. She kicked it over to the side, freeing her shoes before resuming her jaunt back through the grass. Whether her senses deceived her or not, it was clearly getting darker by the minute, a welcomed aspect of the moor to her sly observer.Having rejoined the urban engineering that Itzel knew as pathways, the end was in sight, she would be home within the next few hours, cradled by the warmth of her newly installed fireplace. Perhaps on the way there

Another handful of minutes passed as per her phone’s dictation. It was almost half 4, the time of sky’s passing out in the sticks. With buzzes from flies getting ready for their short-lived fiascos and itches from their peckish bites, Itzel paid no notices to the soft claps of soil against keratin beside her. Rhythmic, they gave no rest to a subtle pursuit, concealing the pure sound of muscle above them or metallic hollowness furthermore. They saw her, struggling to maintain a good spirit amongst the surpassingly populated land. Respecting her distance, the being shifted off to the side, the valley below offering good coverage from the daunting sounds.Having rejoined the urban engineering that Itzel knew as pathways, the end was in sight, she would be home within the next few hours, cradled by the warmth of her newly installed fireplace. Perhaps on the way there a collection from a local fast-food place would grace her dry palms, her face now matching as the open air cast itself upon her. Itzel knew well she was not alone but found solace in knowing that no creature could scare her beyond the Pheasant and cocky collie she had met earlier. Curiously, her mind had almost forgot why the journey out here had perplexed her so much, if she even truly understood it. Had a horse really caused that much damage to a subterranean power system? Most likely not, yet she still felt bad for the fluffy coated friend she made all alone out here in the dawning winter.She was almost too caught up in pondering her actions, that she had failed to see her mind’s eye come to life before her. Standing off the side of a valley a couple hundred meters away, tucked into the shadows, the apparition of her thoughts stood near some smaller native birches, dried-up without the lushness of summer. Knowing the darkness held many secrets, some of which were to be ignored, she paid no attention to the oddly shaped shrubbery. From here, the front-facing ‘horse’ looked as though its head extended up past the neck with ridged curvature void of ears and mane. Believing that pollution can reach anywhere with aggressive storm gusts, it must have been a bin bag travelling through the night. Like it, she moved on. After walking what felt like an adventurer’s eternity, the last two hills came to her feet, the first holding the familiar gravel way nestled between two risen areas. It appeared manmade, with less than appropriate grass on their mounds invocative of leftover seed and soil. As she approached, a breeze gave way to some clambering from beyond, it ceased dully as Itzel grew nearby. The station must have radiated this distant hum, workers within still mauling over the lulls of their work. Ascending the path with ruefully aching feet, Itzel’s eyes struggled without the day’s oversight. With a cold hand, once tucked into the scruff of her sleeve, she began to withdraw her torch for the last few hundred feet of obscured journey ahead. Her jacket zip fought back, as it had done before, pausing her steps momentarily to overcome this minute challenge. Before she could perceive the sound of teeth clacking from above or to retrieve her torch in full, her eyes gave sight to a figure whose mouth had chittered in the now breathless night.Just to her left, planted with statue stoicism, the recognisable form of the dapple-grey mare eclipsed the horizon, adorned with a rider seated loosely upon her back. Not even her otherworldly dark hazel eyes could be seen in the shadow, nor the face of the being atop her round spine. Startling back, changing her perspective just slightly, Itzel witnessed that the horse had no bit or bridle to control her, allowing that willowy mane to brush the air’s painful crispness which now pricked Itzel’s chest. A stifled gasp left her, knowing now that she was not welcome in this moment, yet she felt at the command of something unearthly. Feigning British commodity, her voice quivered, failing to greet another in the face of adverse expectation. No words could be mustered from such a vacant pair of lungs, swept aside once more as the rider shifted their weight from one side to another. The little light that held onto the moment creeped over the rider’s clothes, giving way to speckled blemishes of metallic nature, obscuring the face purposely hunched, hiding behind the grey’s mane.Falling to the weight of her own feet, readjusting to either dart up the hill or further into the land, Itzel’s panic rose exponentially. With a tingling forehead, and feet ecstatic with desire, something deep in her core told her to flee as soon as she could. Though a perplexing case of shock glued her to the irreclaimable gravel beneath her, only wavering when the rider’s bulky arm pointed out in substations direction. A solid second sat in before she realised what was being commanded of her, the grey mare now bounced playfully on her hind legs as she had done before in shady excitement. The grim motion was understood and obeyed, as the thick rubber soles she wore hauled fourth up the hill in heated pursuit of safety. Itzel gave only a couple of glances back to assure herself that the rider and horse did not follow, fortunately they retained motionless. The rider only tilted his dark head, now clearly hidden by a hood in her direction, assuring that she fled appropriately. Careful not to trip over herself, Itzel approached the substation and dainty lamppost that stood beyond it at the bus stop. Her dusty emerald eyes could barely keep to themselves, inspecting the horizon, then to her phone with repetitive strain. As if an unsung prayer had been answered, the bus arrived mere minutes after her run from the moors, the driver within looking to her in mild annoyance.What did they know about this being, this place, that she did not?Enveloped in an ombre of autumnal hues, exaggerated upon the surfaces or wood and faux veneer, Itzel’s living room was far cosier than many would suspect. There were no televisions or desktop computers in sight, just the enticing aura emitted from her all-purpose fuel burner. Below a repurposed coffee table, a plush white Nordic patterned rug swept around the curvature of her body, now posted against the back of her newer grey couch. The beige walls embraced the flickers from the small burner’s porthole, the occasional painting encapsulating a greater depth in the hazy shadows casted upon them. Sat homely on the floor, wrapped in a thick fleecy set of pyjamas, the silver haired woman of the moor struggled to concede the day’s occurrences. Whilst cute figurine depictions of her icons watched on with solemn understanding, Itzel felt waves of concerning fear matched only to that of deep intrigue.Admittedly, there was an eeriness to the whole thing- the hushed gossip that fell upon her ears as faithful precursors to reality. Yet a greater hesitation lay ahead, as her hands wistfully avoided the screen of her mobile phone. She feared the truth that she would uncover under this masked perception of wives-tales and local political fodder, knowing that whomever she faced that afternoon dared not to be seen, cladded in the earthy darkness. Phantom or not, Itzel broke the natural light that delighted her tonal space, invading it with bright incendiary beams from her beloved phone. Squinting at the sudden barrage of industrial harshness, Itzel navigated to her preferred search engine and looked fourth to the netizens of the south for answers. There, laid out in black and white within the ever bleak news tabs, a headline spurred newfound queries into her mind:
“Masked delinquent terrorises Moorland valley locals”Then, another: “Police unable to confirm legitimacy of Moorland Hoax: Hostile local spotted once more in Windfarm”Attached to both articles were fuzzy bit-crushed images of what looked like a ridged silhouette staring down the photo’s beholder from afar, another showed a familiar sight; a masculine figure riding across the median of a hill within the swooping ranges of the very moors she had walked. There was no doubt that this ‘delinquent’ had a history of stalking unsuspecting preys of the darkness, with all pictures captured at dusk and dawn. Delving further into her searches, feeding her now ever-growing hunger for honest information, Itzel was surprised to learn of a more violent report.Linked within another more recent cryptid-esque article, another reported earlier in the year that they were shadily ‘approached’ by the rider, of whom appeared passive until getting close and personal. The original ‘victim’ stated the person had began moving the mare in “intimidating ways” but Itzel questioned the validity of this intimate encounter when they stated the being ‘lacked a head’. No wonder the police struggled to determine fact from fiction…Whoever the shadow cloaked entity turned out to be, they certainly were not welcomed by the community, and vice versa. Though with such reluctance to engage with the locals, Itzel’s inspired mind began pulling together theories to explain why she was spared from further analysis. This was no hoax, no fear-mongering delinquent either, something else laid behind that shimmer of metal she had caught wind of before fleeing, a cared-for softness to the eyes of the mare she had gotten so close to touching. There was more to this story, whether her organisation approved of such or not, it demanded to be seen.