I’m back in my home county of Essex for the weekend as I stay with my parents, and met up with a couple friends whom I went to Secondary School with. It was just a usual meet up, went out to the cinema then went bowling (honestly it’s getting a bit too pricey).
During a walk in the afternoon, as the sun was setting into dusk, we passed by Howards Park. I used to sit there and read books in the middle of summer and chill out sometimes with music playing from my phone. I went to walk into it with Charlie but he stopped me, grabbing my arm. I was, to say the least, confused. I know that it’s a dodgy area (most of England is pretty dodgy) but there’s lamps and a children’s park. It surely can’t have gotten that bad.
Charlie just said “No”. I know he didn’t want me to go in and find out but if anything he peaked my interest. He knows that I write these articles, he knows that I’m a person who wants to know anything about everything. Later, once we said our goodbyes, I went back to the park.
I had my backpack on still, carrying The Werewolf of Fever Swamp by R.L. Stine, a notepad and pen, torch, a battery pack and wireless headphones. In my left pocket, my phone and in my right a pocket knife and my house keys.
I walked into the park, trying my best not to step on the leaves and twigs spread across the floor. I was slightly hunched, my legs bent at the knee, wary of my surroundings. I could feel a bit of sick at the back of my throat from nerves.
I walked up to the middle-most bench, and looked around. It seemed completely empty apart from the memorial statue that stood with a torch, the flame originally lit at night, but tonight it flickered and faded out.
I heard a rustle in the direction of the court, with both a tennis and a basketball court, surrounded by a metal fence. A No Dogs sign faded by the sun from when it decided to show from behind the cloudy sky of England. I walked over, hand gripped around my pocket knife.
I could see a vague shadow standing next to the metal fence. A deer, I thought, although I also thought they weren’t in the UK, or at least the south east. I kept my distance, only seeing the shadow of deer antlers from the reflection of the moon. I slowly unzipped my bag, and searched around for my torch, before getting it out and turning it on in their direction.
That’s when I saw 4 or maybe 5 people, each around six feet in height wearing brown hoodies and had dear masks on their heads. Blood was dripping from underneath the mask, but they were alive. They stared at me. All of them. Two of them had antlers, the others did not.
I froze.
It wasn’t a pleasant sight. The masks had eye holes, and the smell of rotting flesh emanated from them to a point where I gagged on it. The ones with antlers held kitchen knives, and they looked like deer in headlights (ha), not moving, only staring at me. At my torch. Staples kept the masks on, stabbed into their necks, another source of the dripping blood.
The one on the left stood up, and slowly walked towards me. I felt like I was in a trance. As it moved, the nose of the mask flopped slightly to one side. I started to walk backwards, I didn’t want to die that day, my pocket knife firmly in my pocket.
If they tried anything I would at least have something. I knew the area, I could try and get away. I let it get closer than I was comfortable with, the smell of rot even harsher against my senses now. It breathed onto my neck through its mask, almost as if it came from the mask’s nostrils rather than from the person behind it.
The blood from its neck dripped slowly, but it wasn’t runny, more thick, like gravy. I could see the fur decaying, and a glint of the eyes behind the mask. They were pitch black. Even up close.
The thing held the knife by its side. I guess it didn’t see me as a threat, which I suppose is fair because I’m a skinny nerd, there isn’t much I could do. I stayed completely still, I thought maybe it was waiting for me to do something. To fight it.
Then, another rustle in the bushes. A fox, slightly visible, rushed under the bench and in front of the creature standing before me. It huffed, stepping backwards, afraid. The others had climbed off the bench into a circle, looking around frantically.
I took this moment and ran for it. I ran out of the park, up the hill, then down the other side of the hill, down a backroad and reached my parents house.
I don’t know what happened that night, but I’ve tried to recall the events that took place to the best of my memory. The sight of the things, the smell of the rot, and the feel of their hot breath are ingrained in my brain. I don’t know what they were and it’s probably better if I don’t find out.
Celestial Publishing 