Sanctuary Life
A true ghost story for Halloween
A true ghost story for Halloween
Many years ago, when I was a little girl I used to ride my pony across the lonely Houndkirk Moor which is on the outskirts of Sheffield. It was a beautiful area of countryside with a long sandy track going straight across the middle. One fine summer day I saddled up John Peel for a gentle ride across the moor. He was a rescued ex-race pony with a feisty temperament and fey and unpredictable nature. He was no ordinary pony and there had been many owners before me – he’d seen them all off! Peel was a fleabitten grey, that is a white pony with pink flecks all over him. It is an unusual colour but he was very handsome and there was an very strong bond between us.
Peel loved our rides across the moor and used to stride on with ears pricked and a spring in his step. This particular early autumn day was fine and crisp with a blue sky and not a cloud to be seen. The moor could be unpredictable though and as we went further on the ancient roman road a sudden mist came down and shrouded the heather. It became damp but although visibility was down to a few yards i wasn’t worried, we knew the way well enough. Peel had a better sense of direction that me and I thought there was little chance of getting lost. Still, it was a bit eerie and I began to have a sense of unease. Peel started champing at the bit and skittering sideways. I thought he was getting spooked by the mist.
When I heard voices up ahead, it was a relief. A party of hikers maybe, we’d catch them up and have some company. I loosened the reins but Peel was reluctant to go forward. I urged him on but his gait had become stiff. No matter how fast we went it seemed that the people were still up ahead. Sounds carry strangely on a moor, was that why we couldn’t catch them up?
We made some progress in spite of Peel’s reluctance and the voices were louder now. I could tell that it was men talking but I still couldn’t make out what they were saying. I heard another sound too, a clanking of metal, a thwack of leather and …..a trundling sound, like the wheels on a cart going across uneven ground. A sense of fear crept into both of us. Peel suddenly jerked to a halt, refusing to move. At the same time I realized that the words were unfamiliar because the men were talking in Latin.
I guessed we were near to Higger Tor, which was the remains of a Roman fort, although I couldn’t see it through the mist. The sounds went on and I held my breath. I knew what they were. It was marching, ancient footsteps and weapons and an army of men on the move. The sounds were immediately ahead, another few yards and I’d be in amongst the soldiers. But Peel’s hooves seemed glued to the ground. He wouldn’t or couldn’t move.
A sharp sound cracked the air around us like a shot from a rifle …. g-back,g-back,g-back…. it was the gutteral sound of a grouse. It made us both nearly jump out of our skins. The voices ahead also stopped instantly and there was an absolute and terrifying silence. I sensed that whoever or whatever was there was listening. The only movement was the swirling mist all around us. G-back,g-back,g-back, the bird screeched again. Peel sprang into life, spinning round and galloping hell for leather back the way we had come. I clung on desperately, I was unable to guide him or get him to slow down. My riding hat flew off my head, the reins fell from my hands and only Peel’s mane and a measure of luck kept me in the saddle. He seemed to skim over the rocks and boulders and how he kept to the track and didn’t stumble and break a leg I would never know.
It was like going through a curtain and into the light, as quickly as the mist had come down, it disappeared. We were into bright sunlight, birds sang, there were cars on the distant road and sheep were grazing placidly in the heather.
Peel shuddered to a stop with his sides heaving. I dismounted and although my legs were shaky, I walked Peel the rest of the way home. He was lathered in sweat and I was dishevelled and flecked with mud. I often think about the Houndkirk Moor and wonder if the Roman legions are still marching there. What would have happened if we’d gone further into the mist? My premonition was that we’d wouldn’t have come back and from that day I’ve never been up on the moor again.
A true story by Annemarie Cayzer