The Grey by Andrew McAuley

Simon sucked in damp moorland air. Panting, he turned to look back the way he’d come. The carpark was a smudge in the distance. Wind ruffled his greying hair and threatened to dislodge him from the rocky highpoint of the tor. He braced himself against his hiking stick. Regaining control over exhausted lungs he tugged his water bottle from his rucksack and took a swig. 

He consulted the hiking app on his smartphone. He’d walked three kilometres. It felt like more. The route was 45% complete. The app showed an abrupt turn West. Simon pivoted, getting his bearings and turned into a swift thrust of wind. 

He stumbled, trying to steady himself with his stick. The sudden shift in weight sent the stick spinning off the granite boulders. Flailing, Simon followed. 

Looking up at the sky, he patted himself down, satisfied that nothing hurt. Not even his usual aches. Propping himself up on his elbows he looked about. He’d fallen about ten feet onto grass. He was lucky, if clumsy. 

‘Thought I’d kicked the bucket,’ he muttered. 

A thick grey fog surrounded the tor. Had he been unconscious? He wasn’t sure but had no recollection of the impact with the ground. He took out his phone. Dead. Either damaged in the fall or he’d been unconscious for some time. 

‘Guess I’ll just head back the way I came.’ He stood and took a few careful steps. Legs and lungs felt ok. The walking stick was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’d be able to walk back without it. The carpark was downhill. He took a first few steps when he became aware of a figure walking up toward the Tor. 

‘Hello!’ Simon called. The echo of his voice seemed to carry forever through the greyness. 

The figure made no acknowledgement but marched directly toward him with a purposeful stride. Simon waved. The fog seemed to swirl more thickly around this black silhouette of a man. Its arms remained rigid, not even swinging with the motion of walking. As the figure neared the fog around the tor seemed to grow denser. 

Where was that damn walking stick? Simon looked about for it. Anything he could hold onto for security. He dashed a few steps, finding only rocks and damp grass he turned one way then another, searching. Daring to look back at the stranger he found him mere metres away. Not a man. A black man-shaped mass. Dark matter yet slightly opaque. A dark shadow. A void given life. 

Simon scrambled over rocks. The shadow followed. Its footfalls making no sound. 

‘What do you want?’ Simon threw a handful of small stones at the figure. They passed right through. Still the shadow advanced. 

Simon fled. Heedless of snags on the ground or to direction or purpose other than distance between himself and pursuer. A flash of colour caught his attention through the fog- a hiker! Resting on the grass below a plateau of granite.

‘Help!’ Simon pleaded, hurrying to hiker. The man lay on his back. Hiking stick at his side. Simon halted beside him. Gaping down at the sight of his own pale, lifeless face. Dead eyes staring up into the grey. He became aware of his shadow behind him. Simon shut his eyes. 

Andrew McAuley is the author of a novel and numerous shorter pieces of varying genres including comedy, historical, horror and children’s stories. He lives in Devon, UK. His work features in an anthology of Devon writers. He is currently working on a historical novel and wargaming rulebook.