The farm is well over a mile behind him now. The path has become little more than a sheep track making its way through the tussocks of grass. The map shows it as a dotted line rather than dashes which would have been the case had it been a well worn path or bridleway. He's been climbing steadily for the last couple of miles, nothing too steep or strenuous but tiring enough given the uneven, often boggy ground he has had to negotiate.

He pauses, taking the opportunity to catch his breath and take in his surroundings. He slips his rucksack off, placing it on the ground at his feet. Turning to face the way he has come brings into view the farmhouse - the dog that had greeted his arrival there some twenty minutes ago still barking, just audible across the distance that now separates them - nestling in the valley. The mass of Blencathra looms behind it, the ridges leading to its summit clearly defined in the early morning sunshine. The mountain is known to many as Saddleback but he still prefers its original name, a Nordic word for "Hill of Demons".

Turning away from the splendour, his gaze returns to the bleak landscape unfolding before him. This is not the Lakeland tourists flock to, not even the Lakeland favoured by many walkers as evidenced by the lack of any real paths. The boggy land ahead of him gently rises towards a ridge of cliffs - a spur arising from the slopes of Clough Head, his summit target for the day. As far as he can see - a distance of many miles - he is the only person here. Not even any sheep are visible.

He smiles, allowing the feeling of isolation to sweep over him. He feels the tension leave his body. The loneliness he feels here is a positive thing - it invigorates him. A man can forget all his worries here, can escape from the maelstrom of modern life. "Hell is other people..." - he has Sartre's quote printed and framed to hang on the wall of his office at work. Then this is surely heaven he thinks, breathing deeply of the fresh mountain air.

Enjoying the serenity of the moment, he reaches into his rucksack for the bottle of water he keeps there. Taking a swig of the now slightly warm liquid, he scans the land ahead of him, picking out his route to the summit. A shape catches his eye - little more than a dark speck on the ridge of cliffs half a mile or so away. At this distance any idea of scale is difficult, the shape could be another hiker, a sheep - even a bird, on his approach to this hanging valley he'd seen Buzzards circling overhead.

A further rummage in his rucksack retrieves his binoculars. He focusses in on the shape. The magnification does little to clarify what it is that has caught his eye. Silhouetted against the sky, what he sees is a dark, elongated form - not a sheep then, too tall, too dark. A bird perhaps - perched on the ridge, surveying the valley below, searching for prey? Bloody big one, if it is... he thinks.

And then a movement. He watches as the shape elongates, like a pencil line being drawn into the sky, watches as a pale orb appears at the top of that line and realises that he is looking at a man. Slowly, the now standing figure turns to face him. Even with the binoculars he can make out no details of the man's face. What is apparent is his baldness and that he appears to be wearing - a suit?

This incongruity causes a trickle of ice water to run down his spine and he lowers the binoculars. Involuntarily he takes a step backwards. Unsettled, the isolation he had only moments earlier revelled in now seems oppressive, disconcerting. The farmyard dog has stopped barking, silence envelops him. His heart thumps in his chest. Why this reaction? What is he scared of?

"Don't be such a tart!" he tells himself and chuckles - albeit unconvincingly.

He raises the binoculars to his eyes again, seeks out the (bald man in a suit) shape on the horizon once more. And finds him, still there, unmoving, staring at him. A tingle in his lower back as adrenaline trickles into his bloodstream. The distance is still too great to make out the man's features but he knows - feels - that the distant figure is looking straight at him. Feels too the malevolence carried in that stare.

He lowers the binoculars as tension ties knots in his stomach. He remembers how the figure had stood up and turned to look at him but his thoughts are interrupted as the water he has drunk only moments before is forcibly ejected. Bent at the waist, he retches, feels acid bile burn its way up through his chest. Straightening up again, with the back of his hand he wipes his mouth, uses his fingertips to rub away tears from the corners of his eyes.

"Oh fuck..." he realises he is trembling.

Thank God no-one can see him in this pathetic state.

Oh God, he wishes he wasn't so alone.

Not wanting to, but knowing that he must, he looks once more towards the distant ridge. No need for binoculars this time, far better to see a distant speck. Except he sees nothing. He scans the ridge, side to side, but his remote observer is gone. More adrenalin floods his system. His heart skips beats in his still burning chest. Shakily, he raises the binoculars to his eyes. Closer inspection confirms the man has gone from the ridge. He lowers his view, tracing the line of crags to the valley floor... ...and sees the dark-suited figure running towards him, long spindly legs pumping high in the air, equally long arms wind-milling for either balance or propulsion.

Before he screams and drops the binoculars, he sees the manic look on the creature's (he can no longer call it a man's) skull-like face, sees the mouth wide open in a demonic grin. In his panic he trips over his rucksack and tumbles to the springy turf. He scrambles to his feet and with legs that have become little more than jelly begins to run. Away from the thing that is pursuing him.

"Ohshitohshitohshitohshit....." tears sting his eyes once more, his heart hammers in his chest. His top of the range hiking boots make it difficult to run - as does the terrain - but caution is thrown to the wind as he hurtles across the ground. From behind he hears a high-pitched keening, the thing - whatever it is - is making a God-awful noise. Fear lends him speed. He runs, jumping over dark boggy patches, into long grass with no idea of what he will be landing on. The shrieking from behind him gets louder, he hears the thump-thump-thump of the thing pounding across the grass.

Do not look round! Do not look round!

He looks round, no more than a glance but enough to see that the thing is almost upon him. It moves with a combination of flailing run and huge bounds - like Spring Heeled Jack - and has quickly narrowed the distance between them. He screams, and even as he does feels his ankle turn beneath him on the uneven ground. His momentum carries him forward, turns his fall into a dive. He stretches his arms out in a vain attempt to cushion his fall and his scream turns from one of fear to one of pain as he feels - and hears - wrists and elbows snap.

He is face down on the damp ground, unable to move. Both of his arms are on fire with pain. He feels a bony grip on his shoulders and screams once more as he is lifted and turned in one fluid motion. He is dropped onto his back and stares death in its face.

It looms over him, jet black eyes in a pale skull bore into his own. It crouches down, squatting on its haunches, legs that are too long bent so that its knees are almost level with its shoulders. He watches as it extends its arms - again too long for its body - to either side in some obscene parody of a crucifixion and sees the talons at the end of the skeletal fingers. Bony wrists protrude from the cuffs of the jet black suit in which the thing is clothed.

His last thought is that it could really do with the next size up.

It opens it mouth to once more emit its other-worldly noise, a high-pitched scream that echoes around the valley. Fetid breath rushes past needle-sharp teeth. Those teeth, along with talon, are then put to good use.

In the distance, a dog begins barking.