Blackfell Tarn

A psychological horror story of a lost night in the mountains

When I was 17, a group of us got stranded in the mountains of North Wales. A combination of an overly ambitious route, a little concussion from a fall in a stream and sheer bloody exhaustion meant that as night fell, we were still high up in the hills, swamped by fog and had to make an impromptu camp for the night.

We were well prepared and pitched our tents, cooked a meal and settled down for the night. We were safe. But strange things started to happen. Some of our group were certain they could hear people outside the tent. Others could hear animals. There was something about the isolation, the exhaustion and the uncertainty that sprung from not being where you should be that put normally rational people on edge, leading to a sleepless night.

When we awoke in the morning, the fog had lifted and we opened the tents to some of the most spectacular views we had ever seen, made more profound for how unexpected they were. It was like the spirit that had held the camp in its grasp that night was released. But for those hours in the dark, in the hills, in the fog, that spirit felt very real.

And it’s that spirit that I wanted to capture here, by the fictional shores of Blackfell Tarn. I wrote this psychological horror short story in a productive burst of a couple of hours, but it’s taken me months to edit it to a place where I’m sort of happy.

I hope you enjoy it.

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‘Click.’

There it was again, just outside the tent and only millimetres away through gossamer thin nylon.

‘Click, click.’

That familiar sound of flint scraping against steel to create an ominous spark.

‘Click.’

And with every click, a bright flash of light illuminated the inside of Simon’s tent.

A child’s laugh echoed around the looming mountains.

‘Click, click.’

Each flash was like lightning awaiting the inevitable rumble of thunder.

‘Click.’

And then it came. A slow crackle outside the tightly zipped flap that had gifted Simon the illusion of safety over the last few crazed hours. As smoke began to trickle in through the mesh vents of the sealed door, it started to resemble a prison.

Until now, he had been terrified of what awaited him outside. Terrified of the presence that had haunted him through the hills. The noises. The rocks that would hit him when there was nobody around. The screams and the laughs that had bounced around in the gloom. And the dense fog that set in from nowhere and forced him to hurriedly make camp on the edges of Blackfell Tarn.

Noxious fumes began to swirl their way into his mouth and fill his nose like a malevolent spirit seeking a host. And the fear of what lurked outside was replaced by the growing terror of being trapped by the burning mass that was starting to consume his tent.

That laugh again. His son’s laugh. Joshua’s laugh.

The laugh seemed to skip around the tent, first to his right. Then behind him. Then to his left. Simon recalled their camping trips when he was young, hearing Josh’s tiny feet scamper around the tent as he giggled playfully. He felt the instinct to warn Josh not to trip over the ropes boil up through his gut and rise into his chest. But as the words hit the reality of his immolating tent, they disappeared into the choking smoke.

A child’s silhouette briefly danced across the fabric wall next to Simon’s head, before disappearing into the darkness.

Simon desperately grasped around the tent, feeling for his torch. To escape, he needed his knife and he needed the light to find it.

His hand wrapped around the cold, metallic body of the torch, and he frantically fumbled for the button.

‘Click.’

Nothing.

‘Click click.’

He frantically jabbed at the button, but the torch lay lifeless in his hand.

‘Click.’

The flames reared up sharply against the zipped door. Without the knife, there was no way out.

Simon pushed himself towards the back of the tent and lay low to avoid the smoke. As he shuffled backwards, his hand fell against the damp fabric of his rucksack. Hope.

Forcing open the strap, he plunged inside, pulling out clothes, washbags, cooking supplies. But he couldn’t lay his fevered grasp upon the one thing that might save him.

Fire hungrily devoured what had been his sanctuary but would soon resemble his tomb. Streaks of flame climbed up the guy ropes like a burning hand, eviscerating the moorings into plumes of ash in its wake.

Finally he gripped something cool and hard.

Simon couldn’t see an inch in front of him now through the dense layers of acrid tasting smoke. His clothes began to stick to his skin, the hairs on his arms started to singe. The heat suffocated him as the tent succumbed to the unstoppable wrath of flames that took hold of almost every surface around him. Almost. But there was still one part of the wall that remained, and if he could slice his way through the thin material, he would be free.

The dull metallic body of the flick knife was already beginning to get hot, but his grip was unflinching. He slid his nail into the thin groove of the blade and pulled, but it remained resolutely entombed in the handle. He tried again. The handle was getting ever hotter but his grip remained steadfast around the stifling metal. He tried to settle his shaking hands and focus on the task ahead. One pull of the blade and he would be free.

He took a steadying breath, but his lungs filled with acrid smoke. His body convulsed in violent waves of coughing as his lungs tried to expel the poison that now filled his airways. And as his body contorted he felt the precious knife fall from his blistered grasp and into the raging abyss of what was his tent.

Simon knew his last hope had just been extinguished.

That laugh again. That child’s laugh cutting through the deafening howl of flame.

He pushed himself back as far as he could and curled into a ball. Tears stung his charred face as he wept uncontrollably. The fire now surrounded him. This was the end.

In his final moments, flashes of Joshua appeared in Simon’s mind.

The excitement of his birth and how it felt to hold this tiny, precious child against his skin for the first time.

Watching on with pride during Josh’s first mountain climb and talking him down on his rope when he got scared.

“I’ve got you Joshie, just trust the rope. I won’t let anything happen to you, just jump!”

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1…..”

Then scooping him up as he landed in his safe, welcoming arms.

When the darkness took over his beautiful son, it did so slowly; growing like tendrils of ivy that slowly suffocated a precious building. The vines would envelop him so completely that no light could enter, leaving only the darkness inside.

First came the screaming fits. The smashed windows. The bruises on Josh’s sister’s arms and legs. And then on her face. Josh’s best friend returning home with a fractured arm. The day he found Joshua standing over the lifeless body of their pet cat with a bloodied stick in his hand. And a smile. That fevered grin laced across his face.

The doctors never could find anything wrong. Josh met their gentle interrogations with an eerie calm, that fevered grin buried beneath an angelic veneer. A veneer that was impenetrable to all, even his own mother. But not to Simon. He could see the malevolent spirit that lurked behind the façade, occupying the space that his son had once inhabited.

When the end came, when Josh died, Simon felt nothing but relief. The doctors would never find what had taken Josh’s light, before it finally took his life.

The flames were closing in now, they wrapped Simon like a blanket. The searing heat pulled the skin from his body, melting flesh into fabric. He was becoming a boiling mass as he held onto the faintest traces of consciousness.

And then came the guilt. The guilt he should have felt when the relief of his son’s death flooded through him like a sweet release.

That feeling overwhelmed him more than the heat. More than the flames. More than the poisonous smoke and the intensity of the fire that raged around his body. It was the guilt that raged around his soul that was truly killing him.

With his last gasps of breath, Simon let out a gut wrenching cry, the final cry of a dying animal.

‘I’M SORRY, JOSH. I’M SO SORRY!’ Simon sobbed uncontrollably. He sobbed for the boy he had lost. He sobbed for the boy he had been unable to save. He sobbed for the life that should have been.

He sank his blistered face into his charred hands, and took a final, desperate breath. But instead of the noxious fumes of smoke that should have filled his lungs, he felt cool mountain air flow through his body like a stream. Another breath and precious, life-giving oxygen surged through his veins.

He could no longer feel the heat blistering his skin. The night was silent. Gingerly he opened his smoke-ravaged eyes, but they didn’t sting. Or ache. Or burn. His clothes were still intact. The charring on his hands was gone. He slowly surveyed the scene that had only seconds earlier been an infernal vision of the netherworld. The torch he had so feverishly tried to spark into life merely minutes before now cast a reassuring beam of light throughout the tent. It felt warm and homely. And safe.

The noises that had plagued him had stopped, replaced by the sumptuous silence of the night. The knife within which he had placed all of his hopes for survival lay casually on his pillow.

Simon sat up and crawled cautiously forward. He ran his hands across the moist nylon wall of the tent. As he shuffled ahead, he absorbed the sensation of every touch. The crinkled material of his sleeping bag. The crunch of rice packets as they gave way beneath his knees.

Was he going mad? Or was this force that had haunted him playing tricks? Feelings of fear, confusion and confinement all battled one another in his mind as he tried to comprehend his surroundings.

Then he set his eyes upon the zipped fabric door that during the frenzy of the fire had loomed like the walls of a fortress. He knew that whatever was going on, whatever the explanation, he had to get out. He knew he had to get off this mountain.

Simon hurriedly put on his waterproof coat. “Forget the rucksack” he thought to himself. He would only carry the essentials he needed to get to safety as quickly as he could. He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew he couldn’t spend the night in these hills.

He reached for the door with apprehension, not quite believing he may be about to escape from the place where he was convinced he was going to die. As he pulled, the zip effortlessly separated and the cool night air flooded the tent. Simon crawled into the damp grass and felt the dew drops soak his hands and knees. He stood tentatively, stretching his muscles as he unfurled himself from his confinement. And without looking back, he strode into the night.

He was free.

Hours passed and the miles amassed beneath Simon’s boots. The night had been peaceful and calm as he left the tent, the gloom that had forced him to set-up camp having lifted and he was keeping a good pace. But the fog was beginning to close in on him once more, and he felt a chill surround his body that made him retreat further into his coat.

He knew that if he kept the shores of Blackfell Tarn to his left, he would come to a clearing through a forest which would lead to the main road. And although he couldn’t see the water, he could hear the waves of the lake slowly lapping against the shoreline. As long as he kept that sound to his left, he would find freedom from the horrors that had plagued him.

He found that the water began to relax him. The gentle fizz of the bubbles as they lapped up against the pebble beaches that littered the sides of the lake. The sound of fallen leaves being displaced by the water. The occasional chatter of a moorhen or duck floating unseen merely yards from where he tread.

They were a far cry from the sounds that had haunted him earlier. The piercing laughter of a child that reverberated around the timeless stone of the mountains. The clatter of rocks as they pelted him from an unseen source. The cries of an unseen animal.

These were gentler sounds. Natural sounds. And they soothed him as the terror began to rise and the fog exerted its relentless grip on his body and mind.

He had been walking for a long time now. Far longer than he anticipated. But with a dead phone and without a watch, there was no way of knowing how long had passed since he stumbled into the night.

He had to have faith in his plan. As long as the tarn remained on his left, he would find rescue. And as the waves continued to break gently against the shore, he strode ahead with a renewed confidence.

A light. Only a soft light, but a light nonetheless. Peering through the thick fog. He could still hear the tarn, so he knew it couldn’t be the road yet, but maybe there were others camping beside the lake that night. Maybe they could help him off the mountain. Hope. He started running towards the faint beam, which floated in and out of vision as thicker waves of fog blew in from the water. Occasionally, he thought he lost sight of it and panic rose in his body, until the light returned. Stronger as he began to get close.

“Hello? HELLO?!” he bellowed, praying that he would see the light move. That he would hear a tent door open and hear the voices of people calling through the darkness to meet his own.

He felt as though he could reach out and touch the fabric of the light now and his run evolved into a sprint. The beam shook in his vision with every stride, but it was there and it was tangible. He placed his foot on a loose rock and his ankle twisted sharply beneath him, sending him crumpling into a heap upon the jagged stone. Pain shot through his body and he gripped tightly to his leg. He looked up, hoping that the light would be moving towards him, but it remained stationary.

He could see it now, and his heart sank. The swirling fog lifted just enough for him to see the familiar frame. The distinctive orange sheet. The door he had left unzipped hours before. All illuminated by the torch he had turned on during his frantic escape. The water continued to break gently to his left hand side.

‘Crack.’

A rock thundered into the ground inches away from his head.

‘Crack.’

Another splintered into pieces as it shattered against the rise of the mountain to his side.

And another, this one splashing into the lake. More this time, some hitting his chest and legs, raining down on him from an unseen source.

“Who’s there?! Who is doing this to me?!” he shouted hopelessly into the night. Simon lay still and helpless, the pain shooting through his badly twisted ankle. He dare not try to stand for fear of his leg giving way and to avoid being a target for the next rock bearing in on him. But just as suddenly as they had started, they stopped.

Simon felt something move against his arm. Something soft and fleeting. It moved down his body and across his leg. He was too scared to look. Deliberate paws padded up his trousers and he felt something nuzzle against his chest. His eyes slowly glanced to see what he knew to be there. His cat. The cat that had died. That Joshua had killed. And there it lay against his wounded frame. Its eyes had a ferocity to them, glaring back at him as two bright yellow beams. It had a presence that he could feel wrap around his soul, like it was digging its claws inside his heart. Simon felt powerless to escape, but he knew he had to move.

Fuelled by terror, he pushed the cat from his body and carefully tried to stand. Agony exploded from within his boot, but he knew he had to move. It was his only chance. Simon glanced at the tent and turned in the opposite direction. He looked back for the cat, but it had vanished.

Simon knew it wasn't the right way, but he had no other option. He had to escape. Somehow, he had to get down.

No sooner had he begun to move than the rocks pelted him again. Simon stumbled ahead blindly, seeking shelter behind rises in the rock, only to find himself struck from the other side.

Then the laughter started again. A high-pitched child’s laugh, but with a deep malevolence. Like something sinister had taken possession of a young boy. His young boy.

He began to scramble as the terrain became steeper, not really looking where he was going as the voices and the rocks homed in on their target.

“Daaaad?” “Daaaaaaddy?”

Voices began to emerge from the laughter now, leering from the fog. Mocking voices that bounced from the rocks around him.

Simon almost forgot about the pain from his ankle as he fought back the tears. He gripped each rock in turn, and he was climbing now, guided only by blind instinct.

“You let me die.”

The voice nearly stopped him in his tracks, but he knew he had to carry on. The mountain levelled out into what he could sense was a narrow ridge. It would be insane to tackle this in the fog, but it was his only way.

“You let me die, Daddy.”

Simon pressed on along the ridge. He could feel a breeze begin to whip through his hair and across his clothes. A cold wind wrapped around his body as he limped along the narrow path. Raindrops slowly showered against his coat, before the heavens unleashed a torrent of water that hit him horizontally as he trudged blindly across the edge.

“Why did you let me die, Daddy?”

The mountain began to get steeper again. The dense fog swirled down into the valley and for the first time he could see where he was. He looked back and could see only the narrowest of paths. It would be impossible to go back that way on his ankle across the wet rock. Looking forward, he saw a vertical wall rising impenetrably in front of him. On both sides lay a sheer drop. No way forward. No way back. Terror began to rise through his body as the claustrophobia engulfed him.

He was trapped by the mountain. Trapped by the weather. Trapped by his past.

His foot slipped and sent loose shale shattering down the side of the mountain. He fell to his knees and held onto the rock to halt the fall.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Daddy.”

The voice was all he could conceive. The pain of his ankle had faded into the night, replaced by the pain of his guilt. Of the son he had lost. Of the future that was gone.

“You know what you have to do.”

It was controlling him now. Tears ran down Simon’s cheeks. His hands shook on the rock. More shale went tumbling down the mountain. He dare not move. Dare not breathe.

“I know, Josh.” For the first time, he replied.

“I know what I have to do.”

His fate was sealed.

“I’ve got you Daddy, just trust the rope. I won’t let anything happen to you. Just jump.”

Simon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His lungs remained clear. He knew there was no rope.

No escape.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1….”