Welcome to Harton

The horror that would befall the village of Harton began on an autumn evening.

For the man from London, it was a weekend away from life in the capitol. A respite however brief from the crowds and relentless pace of life in the city. He wanted peace and solitude, fresh air and to see rolling hills once more, and the Yorkshire Dales provided such things in abundance.

He had no idea what would happen, and why should he? He knew of course people went missing all the time in the Dales just like they went missing everywhere else. National parks and wilderness areas hardly had the monopoly of sudden and inexplicable disappearances. A lot of the time they were found alive, albeit cold, exhausted and bewildered. Others were far less fortunate. Not everyone who disappeared was ever found.

This did not bother him one bit. He had done camping trips in the Lake District many times, as well as a sojourn in the Cairngorms far, far to the North. He did not like to brag, but he believed himself a capable outdoorsman, one hiding beneath the façade of a successful media consultant with a high end BMW and an apartment overlooking the Thames. These trips to National Parks was his way of letting go of all the problems and worries that made his life in London so chaotic and, dare he admit it, worth living. Everyday was a challenge, a way to rise up above the flotsam and jetsam, striving toward an even higher paying job with less work. The dream.

Thus these wild camping weekends the Man from London saw as just another challenge, another way to prove himself.

That is why after climbing up a rocky outcrop the Man took out his phone, opened Instagram and took a suitably dramatic pose with the sun setting behind him, staining the sky a gorgeous mess of orange and red. He tried not to look to smug as he did it, but it was hard. He posted it and liked it to get the ball rolling, confident his followers (all hundred of them) would lap it up.

He put his phone away, and took a deep cleansing breath of the crisp autumnal air and exhaled. He surveyed the land around him, the rolling hills and valleys, or Dales as they called them in these parts. and those little pockets of woodland. The brilliant greens and vibrant purples that made this place so colourful in summer were slowly turning, fading to a more uniform brown. Still, it had a beauty one simply did not find in the metropolis down south.

He stood there for a few minutes, then took another photo from a different angle. After it posting and pocketing his phone, the Man from London made his way back down the rocky outcrop and set off in the direction of a cliff he felt would be ideal as a place to set up camp for the night.

Night came with a darkness city dwellers could never truly understand until experiencing it first-hand. The only points of light came from distant farm houses, and the glow from the village of Harton far off. Here the darkness was absolute, and only on a clear night could one see clearly.

This night the stars and moon were utterly hidden by thick clouds. The Man from London did not care overly. He had cooked his high protein meal on the portable stove, enjoyed a fine craft beer made by a company his childhood friend owned, then a few minutes checking on various social trends he followed, before finally he settled in for the night, wrapping himself up in his sleeping bag like a cocoon. Content. He had fallen asleep rather quickly, the only sound the whistling of the wind outside, and the soft rustle of his tent.

How long he had been asleep for he did not know, but he was awoken to a strange sound.

A metallic sound like the rattling of chains.

He listened hard, waiting for the sound to come again. After a while he decided it was nothing and closed his eyes, hoping to get some more uninterrupted sleep. It was a fairly long drive back to London and he wanted an early start in the morning.

The rattling sound began anew. Closer this time.

The Man from London struggled out of his sleeping bag and grabbed his beanie with headtorch attached and after some fumbling found the zipper for his tent. He pulled it down and poked his head out, remembering to switch the torch on after a moment of confusion.

The light revealed only the gently swaying long grass.

He heard the chains again.

He got out of the tent and looked around. Behind his tent the bleak cliff of limestone rose up. He scanned the area, listening for the chains.

His torch began to flicker and then died.

"Stupid bastard thing," he muttered, taking it off and fiddling with on and off switch. "I bloody well charged you before I left!"

True to form the torch flared to its maximum setting as he held it before his face, blinding him with its glare.

"Bastard!" he said, blinking. He put the hat back on an waited for the afterimage of the light to fade. He could hear the rattling sound now clearly.

It was coming from above him. Atop the cliff.

He looked up, the torch light slowly climbing the rugged stone until it revealed a figure standing at the edge. The torch on his head began to flicker once more, slowly fading.

"Hello?" The Man from London said in a less than friendly tone.

Though the light from his torch was dying, it was enough to reveal, however briefly, the figure stood looking down at him.

It was enough to invoke a fearful response in the Man from London, a visceral primaeval reaction to danger. The sort of reaction our ancestors would have had when faced with a predator.

He did not have time to flee, though where to would that have been?

A spear with cruel hooks burst  through his right shoulder. The Man screamed at the sudden all encompassing pain, and struggled at the barbed tip protruding from his shoulder. He had never before felt pain like this, nor a fear so primal. Craning his neck, he saw a long rusty chain connected to the spear, its length disappearing into the darkness.

Then the chain began to retract with a sudden burst of force that had the Man fall backward. He was being pulled with a horrific pace along the ground and up the cliff face. He pawed weakly at the limestone, leaving smears of blood.

Struggle all he might, he could not escape.

Finally he reached the top of the cliff, and there beheld the figure who had captured him. A hand that was far too big gripped his head, holding aloft as he felt the pressure from the spear release.

He babbled. Demanding to be released. Then begging. A frantic, childlike tantrum. His legs thrashed uselessly and he beat furiously at the hand and the arm that held him, though his strength was ebbing. Even were he not wounded, it would not have helped so terrible and great was the strength in that which held him aloft.

And then he saw the face of the thing that held him. He looked into its eyes and saw his death coming and quite understandably wet himself.

In his last moments, the Man from London saw the big rusty cleaver held in a big, meaty first, swing in a horizontal arc.

There was pain, and a sudden sense of weightlessness.

He's cut off my head, was the last thoughts the Man from London had before darkness came.

It would be three days before the Man from London was noticed to be missing. In the village of Harton his BMW 7 series lay abandoned where he had left it five days previously in the car park of the Drovers Arms. He had paid the publican of the Drovers for the privilege of parking his car there, which did not please the latter particularly as it was such a big vehicle and the Man from London had parked it "like a twat," somehow taking up two spaces. Still, the publican took the proffered money with a smile.

Every little helps, after all.

That was the nature of Harton. Its people were all smiles, and for the most part that smile was genuine. The town was a cluster of old buildings on either side of a main street where one found the local shop, the Drover's Arms and the church in the centre of town. It lay in a valley surrounded by dense wooded hillsides and had a river, which was really more a stream, running through it that would in times of heavy rain or melting snow, flood the lower part of the town.

Harton itself lay in deep in the Yorkshire Dales and was torturous two hour drive from Skipton along narrow lanes, passing bucolic rolling hills and fields bisected by ancient dry-stone walls and several other villages that grew further and further apart. These villages and towns, untouched over centuries, had been invaded by those fleeing London and other metropolises and in so doing, many of the native inhabitants had been pushed out. Harton though, remained as it always had. At least for now. Hikers used it as a base point in which to set forth and explore the Dales beyond, and the extra trade they brought was welcomed. It was still too distant, too isolated, to yet suffer the displacement of its native people. So the town continued on as it always.

That blissful existence came to an end that October on a particularly chill and grey Tuesday morning.

William Jones was the trainee Ranger for Harton's National Park Office, and on that morning he was having doubts about his choice of vocation.

It had seemed a perfect job for him. Working outdoors and getting paid, it sounded perfect. He loved the outdoors. He loved camping. He loved the idea of being the protector of nature, a custodian of the wilderness. Not for him the soul-crushing banality of an office job like his dad or older brother (who were both bloody miserable). No. A year working in Cardiff City Council had been enough to convince William, his future lay anywhere but stuck in an office having to deal with endless paperwork and the HR department for every minor issue because someone got offended or couldn't do their job.

So when the job had come up for trainee ranger at Harton Ranger Station, William had jumped at it. A fresh start. A new beginning.

Three months in and the dream had soured for the twenty-six year old. It was long stretches of boredom consisting of paperwork, cleaning up campsites, repairing fences, having to deal with people who thought a £200 plus insulated jacket meant they could go to the North Pole and not feel the cold.

People William had come to learn in a short time, especially those who in lived in big cities, were like children when taken out of the environment they had been raised in.

William's boss was Martin Whittaker. He was surly but was not too bad as a boss and mentor, although he was less keen on the mentoring side of things and preferred to have William do something and then decide afterward if he gone about it the wrong way. William frequently got things wrong but was learning. Slowly. Martin also used William to do all the bureaucratic side of things he himself despised, handling emails etc.

William was getting bored. In truth, he did not know what sort of life he had envisioned this to be. But what he did know, this was not it.

But when the call came of the missing hiker, William felt a surge of excitement. A missing person, something to do. Something that involved actually getting out into the wide open world!

Martin told William to take the old and battered Polaris Ranger and search the area north of Harton. He would handle the southern part. According to the publican of the Drovers the hiker, whose name no one seemed to know, had mentioned Scriven's Rest, a hill popular amongst campers for its views and ease of access. The latter was the primary reason Martin sent William. He did not think the younger man was up to the challenge of the more difficult terrain of the region, especially on his own.

So William drove the Polaris along the track, scanning the area for the missing hiker. The sky was darkening when at last Scriven's Rest came into view and William had to park the Polaris and go the rest of the way on foot. Wrapped up in his waterproof jacket and insulated fleece, William was for the first time in a long time, happy. He was doing something at last. Something exciting.

He saw the tent as he drew closer, trudging over the sodden heather. It was a bright garish orange, designed to stand out. There was no sign of anyone, though it was possible they were in the tent. He radioed in to Martin and told him he had found the campsite at the base of the hill and pressed on.

Eventually he reached the campsite. The tent was open, flapping erratically in the wind. It looked expensive the tent did, likely costing more than William owned. But there was no sign of its occupant. He radioed in again to Martin to update him and was about to do a quick search of the area when he spotted something in the scree at the base of the limestone cliff.

A body. It had been hidden from view at first, but when he began to circle the tent it revealed itself. Feeling his excitement drain away and replaced by dread, William approached. "Hello? You.. alright there?" he asked, doubting he would get a response.

As he saw the body in its entirety, William promptly threw up.

After he had emptied his stomach William called Martin over the radio.

"Christ lad, what is it now?" Martin asked, his voice but the annoyance obvious.

"I... I found the hiker," Martin said, his throat still burning from the bile.

"What? How is he?"

"He's dead," William replied, forcing himself to look at the corpse.

For a moment Martin was silent. Then. "Are you sure?"

And all of a sudden, a boring desk job did not seem too bad.

"Pretty sure... his head's gone."

Another surge of vomit erupted after he caught sight of the wound, that grisly gaping ruin where a neck and head should be.

All of a sudden, a boring job in an office did not seem so bad.

It had taken a good three hours for the Police to arrive, along with the rescue service (bit late for that, William thought darkly). The crime scene people in their spotless white coveralls had cordoned off the area around the tent and base of the cliff and had set up spotlights to light it all up as night descended.

A helicopter had come to take the body away. William and Martin were sat in the slightly less battered Polaris vehicle Martin laid claim to, watching the scene from a distance.

"What a sodding mess," Martin said, taking a swig from a bottle of Famous Grouse whiskey.

"Yeah," William replied flatly. "First time I saw a dead body." Martin handed him the bottle.

"Have a swig lad, it'll make you feel better."

William did. The fiery liquid did a good a job at getting ride of the taste of vomit, though why in the name of God would people drink this for pleasure?

"Thanks," William croaked, handing the bottle back to Martin. "Have you ever... I mean... has this ever happened before?"

"What? A hiker getting his head lopped off?" Martin said, looking toward the blinking lights of the helicopter as it headed away across the dark landscape. "No. People die here by exposure to the elements, or falling whilst climbing or dropping down a bloody crag. I've been doing this twenty five years and not once have I ever had someone turn up with their head missing."

"It was awful," William said, the image of the headless corpse seared into his memory. "And there that was... that... other wound in the shoulder. A big hole. What the fuck could have caused that?"

Martin glanced at William. "Don't think on it lad, its out of our hands now. Let the police do all the work, its what them bastards are supposed to be doing anyway. Chances are its some bloody lunatic off his tits wandering the moorland. The police will catch them and all this will be but an awful memory."

"What do we do?" William asked.

"Our job as normal. We keep the park running same as always, though we probably should warn any silly sods who want to come here hiking or camping that it may not be the best idea given the situation. Whether they listen or not is another question."

Martin slapped William on the back. "Come on, lets head back. I could do with a drink."

William got out and went toward his own vehicle. Martin started the engine and drove off back toward Harton. For a moment William watched the forensic technicians going about the meticulous task of cataloguing the scene and searching for evidence. He then sighed and got into his vehicle.

Something made him pause before starting the engine. He felt a shiver run through him that was nothing to do with the cold. He turned his head westward and for a moment he saw a tall broad figure standing on a nearby hill. A sensation quite unlike anything he had ever felt ran through him. He knew he was being watched, and it was not friendly.

The figure turned and disappeared from view, and faintly, William heard rattling chains.

One week passed without event. The police were scouring the moorland for anything pertaining to the murder and the missing head but had thus far found nothing. Predictably, people continued to visit Harton and the surrounding Dales heedless of warning. That a potential murderer was abroad did not seem to factor into the minds of most. And though the grisly nature of the murder had been kept from the public, it inevitably leaked and naturally, this prompted a surge of morbid interest far and wide and Harton fell under the microscope of public scrutiny.

None of this mattered to Richard and Margaret Hawley. A retired couple and lifelong Liberal Democrat voters (or so they told their circle of retired friends) that horrible sort of thing only happened to other people.

They were in Harton as part of a grand tour of Yorkshire in their motorhome. Admittedly negotiating the narrow roads had been a challenge for their overly large vehicle yet that effort had been rewarded with gorgeous scenery and "really quite lovely people."

Their campervan was parked up in a woodland area, a spot recommended by the "Retiree Campervan Enthusiast Group" to which the pair belonged. The couple, though both in their 60's, liked to keep up with modern technology and loved the apps and groups their smartphones opened up for them.

Margaret was reading a book whilst Richard was making a tea for them both. Movement outside the window caught his eye and he looked out. For a moment he saw nothing, only the trees. He dismissed it as branch moving in the wind only for a figure to emerge from the treeline.

It was tall and broad and with each step it took a sound of rattling chains grew louder. "What the bloody..." Richard said with more annoyance than fear.

"What is it dear?" Margaret asked, not evening looking up from her book.

"Someone's outside spying on us," Richard said with growing indignation. He went to the door.

"You be careful now dear," Margaret said, still engrossed.

Richard opened the door and went outside in the chill night. He walked around to the back of the campervan.

The rattling chains were louder now. He rounded the corner and in the darkness saw the figure in greater detail. It was stood there, just outside the light emanating from inside the campervan.

"Hello?" Richard said, his indignance overcome with how big this person looked. "Can... can I help you?"

The figure did not respond. Instead, it stepped forward heavily, accompanied by the clanking of chains. It stepped into the light, and Richard's eyes went wide.

Before he had chance to register it, a thick arm swung an oversized cleaver in an arc, and there was pain and then cold.

In the campervan Margaret heard and felt something knock the campervan. Annoyed that her reading had been interrupted she put her book down in a huff and stomped toward the door. She opened it. "Richard what on-"

A big strong hand grabbed her by the throat, and pulled her into the darkness.

She did not have time to scream.

The death of the Hawley's, both found dead with their heads missing, was the turning point. Prior to this the headless hiker had been an anomaly. Now, well now there were three people murdered with their heads severed. The police scoured the area, calling for eye witnesses. There were none. The good people of Harton made sure to be in their homes when darkness fell, and even the visiting tourists were less frivolous and more weary.

Six days after the discovery of the headless Hawley's, William was repairing a fence up on the moors. Even though it was early in the afternoon and a bright, clear day he could not deny he felt considerable apprehension being out here on his own.

As he fixed the fence he heard someone approaching along the track. He spun around, and was relieved to see the familiar face of Old George.

William did not know Old George's surname. He had been introduced as "Old George" and that was that. He was a short fellow in his early seventies, his beard trim and grey, and every time William had seen him George was clad in an oversized brown overcoat and matching flat-cap. The stereotypical Yorkshireman manifest in flesh.

"All right there George," William said with a genuine smile. He liked the old man. He was gruff but pleasant, and had been a wealth of information regarding the various paths and tracks up here on the moors.

"Aye lad, aye... better than em' folks what got their head's chopped," Old George replied.

William grimaced. He was not overly found of dark humour. "Yeah. Its a mess isn't it?"

"Aye, never thought that sort of thing would happen here in Harton. London or them big places, you think its normal. Not here though. Not Gods own country." Old George stopped and leaned against the fence, looking out across the rolling fields. "You just be careful lad, don't be up here when it gets dark."

"I don't intend to," William replied, twisting the wide on the fence with his fencing pliers.

"Good, good... 'cause that's when Jack in Irons will be about."

William paused, a chill running through him. "Who?"

Old George sighed. "Old story. Old legend here. He's a giant who haunts lonely roads and moorlands. He's wrapped in chains and likes to take the heads of his victims."

William listened intently, the dread growing. He remembered the figure on the hill the night he found the hiker. And he remembered hearing the clanking chains.

"Aye, just a story we thought. Another tale told to keep children in their place, to keep em' away from the moorland at night. One of them cautionary tales," Old George exhaled and sniffed. "Don't take a genius to see what's going on here."

"I mean... its a bit wild isn't it?" William said, though his words lacked conviction.

"Maybe, maybe. P'raps its all a coincidence that people are turning up without heads and we have this old tale about a giant who collects heads. Maybe Jack is just a story and maybe whoever is doing them killings is just a mad, bad sort. Escaped looney or something. Maybe. No matter the truth of it lad, just do your best not to be out here alone when it get's dark. You remember that."

Old George walked off, back toward the direction of Harton. William watched him and looked about at the land all around. He resumed his work, though at a slightly quicker pace. "Just a story, mad old sod," he said to himself.

William was not a believer in ghosts, or UFO's and aliens or cryptids. He always thought it unbelievable that in the modern day where most people carry smartphones with good cameras built in that they never ever took photos or video footage of the strange things they claim to have seen. And if they did the images or footage was always blurry, or of terrible quality He didn't even believe in the Beast of Bodmin Moor, and a big cat wandering around Cornwall was the most likely thing of all. It was all nonsense. The world was not like that. It was for want of a better word, boring. There were plenty of monsters around, and they were all human.

And yet, that figure on the hilltop haunted his memory almost as much as the headless body. And much as he wanted to dismiss Old George and his "Jack in Irons" as being parochial nonsense, he could not quite commit to it.

William made sure to get the fence repaired well before night began to creep in.

On a night when the full moon shone down, casting its pale illumination across the Dales, a party was raging in the shell of an ancient barn three miles from Harton. The partygoers were all teenagers from the area, drawn there by a moribund curiosity and childhood ignorance. They were not concerned for safety. There was a dozen of them after all. Strength in numbers.

So they revelled in the joy of being young and having no actual worries to contend with. On blue tooth speakers loud repetitive music played, cheap supermarket beer and cider was consumed along with illicit substances. All in all, a great time was being had.

Not so for Annie Wilcox. The night had turned sour for her when her boyfriend Henry had dumped her for the more outgoing (slutty) Louisa Morecombe. The two were off in Henry's car now and Annie was sitting on her own in a little corner of the barn out of the way, sipping the cheap cider with very little enjoyment.

She finished her can and tossed it aside. No point staying, she thought morosely before standing up and heading out, pushing through the dancing revellers. Her best friend Brenda tried to get to her to stay but Annie had had enough. She wanted to go home and have a good breakdown in the peace and quiet of her comfortable bed.

Outside in the brisk night air she took a deep breath and pulled her coat tighter around her. She glanced at Henry's car, noting the steamed up windows. "Bastard," she muttered, feeling tempted to throw a brick at the windscreen. There were plenty around. But no, she decided.

She got to her battered old Fiat Panda a glorious red in colour and got inside. She turned the ignition and burst into tears, her head leaning against the worn steering wheel as the tears flowed and the sobs spilled forth.

So she did not see the huge figure lumber out of the darkness beside Henry's car which had began to rock on its own old suspension. She did not see the figure wrench the car door open and pull a half naked Henry out by his leg and stamp down heavily, ending his protestations. Nor did she see the figure yank an equally half naked Louisa Morecombe out and break her neck with the ease of someone snapping a twig.

Once the sobs subsided Annie looked up. She was about to start the engine when she registered the sight before her. Henry's car door hanging off its hinges, the two bodies sprawled upon the ground.

And the giant turning toward the barn.

She was frozen in terror as it advanced. She could not see it in any great detail, though it was tall and broad. She reckoned it was taller than her uncle Tom who was around six and half feet, and a lot bigger too. She saw things around its wrists like chains, and its clothes were rough looking.

And she saw the cleaver it carried. It was big. A Pig Splitter. She knew that because her dad was a butcher in Skipton and she had once gone with him to see him work. She had been sick. But she remembered that big cleaver.

Then shaw the things it wore on its belt.

They looked like heads.

She wanted to press the horn, to warn those inside the barn. But she could not. She was too terrified. If she did that, the giant would hear her. It would kill her. She did not think she could get the car started and drive off before it go to her. So she watched.

The figure went into the barn.

And then she heard the screams over even the music. Some emerged, running toward their cars. One boy, Keith she thought, was almost to his car when a spear attached to a chain shot out from the barn and caught him in the leg. He fell and screamed as the chain went taught and he was pulled back into the barn.

Annie jumped when someone banged on her window. It was Brenda, her face covered in blood. "Let me in!" she shouted. Those who had escaped were starting their engines and peeling out of there, their driving erratic and desperate.

Annie, after a moment of dumbstruck hesitation, opened the passenger door and Brenda jumped in. "Drive!"

"What the fuck is that?" Annie said, turning the ignition.

"I don't know!" Brenda said frantically. "Just... just drive!"

The Fiat resisted ignition for a few attempts before finally coming to life. Its headlamps flared and revealed the gory details of Henry and Louisa. Henry's head was crushed, a gory mess of bone and blood. Louisa's head was almost backward and at a wrong angle. One of Henry's eyes, those beautiful eyes Annie thought, had popped out and lay hanging out of its socket.

"Oh god!" Brenda said, her hand going to her mouth.

Annie looked in the direction her friend was looking. The giant was outside the barn now. Looking at them. They were the last ones in the car park.

The giant advanced, raising that blood covered spear attached to a long thick chain that was connected to a manacle around its wrist. The headlamps revealed its features in terrible clarity. A scarred face with a heavy brow and baleful eyes peering out. A nose that was a broken mess. And its teeth...

"Annie!" Brenda screamed, snapping Annie out of her scrutinising the horror approaching.

Annie put the car into reverse and did a perfect reverse turn that her father would have proud of, though he would have scolded her for the speed. She then threw it first and slammed her foot down on the accelerator. The little Fiat Panda speed off down the road, leaving that nightmare bathed in the red of the taillights before being swallowed up by the night.