It was getting cold.

The boy had no idea how long he had been sitting on the boulder, staring across the fields that stretched down the mountainside.

He shivered as he wrapped his hands around his body and burrowed down into his jacket. He hadn’t wanted to stay at the top of the ridge, but the ache in his tired legs had gotten too much. They were no longer brimming with the earlier energy that had propelled him across the mountain, keeping pace with his grandfather’s long stride.

He had asked to stop just as they had crested the hill. His grandfather had hesitated, looking warily at the sun dipping towards the top of the hills ahead. They only had one more fence post to mend, just on the other side of the gently sloping hollow below, and he wanted to get the job done before dark. They’d lost enough of the flock already, and with autumn rapidly fading there wouldn’t be many more chances to repair the damaged boundaries

He must have decided he could get it done faster working on his own because he had picked the boy up and sat him on a weathered boulder; giving strict instructions not to move. ‘You should be able to see me on the other side’, he had said, ‘and I’ll only be gone for a short while.’ His grandfather was trying to sound reassuring, but he could hear the edge in his voice.

He watched anxiously from his perch as his grandfather descended the slope and made his way across the shallow dip, the sheepdog at his side. He had always been terrible at judging distance up on the mountain. It seemed to him that everything was both closer and further away than it looked, and it seemed like an age before the two distant shapes reached the other side.

He heard the sound of the mallet echoing across the shallow dip. And counted the beats automatically, in tune with the rhythm his grandfather had been setting since that morning. One, two, three. Pause. One, two for the posts. One, two-three for each of the nails.

Five beats for the post, a short rest and then another six.

Silence.

He stared across at the other hill waiting for his Grandfather to start back. But instead of turning back towards him, he moved towards the crest of the hill on the other side, and disappeared, the tireless dog following, bounding in circles across the hilltop.

And he waited.

The rhythm started again. Fainter this time. He could feel the distance in the sound, feel it amplifying the space across the mountain.

There must have been another break.

He sighed in relief as the silence fell again.

He waited, staring at the hill.

Still, they didn’t reappear.

The hammering started again, fainter still. Low enough that he briefly questioned if it was only his imagination that was starting to play tricks on him. It was only the echo that he could hear now, the original sound lost, and it seemed to come from all directions at once.

This time, he felt strange as the silence fell. Uneasy and afraid.

He leaned forward, huddled against the cold and concentrated on the small notch he was sure his grandfather would appear over any second.

The sun was half-hidden behind the hills by now, and the shadows of the boulders that littered the hillside and the shallow valley below lengthened menacingly.

He curled further into himself, wrapping his arms around his knees and drawing them up to his chest. He wished his grandfather would hurry up and return. He had never been left alone on that mountain like this before and he was getting anxious. Visions of hot stew and the steady warmth of the large range in his grandparents house taunted him as he shivered from the creeping cold.

He started and almost fell off the boulder as another hammer echoed across the valley. The tempo was different this time, slower and more ponderous. And the sound felt heavy, more forceful.

Was that still his grandfather? He shook his head. He had always been so calm and measured, but something about the sound was angry, desperate. It no longer sounded like it came from across the valley either, it now sounded like it was behind him. He tried to shrug the thought awayt, sound could play tricks on you up here, bouncing off the uneven terrain in unpredictable ways. And besides, they were in the heart of his Grandfather’s holding, there was no one else up here.

A sheep bleated in the distance, a nervous, edgy sound.

He took a tentative glance back up at the path they had followed, his heart leaping at the heavy fog now obscuring the way back. The way home.

The sheep bleated again; closer?

He shifted on the boulder uneasily, and looked back down at the valley, hoping to see his grandfather on the way back.

He felt fingers crawling up his back as he turned. He froze halfway, shrugging his shoulders against the sensation, and looked nervously over his shoulder from the corner of his eye.

Nothing.

He couldn’t shake that feeling though, that petrifying terror seizing his spine.

He forced his head back towards the downslope, his eyes nervously darting as he scanned the landscape for his grandfather.

A low fog had settled into the bottom of the dip since he had looked away.

And a chill sank into his bones.

It was always quiet on the mountain, so far away from the sounds of activity he was used to; cattle, chickens scrambling about in the yard and the distant sounds from other nearby homesteads.

But the silence tonight was different; muted and total.

Those fingers on his spine.

He jostled against them but they held tight.

His mind flickered to the old standing stones, crowning one of the nearby peaks. The ancient pitted stone and the heavy silence that hung over the circle. He had never gone near them willingly, never had much cause to in fact.

He shuddered at the thought. It had always bothered him that sheep broken off from the flock would never enter the ring. Not once. It was like an invisible boundary at the edge of the circle. They veered around it, giving it a wide berth

Even his grandfather shied away from their shadow. He had only taken the boy there once, and even then they stayed well back from the shadows cast by the looming stones.

He had been told in no uncertain terms that he was never to enter the ring, vague worries over unseen wells and deep channels the cited reason.

He didn’t need to be told twice, the ancient, rough carved stones, emanated an aura of dread, that intensified the closer you got. Even standing outside their shadow, it was all he could do not to run away screaming.

The sheep bleated again and he pulled his gaze away from the silent monoliths.

Panic. That sounded like panic. It seemed so far away in the fog, but was that the trampling of hooves?

The chorus of bleating found its way through the whiteness to him.

Away. It was fading.

He spun around, certain a cold hand had settled on his shoulder.

Was he too old for the Faeries that haunted his dreams, stealing away children, leaving demons in their stead? Too old for them to bother with him? Or too old to pay attention to the bedside tales?

But there was nothing but the slow slope down to the fog covered basin.

He gripped the rough rock, knuckles turning white, and his breathing turning ragged. The cold air burned raw in his lungs.

A shadow passed his peripheral vision, his eyes flinched towards it unbidden.

Once again, Nothing. Just the blankness of the fog.

He wanted to scream, call for his grandfather. But the sound caught in his throat. The fingers dancing along his spine increased their tempo, building to a shuddering crescendo.

He closed his eyes to the unseen wraith, praying to any god he could remember the name of. Both the gods of his present and the gods of his ancestors. His tongue tripped over some of the names, names that had not been spoken outside of stories in centuries. He repeated the names over and over in a whispered catechism. But the gods remained mute.

Except once, as he mistakenly stuttered out a name he wished he hadn’t.

As the name left his lips, he could have sworn he heard a woman laughing in the distance, A sinister cackle that echoed manically in the fog. But it was so low and distant that he forced himself to deny its existence.

Invoking her name was a mistake, even if the people had lost faith in the old gods long ago. He huddled in further on himself, floating adrift in the fog that had become all-consuming.

He lost track of time, drifting along with the flowing tendrils of the fog. Images floated across his mind, twisted visions of the old stories, filled with blood and death and suffering. And her laugh. He heard it over and over again in the back of his mind.

He became lost in it.

---

He was brought back to himself by a hand settling on his shoulder. He flinched away as he felt the touch and jumped awkwardly from the boulder, tripping as he landed.

‘Boy, it’s me, Boy!’

His grandfather. The old man emerged from the fog and crouched next to his grandson, a look of concern on his face.

‘Are you alright?’

He nodded, embarrassed. ‘I thought, I thought…‘

‘I should never have left you, boy. There were a few more posts down and it took me longer than expected. The fog threw me off track a bit too.’

His grandfather whispered his apologies into his hair as he held him close. He squeezed his eyes closed in relief, silently cursing at the fingers he still imagined on his spine. Stupid, he thought, I’m so stupid.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost boy.’

He could only nod in response, his cheeks warming as he blushed. He buried his head in his grandfather’s shoulder.

‘Nothing to worry about out there Boy. Not when I’m with you.‘

It didn’t ring quite true in his ears though, and he buried himself further into his grandfather’s coat. The shadow of that woman’s laughter still tickled at his spine. He felt the dog pawing at his shoulder and he turned to hug him as well. Something wet and sticky rubbed off on his hand.

He glanced down and saw the blood. He stared in confusion and horror, the deep red liquid was warm on his skin and his nerves tingled under it.

His grandfather flinched when he noticed and he reached down to quickly to wipe away the blood, washing the last of it away with a splash from the flask of spring water at his hip. He could have sworn his grandfather whispered something under his breath as he worked, but he couldn’t make out the words.

‘Poor dog got caught in some barbed wire. That’s all.’

The excuse sounded forced and flat, and his grandfather made no move to tend to any wounds on their companion. He had never known his grandfather to neglect the dog, and it seemed strange to him now.

Looking across at the man from the corner of his eye, he studied him again. Was that blood on the bottom of his cane as well? And had he been extra cautious cleaning the blood from his hands, as if he feared to touch it?

He let himself sink further into the man’s arms, taking comfort in their strength. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were still not alone.

The fog closed in, and he thought for an instant that he heard her voice again, a faint whisper of a whisper, no longer a laugh. Just three short words, stretched out and attenuated.

You owe me