A stone circle sits in the ancient oak woods behind my house. A dozen large rocks, positioned in a pattern that could be no accident. One is carved into a sort of throne. One sits upon two others to form an arch, echoing the formations at Stonehenge, a mere hour’s drive away.
I used to play there with my older brother, until he was tragically taken from us. Perhaps too young to fully comprehend his loss, I returned to the stone circle daily, playing with my imaginary friend in his stead. Doghead was the name I gave him, inspired by a rather obvious feature my young imagination had conjured up. In my mind’s eye, he had the energy and affection of a puppy, and he was as close a companion as a lonely young boy could ever hope for. We used to play for hours, safe in the knowledge that home was the only house for miles.
My parents were distant and self-absorbed throughout my childhood, and the loss of their eldest son - their golden boy - only turned them colder. They were whisked away to join him by a devastating car accident when I was 19. The house, the surrounding land, and the stone circle in the woods - it was suddenly all mine. It was finally as empty as it had always felt.
Those first few years were strange. I had been relatively self-sufficient for as long as I could remember, so my day-to-day life changed little after they died. I worked the same job, writing copy for websites and magazines from home. I ate the same food, groceries delivered weekly. It took a long time to get used to living without their influence… without their perpetual misery.
As time went by, I became more comfortable in my own skin. I left behind the cowering, appeasing child, I shrugged off the expectations and the aura of constant disappointment. I started learning who I was, and I grew to like it.
And I forgot about the stone circle in the woods behind the house.
The forest itself is sparse. Each wizened oak tree stands at a respectful distance from the others, as if honouring some ancient acorn pact. Their high canopies dominate the sky, permitting precious little sunlight to filter through their leaves. Below, the prime soil was claimed by their web of roots long ago, leaving few resources for competing flora. The only bushes daring enough to challenge the monopoly of these giants are holly and gorse, their sharp leaves offering refuge to songbirds and scavengers alike. Sparse though these woods are, they are far from lifeless.
At night, however, the woods don a deathly disguise. Save for the eerie breeze-shuffle of the leafy canopy, an unnatural stillness hangs between the trunks like a thick fog. The distance between each oak lends a feeling of being exposed to all directions, carrying light further than might be expected, which is how I was first enticed by the glimmers I saw from my bathroom window.
Half asleep and wishing to be fully so, I had neglected to turn on the bathroom light. If I had so much as flipped that switch, the subtle flickering outside would have gone unnoticed; the horrors of the night now seared into my mind would have gone without witness, and I would soon have fallen asleep safe and untroubled.
Instead, I slapped myself awake and threw together a dark outfit, pocketing a torch. In an instant I was twelve years old again, preparing for an imaginary stealth mission, sneaking out under the cover of darkness, taking care not to step on even a single twig - partly in commitment to the scene, and partly from fear of the retribution from my parents should I be caught. Both then and now, the fear mixed with excitement to produce the most irresistible cocktail, and I crept into the woods without hesitation.
I advanced steadily as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Every step was measured, every motion a calculated risk. Roots could be trip hazards. The snap of dry branches could give me away. A dirt hole from badger or fox habitation could spell a sprained ankle or worse. I kept my breathing deep and steady, preparing to run at a moment’s notice.
Peering around trunks as I pressed into the woods, I followed the light while keeping to the shadows. As it drew me on, I realised it must originate from more than a single source. I pictured a forest fire, but there was no smell of smoke, no crackle of caught bark.
A bizarre sound made me stop dead, pressing my back against the nearest tree. It was deep, guttural, and reminded me of videos I’d seen of Mongolian throat singing. The low vocal rumble rolled through the forest, several voices combined into a loud and stirring chord which I felt take a firm hold of my ribcage. As suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
I listened intently for any other sound and could faintly hear a single voice, monotone and slow, but I couldn’t make out the syllables. I peeked cautiously around the oak, and began deeper into the woods.
It wasn’t long until I saw the source of the light - dozens and dozens of blazing torches, easily a hundred or more, each mounted on a stake driven into the ground at an angle, the flames directed outwards as if to ward off the forest itself. The torches formed a wide circle in a clearing, within which stood a host of robed figures, heads lowered. Each crimson robe was uniformly embellished with gold borders and detailing, mirroring the flames that danced around them.
I saw the torches first, then the people. Then I saw the stones, and my breath caught in my throat.
The gathering had taken place on the ancient playground of my youth, within the stone circle I had long since forgotten. Far from respectful occupiers, however, four of these cloaked intruders were painting symbols and sigils onto the bare, pure rocks, a bucket of red in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. A network of circles, curves and crossed lines already adorned most of the rocks; they were nearly finished with their task. I watched them corrupting my childhood one brush stroke at a time, and fought hard not to yell. This felt like both a deeply personal attack and a sacrilegious transgression all at once. I wept in silence as I watched them complete their work.
I was struck by a vivid memory of my brother sat in the chair-carved stone, bending to tap a stick onto each of my shoulders in turn. He was King that day, and I was being knighted to protect the realm. For hours, he would point out imaginary invaders and threats to the Kingdom, all trying to break into the sacred space of the stone circle, and I would charge into battle, bellowing as best a boy of seven could, swinging a branch to fend off foes on all sides. I chided my childish stupidity. When outnumbered, as I was last night, self preservation comes first. Bravado without caution would be suicide.
One of these interlopers was standing on my brother’s throne, arms outstretched, addressing the others like a priest leading a congregation. His was the voice I had heard, though too quiet to discern from where I stood. I had to get closer. The group was focused on his speech, I reasoned, and any subtle motion I made in the shadows of the forest would likely be lost among the flickering torches. Light on my feet, I pressed even closer, crouching to take cover beneath the spikes of a holly bush with an oak to my side. I was mere feet from the edge of the clearing, but confident in my concealed position. No further, I told myself: either remain, or retreat.
I was close enough to hear the speech, but its meaning was lost to me. It clearly wasn’t English, but sounded like no language I had ever heard. There was a guttural, stern tone to it - almost Germanic - but the syllables weren’t recognisably German either. Percussive sounds punctuated the phrases - sometimes a click, sometimes a hacking noise like the speaker was clearing his throat. The structure of the speech was alien to me, and although I couldn’t hope to comprehend its meaning, I was enraptured. It felt as if he was speaking from beyond himself, from somewhere far older than any tongues remembered or recorded, channeling verses written before writing. The crowd was similarly captivated, hanging from his every utterance. All except the four painters, and one man in the middle.
This man, I saw, was unrobed. Rather, he was naked and kneeling, his wrists bound behind his back, eyes wide with impassioned pleading as the priest figure continued. His head was shaking back and forth, as if to deny every utterance of the speech. The scene put me in mind of a trial, perhaps for some pagan or shamanic cult. I know little of such beliefs and values, having led such an insular life, so I had no real frame of reference - but the whole display felt sinister and sickened me.
It came again - the sound which had shocked me earlier, that low, rumbling chord, now revealed to originate from the throats of the entire congregation acting as one, triggered by something the throned figure had said. He sliced a hand through the air and the tone ceased immediately. Another hand gesture and it began afresh, a slice and it stopped. This on-and-off routine repeated, its conductor picking up the pace steadily from laboured to frenzied. The bound man was clearly terrified, his pleading eyes darting from figure to figure, each swept up in this guttural chanting crescendo. Dark red streaks painted his face, from his eyes down to his chin.
With a final swipe of the priest’s arm, the group fell silent. A beckon of his hand, and two of the hooded flock hauled the bound man to his feet, dragging him towards the stone chair. I could hear him straining and groaning through closed lips - as he was brought before the priest, I saw his mouth had been sewn shut with a tight web of cord, his lips turned inwards. Those red tear-streaks he wore were coloured by dried blood, his wide eyes unable to close without their lids. This group, or cult, had taken morbid steps to prevent him from screaming or looking away.
The leader of the ceremony drew a short dagger, holding it skywards, flames glinting off the blade. The man protested as best he could, but was flanked and held in place by taller, stronger figures. In two quick motions an X was traced across his bare chest, the wounds shallow and scarlet-bright.
The crowd shifted suddenly at this, surging towards the throne. Hands were all over the man in an instant, carrying him back and away, ignoring his feeble writhing and muffled screams. A divide had formed in the clearing, bisecting the stone circle. On one side, the cult, some of whom had picked up torches and were brandishing them. On the other side, the man, kicked to the floor and struggling to stand with his hands still bound. Flames were turned on him, keeping him at bay from the group. Behind him, the stone archway loomed, a gateway to the gloom of the woods; a gap had been deliberately left in the circle of torchlight.
The leader bellowed out a three-syllable chant in that strange language, which was eagerly echoed back by his flock. He repeated the phrase, louder, rousing the crowd. This back and forth exchange continued, building in volume and speed towards a raw cacophony. When there was scarce a pause between call and response, the priest handed the reins to chaos, the clamour of the crowd drowning the forest in a tide of sound. Feet were stomping; arms were waved. Frenzied dances broke out. One member of the congregation passed out; they were unceremoniously rolled to the side of the circle and abandoned in favour of the growing noise.
I lay flat under the holly bush with my hands clamped over my ears, such was the sheer volume before me. As painful as the sound was to bear, I couldn’t help but find their primal passion compelling. I should have left them to their devices. I should have made a break for home while they were so deeply distracted.
They stopped, as one, falling completely silent. The sense of euphoric elation had collapsed, giving way to a nervous foreboding. Heads turned anxiously from side to side. The group huddled, gathering in closer towards the stone chair. The bound man was making his way towards them on his knees, straining to force pleas through stitched lips, but was kept back by the torch-bearers. They seemed intent on pushing him towards the archway, towards the looming dark of the forest.
Someone in the crowd noticed something in the forest behind the bound man, pointing a finger beyond the circle, past the stone arch, into the treeline. Their extended arm was quickly pulled down by other hands, as if chided by the group. Regardless, a tangible excitement overtook the gathering. Murmurs broke out, whispers and gasps. They pressed back, even further away from the bound man and the stone archway behind him. I strained my eyes to see beyond the flames, seeing nothing but shifting shadows.
As I looked back to the crowd, however, I saw it. A tall figure emerged from the trees, its outline only clear from the corner of my eyes as they struggled to adjust to the dark. It appeared as though the shadow of a tree had come to life, standing at least eight or nine feet tall, I couldn’t see where its height ended. It swept stiffly towards the clearing as if carried by invisible ropes. There was no motion of walking; this giant shadow floated.
It stopped at the edge of the clearing, where it should have been bathed in torchlight. Instead, it was a void, a vertical black hole, seeming to drain the light from the woods around it. As I tried to make sense of what I was witnessing, this floating shadow was passed by a second.
They moved alternately. One stopped as the other advanced, carried in sweeping motions. As they drew nearer to the stone circle, the bound man turned his begging towards them, throwing himself down, his bloodstained face against the thin grass, his frame wracked with wretched sobs. He was hoping, or praying, for mercy.
None came.
Without warning, his torso was wrapped in giant fingers of that same vacant darkness. He was snatched through the archway in barely a breath, out towards the treeline, and lifted high over the stones. His legs kicked at the air, finding no purchase. As he was held aloft, I gleaned a sense of the scale of the creature before me. It was, I now saw, a single entity. What I had identified as two figures earlier were merely its shins.
It stood on two legs, looming over the stone circle, one huge hand resting atop the archway. Light failed to adhere to its form, offering only a silhouette to interpret against the backdrop of torchlit oaks. It had moved in complete silence, despite its size. Though vast, it seemed to share the limbs and proportions of a human, with one notable exception. I felt my heart stop dead as I looked up into the canopy of leaves, and recognised the outline of a forgotten figure from my own past, looming over the stone circle in which we had played so long ago. I clamped my hands over my mouth to keep the shock within.
I had grown a lot over the past twenty years, inside and out. It seemed that Doghead had grown even more.
The cultists had by now dropped to their knees, every head bowed in silent reverence. A uniform stillness had come over them, likely borne from both respect and fear, and they had good reason for the latter. The naked man - their sacrifice - was held aloft by Doghead with both hands, those massive pitch-black fingers clasped around his legs and his torso. He strained to scream as the creature tightened its grip and twisted. Something gave out with a crunch, his ribcage and pelvis rotating in different directions. Blood spewed from his mouth as his lips parted in spite of the stitches, bellowing his pain freely now through torn curtains of scarlet. As his body bent, his skin broke around his midriff, yellow fat parting to give way to a cascade of entrails. He was divided, his scream failing as his diaphragm dropped.
Doghead was elated, raising the drooping organs above its head, opening its enormous jaws and directing the offal inside. Even while consuming its prey, no sound came from the shadow monster itself. The man was just barely clinging on to life, gasping breathlessly, his eyes darting around in panic as dark teeth the size of his forearm clamped down on what remained of his torso, gnawing like living jerky.
Fighting to divert my gaze from this atrocity, I looked towards the lowered heads of the cult, and saw more shoulders shaking than still. They were deeply afraid, that much was clear. Even the throned figure who had led the ritual was kneeling on the stone seat, head bowed and trembling.
A sudden gasp erupted from the crowd. The cultist who had passed out earlier had awoken and was looking around, bleary and sluggish. Some members of the group had noticed and were trying to encourage them to their knees, but they were resistant in their barely conscious state. Doghead dropped its snack, staring fiercely as this poor fool staggered to their feet. The creature’s eyes were previously indistinguishable from the great canine shadow of its head, but now they shone a piercing white, small and blazing. This accidental indignity from the dazed cultist had changed something in Doghead. Swiftly but silently it swept an arm towards the ground, extinguishing a dozen of the protective torches around the stone circle with a single motion.
There was a brief moment of profound quiet, as those gathered seemed to process what had just happened. The quenched torches breathed the last of their smoke. A second of foreboding stillness hung heavy in the night air, and then, pandemonium.
The crowd fell about themselves, shrieking in terror, scrambling over one another in all directions, eschewing reverence for pure panic. Doghead didn’t hesitate, lunging into the stone circle, no longer held back. It was absolutely silent in its motion, a flawless predator. It bounded towards the hapless transgressor and effortlessly snatched them from the ground. The staggering cultist hardly had chance to gasp before Doghead snapped their chin up and back with a single thumb, separating their skull from the rest of their spine without splitting the skin. Their body fell limp instantly and was dropped to the ground.
My legs were aching to carry me away from the scene, but I knew I had to stay put. Not only would I be a target for the shadow monster, but potentially for the cultists. The worst wounds I would receive from my vantage point under the bush would be scrapes and bruises, so there I remained, quaking though I was.
The ritual leader was the first to abandon the stone circle altogether, sprinting straight into the woods without looking back, not sparing a moment’s thoughts for their flock. The others followed suit in a staggered wave, clearly caught between the protection they believed would hold firm and the vulnerable darkness of the forest.
Having claimed two victims, Doghead turned its attention to the remaining flames. It lumbered around the edge of the stone circle, sweeping its palm over the torches. They went out without exception, either blown by displaced air through the motion of that huge hand, or perhaps smothered by the shadows that formed this creature. As the last of the lights disappeared, so too did Doghead, its void-outline no longer visible against trees that once again stood dark and still. It had reclaimed its cover of night, its motion barely perceptible as the faintest suggestion through leaf-filtered starlight, and it sped away into the gloom.
The cult had dispersed, their footfalls and shrieks gradually diminishing to nothing. The circle was silent once again, almost tranquil, save for the scrawled sigils on the stones. I lay still beneath the holly bush until dawn broke and beyond, making certain that no shadows remained to ambush me before I scrambled out to make my way home.
In daylight, I could see that the remains of the two victims claimed by Doghead had disappeared in the hours since their slaughter. The creature had managed to remove them both, and I hadn’t even noticed its presence.
As I write this, I am profoundly conflicted, struck by a heady mix of abject terror and giddy revelation. I’m shaking, shocked to the core by what I witnessed. A monster he may be, but he was once my closest friend, one I thought lost to the passing years and the maturing mind.
Before sundown, I will return to the circle and wash those stones clean. It feels disrespectful to leave them so sullied and stained. After all, for better or for worse, I am no longer alone.