Bodmin Moor

By R. J. Bavister

Bodmin Moor

Beautiful by day

Deadly by night!

Bodmin Moor is a place of mystery, a place of legend and wonder and a place of death.

Since the medieval era folklore has surrounded the area about a mythical beast that prowls the moor by nightfall, preying upon the livestock, wildlife, and even people, the locals say it is a demon incarnate indeed, many people have been reported missing on the moor, never to be seen again.

Now, in the summer, a group of seven teenagers celebrating the end of exams are spending the weekend camping down on the moor and are about to discover first hand what is fact and what is myth.

They were warned; they refused to listen; and when the sun sets and the mist settles upon Bodmin Moor, nothing will save them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 23, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467015998

R. J. Bavister

Robert John Bavister (born 21/02/1985) hails from Wotton-Under-Edge in Gloucestershire. He is currently astudent at Glamorgan University in Pontypridd where he is doing an HND in Marketing. Bodmin Moor is his first attempt at a novel and he hopes to write many more for loveand money (in either order). Along with writing novels his other interests include videogames and heavy metal music.

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

The mist had settled on Bodmin Moor; a thick, hazy mist that obscured the man’s view of anything beyond ten feet in front of him. It was a ghostly seeming mist that made the man feel uneasy, and it didn’t help that the night was also cold enough that he got goose bumps even through his giant overcoat and even though he’d just started smoking his sixth cigarette.

God this place gives me the creeps. I can’t wait to get the hell off this goddamn moor and get back home.

He’d heard the locals say things about the moor, that it was cursed or haunted or some other such bollocks. Naturally, he’d laughed his arse off when he’d heard it, but now that he was on the moor in the middle of the night he didn’t feel so comfortable.

The full moon hung in the air, beaming through the thick clouds of mist; giving him enough light to realize that he wasn’t able to see any better with it. So much for it, all it accomplished was making the whole open grassland look even spookier than it did otherwise. And it was quiet; too fucking quiet, the only sound being made was that of the grasshoppers and crickets, nothing else stirred.

What time is it? My wife’s gonna be worried sick by now.

He checked his watch; it was well after midnight, and his car had ran out of petrol about two miles away, making him wish that he’d got himself some extra credit on his mobile phone, but still, all he could do was continue walking until he reached some form of civilization –

Rustle

A slight sound came from somewhere, like the sound of someone treading upon fallen leaves or moving around in a hedgerow. The man

looked around – and saw nothing but he wasn’t going to let his senses slip just like that. He waited another two minutes, only to see a bird fly out of the mist just before his eyes, a large black bird – a crow.

That’s all it was, now stop being a paranoid twat and get moving.

He headed on, moving along the little footpath paved ever so delicately into the grass, his mind back on getting to a phone of some sort – and there came another rustling sound again, louder and more suspicious sounding. What was it?

Maybe it’s the beast!

He laughed slightly inside at his sarcastic mind. He’d heard about the legendary Creature of Bodmin Moor, but he’d never really believed. Just some medieval folklore fed on by some local superstition throughout the centuries, although now was the twenty-first century, so how could anybody be so stupid –

The sound came again, this time nearer, louder and more aggressive sounding. He looked around – and then just behind him, before his eyes, he saw another figure about to emerge from the mist. Not a crow this time, far too big, and far too much on the ground. Maybe a dog, but it’d have had to have been a seriously big one if so, and it wasn’t the right shape to be a human, not that he could make much of it out right now it was too enshrouded by the thick fog – and then he saw its eye staring at him – and then he heard it make a horrific growling noise – and that was it. He turned and ran, ran forward to whatever he could see, he just ran, for the sake of his life he ran.

It moved through the mist, keeping its eye on the fleeing hairless biped. It ran at a steady pace, not tiring for a second, its highly honed eyes seeing effortlessly in the dark and through the mist, and its sharp sense of smell keeping the biped’s scent, it’s powerful limbs thrusting it several feet forward with each leaping step. It saw the biped run for the large rock pile in the centre of the open grassland, but the biped’s fear must’ve given it a huge burst of speed because it was gaining distance from the creature. Not to worry, he would soon run out of breath, most of the hairless bipeds, which seemed to be much like primates if it weren’t for the fact that they walked upright, usually did, and the creature could stalk them for miles with its ultra-sensitive smell, sight and hearing.

It continued to push through the thick mist of the moor; it was hungry – and it saw the biped start to run up the giant rock pile in the distance. It ran and it ran until it finally reached the top – and then it stopped at the top, sitting down to catch it’s breath that its weak pathetic lungs had run out of. It thought itself safe, but the creature could see it, could smell its breath, and could hear its panting.

It neared the rock pile and using the cover of darkness, the mist and the giant rocks larger than six of itself, prowled up the hill on which the rocks were placed in an odd fashion. It continued to prowl, closing in and in on the biped, the primate. It kept its head low as it stalked up the hill and closer and closer to its prey, which now arrogantly had its back turned and was breathing so heavily and rapidly that it could not possibly hear it closing in on him – and then it pounced.

Its immense bulk forced the primate down onto the rock atop of the pile and its extremely powerful forelimbs pinned the primate’s shoulders down to the ground. The primate tried to struggle but its minimal strength was useless against the creature’s awesome power.

Opening its jaws the creature brought its two enormous fangs down to its prey’s soft throat. The biped screamed until the huge fangs pierced into its windpipe and cut it off, making it fall dead on the ground. Blood rushed out of the primate’s throat. Opening its mouth once more, the creature roared into the night, for the Beast of Bodmin Moor, had claimed another victim.

One

The cat mewed throughout the kitchen, its tiny, and undeniably cute, little voice being picked up instantly, despite the relentless noise of heavy metal music being blared out of the kitchen’s stereo speakers.

Alright, alright, came the reply from Howard Smith, the cat’s owner’s son as he moved towards it, god! You don’t let up do you?

Howard Jones was a reasonably tall lad, about six foot. He had long brunette hair that came down to his shoulders, along with that on his chin he had a neatly cut goatee beard. His eyes were light blue, and his facial features were much chiselled. He was eighteen years old.

He picked the rather large cat up off of the floor and held it as if cradling a baby in his arms and took it into the outer kitchen where its food bowl was. He placed the feline, Felix they’d named it, onto the floor and then walked over to a cabinet at the far end of the small outer kitchen where they kept the cat food, then opened it. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out a new unopened tin of processed cat food, as the last one that they’d opened had just recently been finished.

God that cat eats so goddamn much, it’s no wonder he’s such a fat bastard.

Last time he’d weighed the cat, it’d clocked in at one stone and two pounds, although a fair bit was probably muscle, and the extra fat just made him all the cuddlier. People always did comment on how it seemed to be the biggest cat they’d ever seen.

Bringing the tin over to a large oak table in the middle of the outer kitchen he placed it down and then opened it using the ring pull attachment. He then proceeded to empty out a fraction of it into the bowl on the floor where the cat ate its food. After that he filled up its water dish and then placed it down next to the food bowl, which the large feline now his face practically buried in.

Never mind England, this cat could eat for the whole UK, if not Europe.

He chuckled at the joke he’d just made in his head and he reached down to tickle the cat behind its ear –

Ding-dong!

The front doorbell rang, Howard surprised that he could hear it over the thunderous heavy metal music erupting from the speakers in the kitchen.

He went to answer it, already knowing who it was, and low and behold it was that very person.

Alright Howe,

Howdy Mark, was Howard’s response.

Mark Jones, his best mate since primary school. The two had been bosom buddies since they were about five years old. They’d been through nearly everything together, even gone to countless rock festivals together.

Mark entered the house. He was carrying in his left hand a large cricket bag, they weren’t going cricketing, they were going camping for the weekend and a cricket bag was the only thing large enough to carry both his tent and his sleeping bag, and in his right hand he was carrying about two six-packs of lager. He was wearing a large pair of