There was a legend - well, more of a story - of footsteps in the forest.

At night, when the temperature had dropped low enough to see your own breath drift away like the soul after death. At night, when the moon played hide and seek with the clouds, the stars their audience.

At night, when the only sound that dared interrupt the silence was... footsteps.

The building had lain derelict for so long the names of the previous owners had been forgotten by the local residents. It was just 'The Building.' Uttering the words implied the capitalisation of its name.

The Building.

Surrounded by nine acres of woodland, a random, rampant mix of oak, willow, ash and beech, it sat, beaten by time. Decades of despair had scratched their wounds across its surface, and the trees had remained to ensure it couldn't escape.

Algae had claimed the small lake that looked as if The Building had bled its spirit out onto the narrow clearing along its side, a toxic smelling mess of scum covered, viscous liquid. Odd bracken that dared to dip its toe in the acrid waters seemed to shrivel, the life sucked from it like sap through a straw.

But, potential can be seen in the darkest of places. The deepest night can precede the brightest dawn. Misery to majesty. Hopelessness to happiness.

Such were the thoughts of The Couple. That's all they were. Again, capitalised by the locals. They were thought to be passers-by who paused in their passing.

Theresa and Richard to the outside world - a world in which the night didn't move and the cold touch on your neck was merely an errant breeze that had lost its way and was settling for a second to take a breath - were buying their first home. Together for half a lifetime, but with work keeping them living apart, they'd searched for an age to find the perfect house. It was a 'fixer-upper'. It had potential. A project.

They didn't know about the footsteps, and would have ignored them if they had. Rational and reasoned. They refused to listen to silly local superstitions designed to scare little children at night. Go to sleep or the Boogeyman will get you. Stay tucked in or the monsters will eat you.

Nonsense and nuisance.

But no-one deigned to tell them anyway. The footsteps in the forest would come visiting. They'd be heard on the slates of the roof. On the gravel of the drive. On the floorboards. In time with your heartbeat. Whilst it still beat.

Richard worked away in Derby. An engineer for Rolls Royce. Theresa lived and worked locally, for an oil refinery. She had horses which demanded time and attention on an evening when relaxation giggled furtively as it kept just out of reach. It meant weekends were the only time when the labour of love that would be their new home could be worked on. It meant work would be intense and draining and felt for days after in the twinges and strains of their muscles.

The trees, over the years had encroached upon their captive. They'd closed in, branches intertwining to create a barrier confining The Building, with roots stretching beneath ensuring its permanent incarceration.

To The Couple, however, such things were inconveniences, obstacles that could be overcome with a chainsaw and a tractor. Elbow grease and grunt were the sword and shield of the new homeowners. The trees closest were cut down. The scrub torn away. The lake treated and cleaned.

On the surface at least. The water looked clear, but shadows swan in its depths. The willows wept as they were removed, only a naked stump clinging to the ground to serve as a headstone. These, too, were swiftly excised to clear the area, but the remainder, thousands of trees standing sentinel, looked on. Watching. Waiting.

Whispering.

And the footsteps... were silent.

Log piles began to build as branches were broken and trunks were cut. Twigs were amassed in a surreal spider's web. What little space there was quickly contracted to make further work difficult and hazardous.

"We need to burn it," Richard said. "We'll have a bonfire and that'll clear most of this."

Dusk was approaching by the time the wood was set in readiness for the fire. Heaped together, with a little petrol to help it on its way, the timber was ablaze in moments.

The light was slipping away like sand in an hourglass, counting down to the night's arrival with wicked anticipation. The Couple were in their car and driving away before the sun had dropped behind the tree-line. Headlights caught on something as they exited and Theresa grabbed her husband's arm.

"What's that?"

Richard reversed slightly, turning the car so the lights illuminated the score marks in the bark.

"Deer, dear," he said, laughing. "It'll be a stag or something, marking his territory."

His wife laughed too. 'Deer, dear'. That was funny.

They drove off, stopping only to close the gate. The trees watched them go. The night closed in behind them, covering the forest and The Building in a protective cloak, marred only by the flames that spit and leapt at the night's embrace.

10:15 pm.

Beep, beep.

A text. Theresa roused herself from the doze that had been teasing her and picked up her phone. Richard.

Working away meant he stayed at his parents in readiness for an early start. Theresa still lived with hers, a situation neither relished but each accepted in the short term.

'Hunni. Worried about fire. Can u go check? Dont want evrythin burned to crisp! X'

Theresa sighed. Once settled, she hated being disturbed. Maybe she could just say she'd been. Leave it half an hour. It'd be fine.

'OK hunni. Will do.'

'Send me photo, plz. Just to make sure x'

Theresa frowned. Her husband certainly knew her.

The drive to their future home was fifteen minutes, but felt like thirty. Usually, she'd be in bed by now, only a film she'd been watching keeping her from one of her favourite places in the world.

She pulled up to the gate, the headlights shoving beams of blur into the low mist that had risen since their departure.

She'd seen movies. She liked horror. Whilst she knew it was all make believe, it was that knowledge that increased her enjoyment. She could escape into worlds that couldn't exist. She could lose herself in lives torn into shreds and regurgitated by beasts dreamt up by the warped minds of the writers. None of it was real, and that could make it more real when she watched it.

Still. It was dark. It was late. She was a young woman, alone.

Alone.

She had two options: get out of the car, open the gate, then get back in the car, drive down to check, then get out of the car to shut the gate when she left, or run like crazy along the lane to the clearing, quickly take the photo and run back.

She chose the latter. All that getting out of the car, opening and shutting gates and so on seemed too much hassle. She was a fast runner. She'd be fine.

She was quick, that was true. A lifetime of horse riding had made her leg muscles hard, lean and powerful. But... no flames lit the night. The fire hadn't engulfed the forest, clearly. It must be fine.

No. Richard wanted a photo. He'd not believe she'd come thus far without it.

Deep breath.

The headlights cast her shadow in alien silhouette as she sped along the lane. The mist swirled at her ankles, masking her footprints in the dirt.

She reached the remains of the fire, a smouldering heap of indistinguishable lumps that glowed in the darkness. Apart from a moon which played hide and seek with the drifting clouds and the car's lights peeking from around the bend, her only light.

She was panting, partly from exertion and partly from apprehension. Of course she'd be fine. Of course she would. She was, effectively, in the middle of nowhere. Nobody would be around here at this time. It would be the axe murderer's night off and the ghosts had better places to haunt than here.

Still. The flash of the camera on her phone could alert any that had yet to realise this wasn't a place worth hanging around.

Hands shaking, she took the required picture. She didn't drop her phone on the second attempt and the sudden flash momentarily blinded her. Disorientated, she stood for a second, not daring to move.

Footsteps.

In the forest.

He breath and her heart raced with each other to leave her body first, and she bolted for her car.

She ran, phone clutched to her breast as if it was an unconscious lifeline to her husband.

Footsteps. Faster. Closer.

The trees watched. Whispered.

The footsteps gained. Louder. Faster.

The night swallowed her.

A cracking sound filled the air as branches bent and trunks swayed.

Clawed hands, wooden rather than flesh, lifted the car and pulled it into the heart of the forest. There was a tortured crunch and the headlights stuttered then disappeared.

The footsteps in the forest faded.

--

Footsteps is based upon true events. A very close friend of mine is renovating a building in this setting, in order to live there. There are nine acres of woodland around it. She did go out, at half ten at night, to check on the fire they'd set. And she did run rather than open the gate.

Whether or not she made it out alive... Well...

Find the blog post regarding my inspiration at http://flipandcatch.blogspot.com