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Description
Edward Latimer returned from the Great War a changed man, emotionally and physically scarred by his experiences. He had enlisted in Kitchener’s New Army as a volunteer, caught up in the patriotic fervour at the outbreak of the war. But his patriotism disappeared into the mud of the trenches, ground under by the hopeless, brutal reality of the Western Front and the spectacular incompetence of British command.

His war came to an end in 1917 at the Battle of Passchendaele, when he was seriously wounded and fell into a shell-hole filled with freezing water and the bodies of dead comrades. He lay there for days until a field ambulance unit found him. Edward was repatriated to England a short while later and hospitalized for the rest of the war.

After demobilisation, he returned to the family home, a rambling country estate in Lancashire. He dressed in civilian clothes and tried to resume his life as a young English gentleman of leisure. But the war still haunted him. At night, he would wake in a cold sweat, dreaming that he heard the clatter and whistle-blowing that signalled a gas attack. If there was a sudden, loud noise in the house, he would throw himself on the floor.

Edward took up walking, finding solace in the empty spaces and stark beauty of the West Pennine Moors. He felt the urge to keep himself in motion, walking for hours each day, as though he could out-pace the black despair that pursued him wherever he went. But the horrors of war were as relentless as death, stalking him with the inescapability of his shadow.

It was on one such walk in the spring of 1920 that Edward discovered a strange monument – a grotesque stone idol that seemed as though it did not belong to any known human culture. Edward felt a sense of recognition, as if he had seen the monument before, in a dream or a vision, though he had walked this way many times and would swear on the Bible he had never laid eyes on it until that moment.

Then he saw something impossible. A figure emerged from an opening at the foot of the monument, a man in military uniform. Edward was about to call out a tentative greeting when he realised that he knew this man – had known him since childhood in fact. The face was unmistakable – spare and slightly solemn, with blue eyes set beneath straight black brows. It was his best friend and fellow Kitchener volunteer Freddie Ainscough, who had served alongside him in the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment.

Edward stared in silence, heart vaulting inside his chest, unable to make sense of what he was seeing. Freddie had died in the war, drowned in the mud of Passchendaele. Edward had seen his friend’s body, had written a letter to his family and visited them after the war, intending to offer words of comfort but finding none.

Freddie looked him in the eyes, a strange, imploring expression on his face, and said one word: “Ravensrigg.”

Edward opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what to say but feeling as though he must say something, when Freddie and the strange monument vanished. There was no transition, no puff of smoke or flash of light, just an instantaneous shift from being to not-being.

Despite this, Edward did not question his sanity or the authenticity of what he had seen, impossible as it seemed. He knew others would, so kept the inexplicable events to himself, even though he arrived home visibly shaken and elicited many concerned enquiries after his well-being and state of mind.

Ravensrigg, Edward discovered, was a village in a remote part of Cumberland. He packed his bags and departed for Carlisle on the train a few days later, leaving only the briefest of notes for his family. He didn't know what awaited him in Ravensrigg, but knew he must go, convinced that Freddie's appearance on the moors had been a cry for help.

Created using Midjourney and Krita

Description
Edward Latimer returned from the Great War a changed man, emotionally and physically scarred by his experiences. He had enlisted in Kitchener’s New Army as a volunteer, caught up in the patriotic fervour at the outbreak of the war. But his patriotism disappeared into the mud of the trenches, ground under by the hopeless, brutal reality of the Western Front and the spectacular incompetence of British command.

His war came to an end in 1917 at the Battle of Passchendaele, when he was seriously wounded and fell into a shell-hole filled with freezing water and the bodies of dead comrades. He lay there for days until a field ambulance unit found him. Edward was repatriated to England a short while later and hospitalized for the rest of the war.

After demobilisation, he returned to the family home, a rambling country estate in Lancashire. He dressed in civilian clothes and tried to resume his life as a young English gentleman of leisure. But the war still haunted him. At night, he would wake in a cold sweat, dreaming that he heard the clatter and whistle-blowing that signalled a gas attack. If there was a sudden, loud noise in the house, he would throw himself on the floor.

Edward took up walking, finding solace in the empty spaces and stark beauty of the West Pennine Moors. He felt the urge to keep himself in motion, walking for hours each day, as though he could out-pace the black despair that pursued him wherever he went. But the horrors of war were as relentless as death, stalking him with the inescapability of his shadow.

It was on one such walk in the spring of 1920 that Edward discovered a strange monument – a grotesque stone idol that seemed as though it did not belong to any known human culture. Edward felt a sense of recognition, as if he had seen the monument before, in a dream or a vision, though he had walked this way many times and would swear on the Bible he had never laid eyes on it until that moment.

Then he saw something impossible. A figure emerged from an opening at the foot of the monument, a man in military uniform. Edward was about to call out a tentative greeting when he realised that he knew this man – had known him since childhood in fact. The face was unmistakable – spare and slightly solemn, with blue eyes set beneath straight black brows. It was his best friend and fellow Kitchener volunteer Freddie Ainscough, who had served alongside him in the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment.

Edward stared in silence, heart vaulting inside his chest, unable to make sense of what he was seeing. Freddie had died in the war, drowned in the mud of Passchendaele. Edward had seen his friend’s body, had written a letter to his family and visited them after the war, intending to offer words of comfort but finding none.

Freddie looked him in the eyes, a strange, imploring expression on his face, and said one word: “Ravensrigg.”

Edward opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what to say but feeling as though he must say something, when Freddie and the strange monument vanished. There was no transition, no puff of smoke or flash of light, just an instantaneous shift from being to not-being.

Despite this, Edward did not question his sanity or the authenticity of what he had seen, impossible as it seemed. He knew others would, so kept the inexplicable events to himself, even though he arrived home visibly shaken and elicited many concerned enquiries after his well-being and state of mind.

Ravensrigg, Edward discovered, was a village in a remote part of Cumberland. He packed his bags and departed for Carlisle on the train a few days later, leaving only the briefest of notes for his family. He didn't know what awaited him in Ravensrigg, but knew he must go, convinced that Freddie's appearance on the moors had been a cry for help.

Created using Midjourney and Krita