Aren't You, Nick?

The woodland itself is unremarkable, very ordinary, at first glance there’s nothing unusual or eye catching about the place in any way. Not pretty or quaint, and if I’m brutally honest, rather neglected. There is nothing whatsoever in its makeup to put fire in the belly to stir up the emotions, thus convincing me that this painful slog is a worthwhile expenditure of effort, and the feelings I had earlier were indeed genuine. There doesn’t even appear to be a plaque or a stone to mark the spot where the young man died. Then of course why would there be, the man was a nobody who few people knew, and less cared about. It’s ridiculous to think there would be a memorial to honour his passing.

My mood is flat. I soldier on regardless, disappointed by this non-event, that is until I stumble upon a burial mound – a Tumuli I believe – at the far end of the woods. Not an altogether unusual sighting by any shakes of the imagination. One can happen upon a burial mound almost anywhere in Great Britain.

It is what they represent that fascinates the inquisitive mind. When one sees a burial mound close up all manner of thoughts can send ones imagination into frenzy. Thoughts like, how did those poor people die? How many bodies lay there under the soil? If they were victims of the plague, dare I go any closer? If I walk up to the edge will a hand reach out from within and pull me inside?

I shiver at that thought, but that sense of fear, of uncertainty, of something dreadful occurring doesn’t leave me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I shiver quite uncontrollably from head to toe, which causes me to stumble back a few paces. My heart begins pounding, my chest tightens, gripping me as if I was witnessing the most terrible of deeds. Perhaps what those poor individuals in front of me suffered.

I don’t understand this at all. What I’m looking at is a centuries old burial mound, in reality a harmless pile of soil, and not some present day occurrence. Perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me because I want to believe Bloomsbury’s theory, and subconsciously I can’t let that thought go. I want to move closer to the Tumuli, repel these fears I have. I cannot move. I’m frozen to the spot with my gaze firmly fixed on the Tumuli, locked in some sort of time warp, helpless and unable to do or say anything to release myself from this God fearing situation. It’s like I’m being held by powers greater than man, suspended in time waiting for something, or someone. My eyes are free to dance from object to object. Weird thing is I can’t stop them. In the event what I see confuses me. Everywhere I look the number fourteen appears, on the mound, amongst the clouds, in the trees and undergrowth. I shiver uncontrollably again, and once more I stumble backwards a few steps.

It’s gone. Whatever’s going on here has left me. A subliminal message perhaps, or just my furtive imagination working overtime again? Double time. Whatever the case, its put the fucking shits up me! The urge to leave is great, get away to compose myself and gather my thoughts. But the desire to conclude this strange event here and now is greater still. Something grips my senses, directing me like some robotic nerd to act out the next scene. All I know is, to understand this better I must let it take its course, because for some unknown reason tomorrow will be too late.