Trolls

It is late in the day. Your broken watch hangs uselessly from your thin wrist. The leather strap that once hugged your skin now keeps its distance, only touching you where it has to. But the sky has changed to a murky blue and the orange sunlight is low enough to get in your eyes. You used to love that time of day and watch as the sun disappeared. Back when you were welcome at home. Remembering the glass bottle in your hand, you take a drink. The not-quite-cold beer fills your mouth with the familiar hop taste and quenches your thirst for a moment. The wind blows cold still, so you decide to find shelter for the night.

When you’re walking, you can forget about your problems for a while. So, that’s what you do. You create your own narrative to keep you going – on your way to see a friend, training for a walkathon, making a pilgrimage like your ancestors. Pick your own adventure. As you leave the village you were passing through, you see a humpback bridge just up the road. Your inner child awakens and you pretend to be an intrepid explorer, like you did when you were young. Black and navy streak the sky, heralding the start of the night. Rather than risk walking country roads at night, you hurry to the bridge.

As you approach the bridge, you hear hushed voices and see the erratic light of a small fire. The wind picks up the acrid stench of smoke along with the sweet, tangy smell of body odour. You wrinkle your nose, then realise you can’t remember when you last showered, either. With no other alternative, you take a deep breath and descend the bank, hoping whoever is under the bridge will be happy to share for the night. The bricks that make the bridge are rough and dig into your hands. You use both hands so that you don’t drop your bottle – the beer is the only thing keeping you warm.

You near the bottom of the bank and the sickly sour stench of body odour is stronger. Bile creeps up your throat, but you stop yourself from gagging. You take another drink from your bottle to hide the taste and that’s when you notice the shadows on the ground illuminated by the fire. You rub your eyes – rather awkwardly with the bottle still in your hand – but the shapes of the shadows do not change. The owners of the shadows appeared to be seven or eight feet tall, with wide shoulders and short, stocky necks. You had ignored their conversation earlier, but decide to listen now before you reveal yourself. Sipping quietly from your beer, you sit on the muddy bank and rest your back against the bridge.

‘Hungry.’ This voice talks like its owner has their bottom lip stuck out.

‘Yes. Hungry all.’ The second voice cracks as its owner speaks.

‘Hunt?’

‘No. Not now.’ The voice paused, then said, ‘Miss Spring.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, lots of dog walkers and joggers.’ The third voice speaks slowly.

The other two beings grunt in agreement.

‘Not so many in winter.’

‘No. Now here.’

‘Walker or car will come to bridge soon.’

Your entire body is stiff and hard to move as though the bricks pressing into your back turned your into part of the bridge. The bile returns to your throat and sweat gathers across your body. You start to shake as your force your body to move. You don’t know what is under the bridge – the adult in you says serial killers, but the child in you screams TROLLS! – but you are determined not to be anyone’s dinner. You drop the now empty bottle to make moving easier. It rolls down the bank and hits a rock with a loud clink.

The world goes quiet and panic swarms your mind. A low growl rumbles and you take that as your cue to leave. You clamber up the thick clay-like mud as it clings to your skin, pushes under your nails and freezes your knees. Viscous mud quickly turns to hard tarmac. You haul yourself onto the road then look back at the bank. Four long pale fingers, with large boney joints stretch out  towards you. Headlights blind you as a car hurtles over the bridge. The drivers beeps and shouts at you from their open window as they swerve to avoid you, but don’t stop the car. You blink the spots of light from your eyes and look back to the bank. The hand is gone and the voices are quiet. You run back towards the village and don’t look back.