Deadmen Point – a Story (in one sitting) for Halloween.

Celtic? Who knows?

Deadmen Point from the South West


Deadmen Point – a story in one sitting for Halloween.
I was lost. I’d been lost before, but this time I was ‘not’ going to find my way out, or be found… alive.
How I got here was no riddle – I was directed down this road by ‘seemingly-cloned’ chaps who I thought were drop-outs from a Penzance Pirate Party. Slightly lacking in the small-talk department, they all unnervingly pointed me southwards when I asked for directions to the A38.
Then the car stopped – one of those ‘I’m not going any further, today!’ sort of stoppages. I swore a bit. Then, I swore a lot.
I tried turning it off and on again – nothing, nada, zipperoni. More words to the gods.
So, I left it. And walked.
I walked in what I thought was the direction back to the main road; but, I seemed to be drawn inevitably towards the coast.
The darkened night was staying out late, and I was the unwilling traveller set upon a course to an unknown destination.
I hadn’t dressed for the chill; and my footwear was too ‘Berluti’ to cope with the rigours of these Cornish highways. This wasn’t a Sunday walk across the estate to survey one’s inheritance – this was a nightmare.
I stumbled, fell, tore the knee on my Canalis, and swore a bit more – I was certainly filling up the swear-jar tonight!
Picking myself up, and dusting myself off, I continued. On. To ‘who-knows-where?’
After an endless succession of steps, I reached the headland. Cross? There certainly was. A huge ‘Celtic?’one.

No, it didn’t seem to be Celtic in origin – it was squarer, and what did I know? Were there ‘squarer’ Celtic crosses?
Anyway, by the cross was a small brazier and a gathering of souls. They huddled in that area like proverbial moths. 
I was drawn. With little say in the matter my scuffed footwear headed toward the enticement of the flames.
The group of barely detailed bodies (bodies?!) moved aside to let me through. As I passed amongst them their cold breath left their lungs and wrapped around me.
I was lost. I’d been lost before; but, this time, I was really lost.

Thy found the car the next morning – its engine still running – in a layby on the A38.
They never found me.

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