“Well, you certainly haven’t lost your sense of humour.” She said.

“No. Just my innocence.” Loretta snapped, with a sudden anger in her voice. There was a silence for a few moments, and then the female paramedic softly squeezed Loretta’s hand.

“My love, do you remember what happened up on the hill? How you came to be frozen like that?” She asked, with curiosity.

“I was attacked.” Loretta Trenton replied, calmly. “I was attacked, and I was raped.” She elaborated. Loretta half-smiled at the paramedic, and then turned away from the woman, staring back up towards the ambulance roof. For just a few short seconds, Loretta’s large blue eyes turned a dirty-yellow in colour.

Chapter One

It's hard to believe now, but Coldsleet was, back in the earlier part of last century, a thriving holiday destination; a seaside town where people from as far afield as Ruthley, to the north, or Salegate, to the east, would flock to, especially during bank holiday weekends. Of course, back then, in the years between the Great and Second World Wars, Coldsleet was served with a railway line, making it an easy to reach destination. Many of the local residents blamed the closure of that line, in nineteen sixty three, as the beginning of the end for Coldsleet. But it wasn’t just a rail-line closure that represented the origin of Coldsleet’s slow and steady ruination, for at the same time, people began to holiday for longer durations, the likes of which Coldsleet could not really cater for, and in addition, holidaymakers were finding it easier to access foreign climes. Truth be known, they were already turning their collective noses up at the town of Coldsleet (and others of its ilk, dotted around the British coast) long before the local railway line was closed for good.

One type of visitor that did remain consistent in visiting Coldsleet, despite the seaside town’s slow decay, was the enthusiastic hiker; the location of Coldsleet had, for many years, been the starting point (or finishing destination, depending on which direction you were heading), for the 'Black Pathway Trail', a thirty mile walk that had had a lasting and enduring popularity with walkers. The pathway began in Coldsleet, starting in the car-park next to Saint Bernadette's church, just off the steep and winding Leeton Lane, which served as one of three main road routes out of the town. In the corner of the car-park was an old wooden signpost, just to the right of a rusted and squeaky kissing gate, with the following words carved into it, accompanied by an arrow:

Coldsleet Moor - 5 M

Knighton - 8 M

Knighton Mountain - 14 M

Hoffen - 19 M

Hoffen Mountain - 23 M

Salegate - 30 M

Once through the kissing gate, the Black Pathway Trail began to climb gradually, leaving behind the town of Coldsleet, and gently winding its way first alongside Sleet River, and then, a mile further on, across it, via an old, humped, stone bridge that had straddled the water beneath it for more than two hundred years. Once over the bridge, the Black Pathway twisted sharply to the right, veering dramatically away from the River. There then followed a lengthy hike through flatlands, the likes of which that could, in bad weather, become hazardous, trapping and stubbornly retaining any heavy rain falling upon them, and turning the whole area into a swamped, muddy quagmire. Following its journey across the flatlands, the Black Pathway began to twist upwards once more until, finally, it reached the dark and threatening slopes of Coldsleet Moor.

After snaking over the northern edges of Coldsleet Moor, the Black Pathway would gently descend for a mile, and then skirt around the small, welcoming, market-town of Knighton. Knighton was the usual place for most hikers to end their first day of trekking along the pathway, and offered several guest houses in which walkers could rest themselves for the evening. Knighton was, very often, a finishing point for many who were interested only in partially walking the Black Pathway; the rest of the trail was significantly harsher, taking in two separate mountain ascents, which were certainly not suitable for the more casual rambler, or indeed those that found themselves pressed for time, and without the luxury of two more spare days in which to complete the hike fully.

Once out of Knighton, the Black Pathway continued a steady descent through pleasant fields and meadows, gradually edging towards Skerrington Forest. The forest, named after the wealthy, and much-loathed eighteenth century landowner, Lord Edward Stephen Skerrington, seemed to mirror the soul of the black-hearted man that had bestowed his name upon it. Skerrington had been an individual that, owing to his position of power, believed himself to be above the law. However, the Lord had been wrong in this foolish assumption. Lord Edward Skerrington had ended his days exposed as both a fraudster and murderer, and paid the ultimate price for his crimes at the old gallows that lay within the confines of nearby Salegate Prison. Skerrington Forest was dark and grim, and offered the rambler little in the way of scenery to enjoy. Here, the Black Pathway could be notoriously difficult to follow, especially as it criss-crossed several other nature trails that were exclusive to the forest. Many a less-experienced navigator had taken the wrong turning, which usually led to that unfortunate individual finding themselves, at some point, back at the Skerrington Forest Nature Centre, which was in the complete opposite direction to where they were meant to be going. Other unfortunate souls ended up accidentally heading first south, and then west, emerging back onto Coldsleet Moor, except now without the benefit of the Black Pathway for navigation.

Eventually, the Black Pathway left behind Skerrington Forest, and began to climb steeply as it traversed the western slopes of Knighton Mountain. The ascent was usually a straight-forward affair; any difficulties in negotiating Knighton Mountain usually occurred after reaching its summit. Once at the top of the peak, the Black Pathway not only descended and narrowed harshly, but also ran uncomfortably close, for half a mile or so, along the edge of a rocky ridge that was known locally as ‘The Fool's Gauntlet'. Over the years, many walkers had accidentally stumbled or fallen off the ridge, usually when attempting the descent of Knighton Mountain in foggy or slippery conditions. Such a plunge usually meant certain death, as most of the ridge hung more than five hundred feet above a lonely, boulder-strewn valley below, that bore more than a passing resemblance to a distant lunar moonscape.

Despite its dangers, the descent from Knighton Mountain into the town of Hoffen was an extremely picturesque one; to the south of the Black Pathway, and near to the base of the mountain, ran Sleet River. To the north, lay the peak of Hoffen Mountain. Beyond that, the hostile, and generally inaccessible slope of Gerrett mountain could be seen. The Black Pathway trail wound its way gently down the eastern slopes of Knighton, edging ever closer to Hoffen, which would finally come into view following a short hike through a small, but densely-packed, mountainside forest known locally as ‘The Friery’. After another two or so hours, the town was reached. Most individuals walking the entirety of the Black Pathway trail would spend a second night bedded down in Hoffen, though this wasn't always the case; there were a small number of extremely hardy, and highly experienced ramblers, who had completed the walk along the Black Pathway in a day, though these were extremely few and far between. Our story begins with a young man who, upon stumbling into the town of Hoffen, decided that he couldn't go on anymore; his name was Alex James Crennell, and he most certainly wasn't either an experienced, or hardy, rambler at all.