"It’s beautiful," she said.

Paul grimaced. He had never been enthusiastic about the place as she was, even though she had only seen it from a brochure until now. He turned to her and said, "Let's~ not get too hasty; we haven’t seen inside yet. It’s probably infested with all kinds of insects."

She scolded him with her eyes. She produced the keys from her pocket. The estate agent could not come with them, saying he had an urgent appointment. He offered to re—arrange their appointment, but Teresa was just too excited. So he had given her the keys when they stopped off on their way, and here they were.

Inside was not as bad as it looked from the outside. In fact, Paul was quite surprised at how clean and pleasant it looked. Almost inviting; he was still sceptical.

As they passed through the rooms, Paul felt a chill rising. The sky outside was clear and the sun shone warm and brightly over the small hamlet. Inside, he shivered. When they entered the master bedroom, the coldness grew even stronger. It chilled him down to the bone. He looked at Teresa, who seemed immune from it. She moved around, opening cupboards and looking out of windows with an air of nonchalance that unnerved him. He was still standing in the doorway, almost too scared to enter, when Teresa called him. Forcing his feet to move into the room, she asked:

"Who’s that by the gate?"

Curiosity made him move, but he never stopped feeling the cold. As he reached the window, the figure of a man turned and walked away from the cottage. Just before he turned out of sight, Paul noticed he was carrying a rifle.

‘Who was that?" asked Teresa.

"I dunno. Probably one of the neighbours looking to see who was moving in."

"So you want it?" There was no way that she could have hid her excitement and joy. Paul turned and smiled. "I didn't say that. All I’m saying is we'll see what’s wrong with this place and we'll take it from there."

"But there’s nothing wrong with it, Paul." She held her arms up and looked around. "What could possibly be wrong with this place? It’s got character and charm. It’s one of the most desired cottages in this area and it’s within our price range. What’s there to think about?"

"There’s the cold for starters," he said.

"There’s a big fireplace in every room that would warm the whole place up. I haven’t noticed any damp and there’s definitely not any insects roaming around." She moved closer to him and hugged him. "Its what we both need. It’s ideal."

That sort of made up his mind.

Two weeks later, they moved in. The days were long and warm in that steaming summer. The nights were the opposite for Paul; the whole house seemed to be like a fridge for him. It did not matter what he was wearing, whether it was a thick jumper or his overcoat, the cold would seep through and chill him.

One night, shortly after moving in, they went out to the local pub to try and meet some of the other inhabitants of the small hamlet. As they approached, they could see that the place was crowded and a steady flow of laughter and jeering met them as they neared the door. When they walked in, everybody stopped talking and turned to them. Teresa felt suddenly awkward and grabbed Paul’s hand. They made their way to the bar and ordered. A small murmur began which gradually gave way to normal talk.

They sat down at the only free table after paying for their drinks. Neither spoke, feeling the tension from their entrance. A tall man looked over at them and stood up. Placing his drink on their table, he said, "Do you mind if I join you?"

"No, go ahead," said Paul, indicating with his hand to the empty chair.

"My name is Arthur, but you can call me Art. Everyone else does. I understand you bought the old Cherry Tree place up on Rhythm Hill."

"Yes, it’s a lovely little place," said Teresa over— enthusiastically. Paul smiled at her childlike response.

"So I take it you haven’t heard the stories, then."

Oh great, thought Paul. Of all the places in the whole country, we end up in a superstitious—ridden village. Welcome to the Twilight Zone!

"No, what stories?" asked Teresa.

"That place was built on top of a druid’s grave, so some folk say. It’s supposed to be a place of some power. Apparently, they say, that every year, at the time the druid died, he comes and passes judgment on anyone he notices that’s on the site. If he likes you, then he'll leave you alone; but if he doesn't, well, we have some other stories about that."

"When did this druid die?" asked Paul, not really believing, but fascinated. Teresa tensed.

"A very long time ago. About a thousand years ago at least; that’s what some of the old people say!" He laughed at his implied joke. "Of course, nobody can prove even if this druid existed, but some strange things have happened."

"How did the place get it’s name? I mean, Cherry Tree Cottage and Rhythm Hill. It sounds like some sort of song."

"In the days of the druids, trees were treated like temples. You see, they used to think that the trees were where the gods lived and that the fairies were little angels sent by them to look after the trees.

"Now, where your place is, that’s where the Great Druid used to hold all his ceremonies and Rhythm Hill got it’s name from the sounds he used to make during those ceremonies. He’d go up there close to midnight on midsummer's and start to prepare the place; he’d get all different kinds of things from bushes and start to burn them and then he’d start to sing. It wasn't no ordinary singing, mind you. It would start off with his own voice, deep and tuneless, and would gradually get higher to a full blown choir. People would hear it from miles around.

"Your cottage got it's name because right where the Great Druid would sing, a cherry tree was growing. The Great Druid thought that this tree was the house of the Wise God. Now, I know that this must sound strange, but one night, on midsummer’s night eve, he started preparing for the ceremony...

The cool breeze whisked past and stirred the grey whiskers that trailed off his chin. He held his arms up to the great tree and offered prayers of thanks in silence. After a few moments, he saw the fiery lanterns snake their way up towards him. His followers were still a good distance away so he used this time to pray a little more.

As they approached, he was sitting in front of the tree, patiently waiting for them to settle before he would start the fertility song. The soft wind carried the herbal aroma to the four corners of the earth. His followers quietly sat around the cherry tree and waited for the Wise God to appear.

A low muttering silenced what little noise there was. The Great Druid had melodiously started his song. Slowly it reached a crescendo. His voice rose higher with each note, the crowd stirred in bewilderment, even though they had witnessed this vocal display each year. In the background, almost adding a beat to the a cappella, the village church chimed its bells. On the stroke of midnight a loud clap of thunder shook the very ground. The crowd glanced up in unison, expecting the rain to pelt down on them. The sky above was clear, the stars twinkling divinely in the sky. The moon beamed down, the legendary face peering quizzically.

As all this happened, some of the spectators looked at the Great Druid, their mouths dropping into wondrous awe. The tree of the Wise God was moving! With each note that carried on the wind the tree s branches moved towards them as if to embrace them. A yell of joy whooped up from somewhere and the Great Druid stopped his chanting and looked. The moment he stopped, the tree’s branches fluttered like useless wings. A low rumbling was heard from somewhere very close and a worried frown creased over the druid’s brow. All of a sudden, the branches came whooshing down and grabbed the dumb struck druid, lifting him off the ground. The whole crowd started to panic. Someone from below tried to grab the holy man ‘s feet as he was lifted high into the foliage. As they looked up at him, not knowing whether to try and save him and anger their god or leave him as a sacrifice, they cried. For some, it was too much to bear and they ran off back to their homes. For those that remained, their Great Druid never came out of the tree.

The following morning, as was customary, the local woodsman went into the little wood that sat around the base of the hill. As he was gathering fire wood for the locals, he heard a tiny voice calling him. He looked around but saw nobody. As he got closer to the hill, he happened to glance up at the cherry tree. The shock of the sight froze him on the spot, not believing what his eyes betrayed.

Embedded in the wood of the tree was the face of the druid. His features were contorted in pain, the eyes closed tight and his mouth in a grimace. Gathering his senses, the woodsman ran back to the village and gathered a small crowd of men. Together, they set out back to the tree, saws and axes at the ready.

 

"So they chopped the tree down. As they were chopping, each time the wood was broken, they all heard the cry of the druid. It was a cry of pain and regret. Some say the spirit in that tree was the devil himself!

"Anyway, around this time of year, anyone passing the spot where the old tree used to be, feels a chill. It goes right down to the bone, but that is just the Great Druid warning people that he’s looking after them from the Wise One."

"That’s a very interesting story, Art, but I don’t believe in ghosts and neither does my husband," said Teresa with an air of finality.

"This druid," said Paul. "Why is he warning people of the ‘Wise One’?"

"Well, they say that the Wise One is really the Devil. You see, he concocted this plan to trick everyone in believing that he was a good god; sent to protect the people from evil. As time went on, the people began to think this god was the all—powerful Wise One. The Great Druid was fooled into thinking that he was the chosen one, but he was tricked as well, you see. They say that whoever goes there feels a deathly chill running all the way through his body."

Paul shuddered.

The door flew open at that point so suddenly that everyone turned and stared at the empty doorway with a dreaded look. The wind flapped inside, blowing out the candles on the shelves. The publican slowly made his way to the door and closed it. As he passed their table, he gave a worried look at the two newcomers and went back to his post.

Arthur also had a worried look on his face.

"What’s wrong?" asked Teresa.

"That’s a bad sign. The Wise One has risen. He has found someone that he wants. Don’t go back tonight! Get away from here; as far away as possible!"

"What are talking about? It’s just an old story."

"It’s not!" There was an urgency in his voice.

"Look, we appreciate your concern but we must get going now," said Paul.

"It’s you! He wants you. You felt the cold, didn't you? Please, save yourselves and get away from here. Now!"

Teresa got up and put her coat on. "Come on, Paul. I've had enough of this. Let’s go home."

Not knowing what to do, Paul followed his wife.

Outside was peaceful. Just a freak gust before, thought Teresa. Paul was thinking of what he had been told that evening. That coldness which swept through his body crept up on him again.

"That stupid villager! I bet he gets kicks out of scaring people like that," said Teresa with an edge to her voice.

At the front gate to their new home, a figure stood idly as though he were waiting for them. Paul grabbed Teresa’s arm and held her back as he saw the figure.

"Wait here a minute," he said as he walked forwards. As he approached the figure, the moon came out from behind the clouds and Paul saw that he was carrying a sort of rifle. He immediately remembered the stranger they saw from the bedroom window.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The stranger did not answer, but started walking towards him. Paul steeled himself, ready for a fight. Instead, the stranger disappeared. Paul looked behind him. Teresa was standing there, looking perplexed. When she reached him, she grabbed his hand and held it tight.

"Did you see that?" he asked.

"I thought I did. But it must have a trick of the light. All I saw were shadows."

"It was that guy we saw that time from the window.

"It’s probably nothing. That fool’s got you scared, that’s all."

When they got into bed, Paul turned and face Teresa. He smiled at her and put his arm around her.

"I love you," he said.

"So do I," she said, stifling a yawn. She hugged him back and fell asleep in his arms.

The sun lit the room, blazing all the colours in a rainbow of brilliance. Teresa turned in her sleep and reached to find Paul. He wasn't there. She opened her eyes, fully awake now, got out of bed and went downstairs. After searching the whole house, she couldn't find him.

He’s probably gone for an early morning walk, she thought.

As the morning progressed, Paul didn't turn up. She wondered around the house, and, in the kitchen, she found what used to be a door. It was papered over and a small cupboard was placed in front of it. She would never have found it, had it not been for the fact that she leant on the cupboard and the paper ripped, letting out a cold stream of air. She moved the cupboard out of the way and pulled the paper away and found herself standing at the top of a flight of stairs. The steps trailed off into the darkness.

The flash light seemed to only reveal steps. Further down she went. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, she came to the bottom. The walls seemed to be carved out of the earth. As she looked, she could vaguely make out patterns on the walls. On closer inspection she saw that they were faces. She made her way through the large room, noting that all the faces seemed to have an agonised expression on them.

About twenty feet on, she paused and stared at one of the faces.

She screamed as she saw Paul; his face was frozen in a scream, his eyes tightly closed. She realised then that Arthur was right, the Wise One was after Paul. And he had got him.