THE WATCHTHING

How many signs do I have to put up warning people about this place?  A mile up the road at the top, is the first, a skull and crossbones and a simple DANGER, DO NOT PASS BEYOND THIS POINT.  The next is more explicit – DOOM LIES AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS HILL.  Drivers of cars that have passed the first sign, start thinking of turning at the second.  Most but the very curious turn round at the third – A PIT OF FIRE AWAITS YE - I have drawn a picture of a pit of fire below the writing, just in case they don’t know what one looks like.

Beyond the third sign, the slippery slope becomes steep enough to put any motorist off.  Many get out of their cars and walk down a bit, just to have a look, but usually stop when they arrive at my cabin, because I scream at them.

“DOOOOOMMMM!  YOU ARE GOING TO YOUR DEATH!  YOU WILL END UP IN THE ETERNAL TORMENT OF HELL IF YOU CONTINUE!”
Occasionally people do go on, which is why I’m wondering what else I’ve got to do to put them off.  I mean, surely my demonic appearance frightens them.  However, so many different varieties of characters pass me – curious teens being the most common.  Sometimes middle aged men suited and booted and looking as though their lives are completely on track just drive on down the slope at speed, a glazed look in their eyes.  On other occasions it’s a group of football fans drunk and up for violence all going down there on foot, picking their way at first, then sliding.  And women in party dresses and heels, tiptoeing carefully, looking shocked when I see and shout at them, but continuing anyway, sometimes saying entreatingly to me ‘Sssh!  I know’.  Other times it’s a more quirky crowd – philosophers, depressed artists, beatniks and the terminally bored.  They go down there and they don’t come back.  It’s really irritating.  I mean why do they do it?  Should I put up more signs?  Is the wording wrong?

Here comes one now careering down the hill, on a bicycle of all things, legs stretched out in front of ... her?  It’s a woman!  Good God!  A woman cycling down a slope only the most adventurous extreme sports people would attempt.  She’s flinging off her helmet and letting her bright hair catch the rays of the setting sun.  “Wooo hooo!” she cries as she catches sight of me.

“DOOOOOMMMM!  YOU ARE GOING TO YOUR ...”
There isn’t even time for me to finish my sentence, she’s gone without hesitation.  I can hear her laughter.  One of those women of spirit no doubt.  Well, that’ll teach her.  I languish in my cabin, replaying the moment she flashed by in my mind.

Time has passed, it’s night now and all is quiet, no-one else has come down here today.  The full moon is shining on the road and the hedges cast dark shadows.  My ears prick up, I can hear someone walking slowly, but they are coming from the wrong direction, surely?  Nobody comes up the hill, because no-one ever comes back!  In panic, I race out of my cabin and stare.  It’s her, she’s standing right in the middle of the road, in broad moonlight, her bicycle is gone, her feet are bare and black and she’s smoking a cigarette.  Her face is pale, the eyes red rimmed; “Well, that was character building,” she says to me.

“But – but,” I search for the words, I’m so used to only saying the one sentence, that I can’t remember the language for what I want to ask and end up saying it all in the wrong order; “no-one alive there gets out of!”
She laughs softly; “Who says I was ever alive?”  She turns and saunters up the hill, swinging her hips and dragging on her cigarette.  I watch her until she is out of sight.