Original subtitles

The dark green of a Cornish valley felt remote, even mysterious, after the

constant grind of urban living.

Of course, I'd had the best of both worlds, a rural upbringing and more than

a taste of city life.

Now I had the chance of picking up the threads of a country life from where I'd

left them 17 years ago.

I hadn't seen my cousin Jenny for years.

We're not a close family, and quite frankly, I was beginning to believe that

we drifted out of touch.

Then quite suddenly, there was this letter.

Its contents were unstructured and faintly hysterical, and had it been from

anyone else, I might well have ignored it.

But you can't ignore a cry for help from your only living relative, can you?

Although it was difficult to read, here and there a line came through with a

horrifying sense of familiarity.

Was it something I'd imagined, a childhood fancy, or had Jenny touched by

chance on some strange event from my family's past?

My mind leaped to chasm in time and space.

Must be 20 years now since I last slept in my bedroom at Fox Holly's farm.

I suppose I would have been about 15 at the time, and rapidly gaining some

confidence as I waited the last few months before technical college.

One particular spring morning, I awoke with a special feeling of excitement.

Usually, farming folk rise early, but this morning was different.

The sun was bright at 5 o'clock, and below me, the house lay silent.

The evening before had been Mother's birthday treat, a rare visit to the

cinema. And my parents slept on.

Was it still there?

My guilty secret?

Foolish, I checked a thousand times in the past few days, and it was always

there.

Undiscovered by Mother.

It was an old 12-bore shotgun.

It had lain beneath a shelf in the outhouse, disregarded by my father.

He'd refused to let me use his gun, so I'd painstakingly restored this one.

This was to be the day of the first firing.

I was answering a challenge within myself, and having made the decision,

there was no turning back.

But the boldness of my action still worried me, and at least once in every

waking hour, I questioned the wisdom of what I was doing.

Well out of sight of the house I began to relax a little.

I was still fearful of discovery.

But I would have been even more fearful had I the remotest idea of what lay in

store.

My first objective was the stone wall on the far side of the meadow.

Once there, I felt secure behind my temporary shelter.

I was well away from the house, and the falling ground should help mask the

sound of a twelve war.

I had savored this moment.

The moment of the first shot for a long time.

Yet, now it was actually here, I felt a distinct reluctance creeping over me.

It was a bit like saving the best bit of a meal to last.

All I needed now was a target.

Most country folk have an affinity with wildlife.

It's a bit like someone is trusting you, that you have some kind of

responsibility to the countryside.

A flash of guilt overcame me as I tried the catch.

What was it my father had said about handling firearms?

Treat it with respect.

Never, never point a gun at anybody.

I examined the two brick-red cartridges I'd swapped for a fountain pen at

school. One had traces of corrosion on the brass percussion cap, which I tried

to remove on the rough material of my jacket.

My pulse quickened with anticipation.

In my hands was the... Power over life and death, and I couldn't wait to use

it.

I decided to try my luck over the next hill.

Surely a rabbit would prove an easy target.

My eye was caught by movement on a nearby gate.

It was my father's guinea fowl.

Odd. They usually ran with the sheep.

A distant gull coursed across the sky. I practiced my aim and found it sadly

lacking.

I hurried on in search of an easier quarry.

I'd seen dead sheep before, of course, but this one was different.

I considered the possibilities.

I knew all the stories about dogs worrying sheep, and I could imagine my

father's anger when he heard about this one.

Perhaps I'd find the culprit myself.

I hesitated as I came to the path through Bennett's Wood, a dark,

mysterious place I rarely visited.

But the 12-bore felt comforting and I pressed on with a feeling of security.

I kept to the open path.

The trees seemed tall and threatening.

Once or twice I thought I heard scratching noises in the hedgerow.

Then I became aware of another sound.

An open, hollow noise like escaping gas.

With some effort, I put the fear aside and continued my walk.

What happened next, I've gone over in my mind a hundred times, trying to make

some sense of it, but I'll swear this is the way it was.

After a while, the track petered out, and the tall trees gave way to thicket.

I'd drawn level with a clump of bushes.

You know how you can tell without looking if someone enters a room behind

you? There's a kind of shift in the atmosphere, like a door's been opened.

Well, I knew there was something in that bush.

I crept slowly through the dense undergrowth.

trying to keep undercover all the while and straining to see a telltale

movement.

When it did come, I was far too slow.

Frightened out of my wits, I pulled on the rusty trigger.

The cartridge failed to fire.

What it was I was fighting, I had no idea, and to this day I am far from

certain. No animal.

But then, neither was it human.

Breathless, I paused to recover my senses.

The thing, whatever it was, had crashed away into the woods behind me.

My parents never believed me, of course. How could they?

It was a child's fanciful story.

A device to cover the truth.

There have been times in recent years when I began to convince myself that it

was all a dream.

But now this letter from Jenny.

She was to be here to meet me.

I'll pick you up in the car, she said.

But the platform was deserted.

My father died in that terrible winter of 63, and for a while we brought a

manager in. But you can't leave the running of your farm to strangers.

So we sold the acreage to a neighbor and the house to a man from upcountry.

I was told that he didn't live there long.

He sold it for less than he'd paid for it and joined his sister in Torquay.

That's something that retiring city dwellers never understand.

They scan the teeming countryside convinced that it's an empty place.

It takes a lifetime to find an affinity with solitude.

What possessed my cousin to buy the place, I'll never know.

It's far too isolated for a young couple.

I recognized Jenny immediately and wondered vaguely why she was alone.

She looked pale and agitated.

Jenny. Nice to see you.

She was very quiet, resisting my awkward attempts at conversation.

asked about Bill, but she refused to say anything.

We drove for several miles, but instead of heading onto Fox Holly's farm, the

road to the local village.

Not the farm, she said.

Not there.

well thank you it was the start of the holiday season and the village was busy

with tourists it was obvious that jenny badly needed an atmosphere of normality

i listened patiently trying to seem sympathetic then slowly little by little

she told me her story the past few weeks she said had seemed bizarre and

unreal yet What concerned her most was the patronizing disbelief of those

around her.

She had turned to the only person left.

It was just possible that I would understand.

The night they moved in, Jenny and Bill had thrown a housewarming party.

I doubt the farm had seen it like before.

It must have been 2 a.m. before the last guest departed.

The couple were left with the usual mess of empty bottles and overflowing

ashtrays.

Thankful to end the ordeal, they surveyed the wasteland that spread

through the kitchen and scullery.

There was no way they could face that lot in the morning.

They arranged their duties logically.

She would attend to the washing up, whilst Bill stacked the pile of empty

bottles into the cellar.

It was a strange sound a bit like escaping gas, but it wasn't continuous

Bill more like someone breathing

Perhaps

a

husband was fooling around trying to frighten her Was that you

Although Jenny loved the farm, there was one place she disliked. The piggery was

at least 200 years old, and in days gone past, the farmer had conducted his own

slaughter. The stone gully that collected the animal's blood still

existed.

There's another one here.

Bill had longed for free-range eggs. You couldn't live in a farmhouse, he said,

without a proper farmhouse breakfast.

The idea of keeping a few hens had sounded simple enough, but when it came

down to it, nothing was as straightforward as it seemed.

Bill was undaunted. It was simply a matter of seeking the right advice.

Her husband was so practical, he could infuriate her at times.

For a while, life continued normally, and Jenny had time to forget the

incident on the night of the party.

She set about the kitchen garden, pleased that she too could be practical,

when she put her mind to it.

Then, quite suddenly, all her fears returned.

A series of seemingly disconnected events plunged her into a state of

nervous disbelief.

There were the strange scratches on the outhouse door.

And a cracked window pane.

She was sure she hadn't noticed that before.

Then there was the business of the cat's ear.

Jenny had found him in the yard one morning looking less than happy.

She hadn't seen him for more than two days, and when he finally turned up, he

was mangled and scarred.

Phil had laughed. Cats fight all the time, you know.

She supposed he was right.

We'll soon have better.

Again,

she tried to dismiss the feelings from her mind, but the atmosphere was

altogether different now.

Doubt crept in and no amount of reassurance from Bill would help

dislodge them Perhaps she was becoming neurotic or at the very least she was

not suited to country life

Bill

Can you remember the name of those people we met last week she felt a vague

sense of separation from Bill They seem to be growing apart and secretly she

wished for something tangible to happen and bring them together again

Bill

Could you go and take a look please?

It's only the wind please

He rose reluctantly with affected resignation.

He felt he must humor her, although there was no way they could continue

like this, starting at every innocent sound.

Hello One

afternoon

Jenny returned from the village rather later than usual

Immediately, she sensed a difference.

The air was deathly still.

There was no birdsong, no breath of wind, and even more alarming, none of

the familiar clucking from the chicken pen.

Sorry, love, I'm just delivering, you know.

I've got some bad news. I think you'd better come and have a look at this.

He'd just delivered the groceries when he'd heard a commotion coming from the

pen.

Jenny found herself staring dumbstruck at a deep impression in the soil.

That night she lay awake, afraid to sleep.

A murmur of wind settled in the chimney breast.

Was there something outside?

Or was she imagining things again?

This would never do.

Perhaps she could read for a while.

It was past two o'clock.

How much longer could she stay like this?

No doubt of that there really was something outside

There was no ignoring that.

There was something or someone moving around outside, and Bill was determined

to find out for himself.

Today, the house is still up for sale, despite a much reduced price.

Bill's physical injuries were actually slight, but he never recovered from the

shock.

The farm is quite deserted now.

There hasn't been a soul to see it in six months.

I suppose these stories get around, and people are reluctant to take on anything

that has that kind of doubtful connection.

I'd certainly never live there again.

Mind you, it's a warning to us all.

A survey can't always reveal the truth about any house.

So if you're looking for a place in the West Country, remember this one.