A Night in the New Forest

I arrive at dusk with the essentials: a pop-up tent, a flask of hot coffee and my fantasma camera. It seems like a ridiculous idea, venturing into the New Forest alone on a chilly November evening, but the only way to do this is without the distraction of another mind, another opinion. Besides, there is no other way, really. I am determined to find this rare, royal phantom alone.

The ground is hard. With each step, my boots crunch down onto a thin ice layer. The air is fresh; rich with the scent of pine and earth. The chill bites at my nose and cheeks, and I know it’s only going to get colder. I look around, surveying the towering silhouettes of ancient oaks as the last remnants of pale sunlight fall between their twisted bodies. Shadows deepen and darken. Before long they’ll merge into the growing dark and disappear altogether.

A few people pass me the other way. They’re leaving because it makes sense, they’ve finished their ambles and are heading home. I detect their curiosity and offer a feeble smile as they go by. No words are shared. I’m adjusting my rucksack on my shoulders, my camera knocking against my hip. I keep walking. It’s no one’s business what I’m doing here.

My path leads me to a wooden bridge that leans over a slow-moving river. Trickling water over pebbles is a pacifying sound, but doesn’t really penetrate my mood. The hollow ambience of the forest will not calm the nerves swelling in my gut. I feel nervous, and excited too, I think. I click on my phone torch to guide my way, the forest around me taking on a life of its own; eerie sounds of the night begin to crawl into my atmosphere; rustling leaves, whispering waters and peeping crickets. Eventually, the path opens up to wider terrain and I’m suddenly exposed.

There, in the centre of it all, stands the Rufus Stone. A piece of history, and mystery. I pick a spot maybe twenty yards away and set up camp, though I have no plans to sleep. My reason for being here tonight is too vital, and I don’t want to mess it up. Beneath the layers of my coat and jumper, my skin tingles. I’m adamant I’ll see him. I’ve come across a dozen reports of vague sightings, but vague or not, his ghost exists. I’m sure I can feel…something in the air. Like a pair of watchful eyes through the trees. After securing my tent in place, I sit at its entrance and turn off my torchlight, draping myself in the gloom.

The air is like ice and my toes are numb. I stare into the darkness, the camera settled in my lap. I wish he would appear. The notion comes and goes like an ebbing tide. I think I see something - a movement - but it fades into trees and I am left alone. 

‘Come on,’ I mutter. ‘Come on.’

Time continues to roll by tediously. I toy with my camera, play around on my phone. My conscience scolds me. Pay attention! Stay focused. By this point, I’m settled and my nerves have retreated. Waiting has dulled my enthusiasm. And yet, this line of business isn’t new to me; venturing into some secluded, haunted place in search of a legend. I haven’t found success in every ghost-pedition, but my track record is good. I’ve seen enough in these few years to keep me intrigued. I believe we’ve barely scratched the surface. The veil between worlds is sometimes thin, sometimes thick, sometimes broken.

I know there are wild boar that roam through the forest, along with horses and deer, but the black night around me is my shield. Right?

I hear the flapping of wings followed by a sweeping silence. After a long moment, there comes the soft, shivery hoo-hoot of an owl as it skims through the air overhead. It will be soon, I assure myself. My skin itches with anticipation.

I shuffle inside the tent for a while to drink my coffee, relishing the strong taste of it on my tongue, and dare to check the time. It’s been hours. Eventually I decide to move, to stand and stretch, for my limbs ache. I grab my phone and click on the flashlight, making my way outside and towards the rectangular stone, which stands like an ancient centrepiece in this patch of forest. My eyes graze over the passage of text carved onto its onyx face:

‘Here stood the oak tree, on which an arrow shot by Walter Tyrrell at a stag, glanced and struck King William the second, surnamed Rufus, on the breast, of which he instantly died. On the second day of August, Anno 1100.’

‘Rufus,’ I say. ‘Nice.’ I stand there for a while as still as the night, my mind lingering on what that day in August must have been like; heavy heat, his horse scuffing the ground, that fateful arrow shooting through the air. I shiver. The cold begins to creep up my sleeves, drawing me back to my tent, but as I turn I latch onto the sound of leaves under foot. Or, under hoof. I linger, casting the bright light from my phone torch towards the sound.

So much for being safe from wild boar.

Its eyes shine in the white torchlight and I observe its coarse brown skin and snout, tusks protruding from either side of it. Wild boar attacks are uncommon. I shouldn’t be afraid. I stare it, my quick breaths appearing like clouds of dry ice.

It sniffs and grunts, but before it has a chance to consider its next move, the animal lets out a squeal, darting away into the undergrowth. The hairs on my arms and neck stand to attention and my breath catches.

In a blink, everything changes. Better late than never! I want to cry, but I can’t speak.

I’m struck by the faint sound of a galloping horse, and almost in slow motion, the glowing ghost of King William II floats past me on his ride. I feel a sweep of air as he travels by. My bones are electrified. Flecks of his fire-red hair flick out from beneath his helmet, his cape flailing behind. I left my camera in the tent. I left my camera in the tent! All I can do is trace the apparition with my own eyes. And he's really there, vivid, haunting. I blink, and he's disappearing. I press a hand to my throat, watching the figure as he glides into the shadows, his light fading like the embers of a dying flame.

It happened. In a daze, I stumble back to the tent, the image of the King's ghost embossed in my mind. My camera stares up at me from its place among blankets, its unblinking eye open and sad. A missed opportunity. What a shame.

A shame for everyone else, that is. I may not be able to prove what I saw this time, but I know. And I'm determined that me and the King will cross paths again.