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As I sit here and try to write my story, my hand shakes uncontrollably. The same hand, stained by the nicotine of too many cigarettes, can barely hold the pen. If I looked into the mirror, I know that the face that would stare back at me would be very different from the one that looks out from my graduation photograph. The eyes would be red rimmed and wild, staring out from an unshaven face that is pale and drawn. It is a fact that these words, written in my shaking hand, will be dismissed as the ravings of a madman, yet I must write them. I must try and make people believe the incredible things that I have seen. It is too late for me, I know that, but it must not be too late for the rest of you!
I first moved to Trentford about five years ago when I secured a place at the University. The transition from large town to small city was not that great so I spent my first year doing all the things that a student does. Eventually, the joy of all night parties began to pall and I decided to look into the local history of the area. One place in particular piqued my curiosity: Nayton-en-le-Moors.
No matter how much I researched, save for the odd mention in old Parish records, I drew a blank. The museum and the library could not help me in my search and maps of the area gave no assistance. It was then that I began to question the people of the city, telling them that I was researching my thesis on witchcraft in the area. It was here that I found myself banging my head against a brick wall of silence; at least from the older people. They just would not talk about Nayton while those under sixty had never heard of the place.
It was then that I chanced upon the old book shop in Hope Lane. From the outside, it was not inspiring: dirt encrusted windows and scabrous paint. Inside, however, it was a treasure trove.
At first, I limited myself to the vast supply of paperbacks at the front of the shop. After a while, having devoured all that interested me, I began to delve deeper into its musty interior to find treasures of a different kind. it was there that I came across such unusual volumes as Geoffrey's 'People of the Monolith', Derby's 'Azathoth and Others', even a copy of 'Witch-Cult in Western Europe.' Imagine my delight when I came across copies of Shrewsbury's 'Cthulhu in the Necronomicon' and 'True Magick' by Wenn.
It was on a cold day in February when, during my monthly visit to the shop, I came across a leather bound volume with thick padded covers. The title, in faded gold letters upon the spine, proclaimed that it was entitled 'Hauntings in Trentford and the Surrounding Areas' by the Reverend Josiah Wordsmith. My curiosity whetted, I pulled out the volume and leafed through it. Picking out a paragraph at random, my eyes widened as I caught the names William Jessop and Nathaniel Richard. I had, previously, come across both names in my researches.
According to one of my books, 'Witchcraft and Magic in the Midlands? by John Horton, Jessop and Richard had been burned in the early nineteenth century for the murder of several children. According to Horton, all the victims had been slain in a manner that was consistent with "the rituals and practices of the occult." Turning to the flyleaf, I noticed an inscription for the first time: "Hope this helps and is of interest, Michael Jessop." That clinched it, I bought the volume on the spot.
My journey home was one of impatience. Eventually, I was sat in my living room examining the volume. I could barely contain my excitement as I ran my fingers over the rough leather bindings. One of my fingers felt a hard protrusion in one corner. Upon closer inspection, I caught sight of a sheet of paper hidden inside the cover.
Loathe as I was to damage the book, my curiosity got the better of me and, with aid of a sharp knife, I slit open the cover. Extracting the sheet, I put the book to one side before I carefully opened it.
The paper was a sheet of typewritten paper, obviously done in haste as there were a great many errors. As I read it, I felt excitement rising deep within me, especially the header which read 'Nayton-en-le-Moors: An Investigation.' I reproduce the sheet here, corrected of all its errors.

'Now I come to the speak of one of the strangest episodes in the history of Trentford and its environs: the terrible story of Nayton-en-le-Moors. If you have never heard of Nayton, do not be surprised. It has taken me many years to discover the facts that I have. The village seems to be cloaked in mystery, much like Penmire in Cornwall and Innsmouth in Massachusetts. For the most part, the people of Trentford either become reticent about Nayton, or completely deny any knowledge of its existence. It has only been through diligent examination of such sources as parish records that I have been able to piece together what I know. That was until, in a London book shop, that I found a copy "Hauntings in Trentford and the Surrounding Area' by Reverend Wordsmith. I have read this book many times and, until obtaining this new copy, did not realise that the book had been carefully censored to remove all mention of Nayton. In fact, an entire chapter, dwelling upon the history of the village, has been removed.
'The hardest thing to understand is the fear that comes upon people with regard to the village. What could have caused the entire suppression of a village over 500 years ago. Not only was the entire population massacred, but the buildings were burnt to the ground. After this, the entire plot of land was ploughed over and a copse of trees, known as the Witchwood, planted on the site. After this, there was an attempt to systematically remove all traces of the name.
'However, it seems that the attempt to eradicate Nayton was unsuccessful. Two families managed to escape the massacre: the Jessops and the Richards. It was from these two families that the infamous William Jessop and Nathaniel Richard were descended. i was jubilant to discover that the site for their rituals was none other than the Witchwood: planted on the site of the destroyed Nayton.'

There have been many times when I have wished that I had destroyed this document but, unfortunately, my curiosity got the better of me. My first action was to turn to the page in 'Hauntings in Trentford' where I had noticed the mention of Jessop and Richard.
And there it was, in plain print. The name Nayton-en-le-Moors. I could not believe it. I had found an uncensored copy. Trembling, I turned to the beginning of the chapter and read the title: 'The Terrible History of Nayton-en-le-Moors'. Lighting a cigarette, I began to read about the lost village I had been searching for.
As I read, I began to shudder deep inside. The history of this village which had been eradicated from the surface of the earth, almost from history, was a chronicle of the blackest deeds and the most insidious evil. There were names which the majority of people would not know: Azathoth, Nyarlathotep, Shub-Niggaruth and Yog-Sothoth. One section, the section about Jessop and Richard, described the libraries belonging to the two families. There were books named there that would not found openly on the shelves of any public collection, books I had heard of but had never seen.
I was astounded. It seemed that this pair had, somehow, managed to gain access to such terrible volumes as 'Cultes des Goules', 'Liber Ivonis', 'De Vermiis Mysteriis' and, most astoundingly, Olaus Wormius' translation of the hideous 'Al-Azif', better known as 'The Necronomicon.' As I read further, it seemed that the volumes had, just before the destruction of the Nayton, been lost or hidden. The people who had carried out the massacre had wished to destroy them but had been unable to do so.
I glanced at my watch. The time was 2.15 pm. Reaching for my road atlas, I calculated that I would be able to reach the Witchwood within thirty minutes. Jumping to my feet, I grabbed my camera and rushed out to my car.
The scenery as I drove along Moor Road, out of Trentford, was desolate. Before long, I had left the city behind and was amongst the Moorlands. Ahead of me were the hills that marked the eastern edge of the Moorlands, above which rolled menacing clouds that threatened to unleash more snow to add to that which lay upon the frozen ground. The sun was low in the sky by now, a fat swollen ball that stained the landscape red.
The sky was growing dark as I passed the turn off road to the Witchwood. As I matter of fact, I actually missed he gloomy turn off at first and had to reverse. As I turned my car towards the wood, I felt something scrape against the passenger side. Picking up my torch, I got out of the car and walked around to the other side to see what I had hit.
Everything was quiet as I dug away at the hidden stone object by the side of the road. Eventually, I was able to uncover a squat stone, about twelve inches in height, with carvings on the face. By the light of my torch, I could see that it was an old mile stone. It seemed that some attempt had been made to erase the inscription but, by brushing away covering debris, I was just able to make out the legend Nayton-en-le-Moors: 2 1/2 miles.
Returning to my car, I got my camera and took a photograph before resuming my journey. Deep inside, I felt a strange elation at being on the trail of that which I had sought for so long.
In a matter of minutes, I had reached the outskirts of a thick copse of trees. It had taken me longer than anticipated to get this far as the road was treacherous: covered with snow and in poor condition. It looked as if it had been a great many years since it had been used.
Before entering the wood, I decided to take a walk around its edges. I had walked about two thousand yards before I came upon a path trampled in the snow. Coming from the direction of Boselum, another town five miles away, it looked as if a large number of people had made the walk across the snowy moors.
Despite the fact that my curiosity had been piqued, I decided to return home and come back in daylight. Already the sun was almost down to the horizon and the air, which had been chill all day, took on a frigid aspect as thick flakes of snow began to fall. I shivered, despite my thick coat, and turned as if to make for my car.
It was at that moment that a fire sprang up in the centre of the copse. As I looked, the silence of the night seemed to grow deeper. It seemed to me that I could not even hear the sound of the wind. Cautiously, I began to make my way deeper into the trees. As I advanced there came, from the source of the fire, a strange humming, one that was felt rather than heard.
"Ia Shub-Niggaruth. The Black Goat of the Woods With a Thousand Young," came the sudden cry. So sudden was it that I dropped my torch in surprise.
Groping on the floor, I managed to retrieve it as the chanting went on for some time. Most of what what was cried was absolute gibberish and was uttered by a single voice. Periodically, the massed voices of the rest would respond with the chorus I heard first.
For a few moments, I stood there, not knowing whether to creep closer or turn and run like hell. Then I got a grip on myself. As if there was any danger in a wood in the English countryside of the late twentieth century, I remember thinking. No doubt, I told myself, it was a group of students from the university having a laugh.
Moving forward once more, I crept to the edge of a clearing in the centre of the copse. Right in the middle of the clearing was a huge stone block that was surrounded by small fires. Tied to the rock was a young man, aged about nineteen, with long blond hair. As I looked at him, it seemed to me that there was something familiar about him. This only served to reinforce my feeling that this was some student prank as I was sure I had seen him about the university campus.
Without warning the chanting ceased. The only sound was the crackling of the flames. Then a figure, dressed in long, flowing robes, stepped forward and raised what seemed to be a knife. With a casual movement, he used the blade to slice open the youth's shirt.
"Black Goat of the Woods," he cried, raising the knife above his head, "look upon us with favour."
"Ia Shub-Niggaruth," came the response.
"Black Goat of the Woods, send us your blessing."
"Ia Shub-Niggaruth."
"Black Goat of the Woods, accept our sacrifice." With a sudden downward arc, the robed figure plunged the knife deep into the youth's chest.
I must admit that I cried out in fear and horror. This had gone too far to be a prank. One of the figures turned to look at where I was concealed. At this, my nerve broke and I did what any sensible person would have done: I turned and ran.

Inspector Gault of the Trentford Constabulary was very understanding. He sat in an armchair, dressed in a suit of charcoal grey, and listened as I gave my statement. Eyes of a startling blue fixed me with a steely gaze, occasionally flicking to the constable who recorded my words in a black notebook. However, it was clear that he did not believe a word of what I said.
The remainder of the night had passed in a blur. Upon reaching my car, I had driven like a maniac until I reached home before summoning the police. About fifteen minutes later, a uniformed officer had arrived and taken a preliminary statement, informing me that other officers had been sent to the scene.
After he had left, I slept poorly. Everytime I closed my eyes, I saw he face of the youth who had been butchered. By the time that the grey dawn had come creeping through my curtains, I decided to give sleep up as a bad job and sat there, waiting for the police.
The police, in the form of Gault and the PC who had taken my initial statement, arrived around 8.30 am. It was quite clear, early in the interview, that the inspector thought I was mad. Nevertheless, I related the events of the previous evening and tried not to take offence. Upon completing my statement, Gault paused, as if evaluating what I had said.
"You're a writer, aren't you?" he asked.
"That's right," I replied, a little confused at this change of tack.
"What do you write about?"
I shrugged. "Quite a range. I do freelance work for a couple of the local papers and book reviews for some magazines. In addition, I've had three books published: a science-fiction novel and a couple of books about the occult history of the area. Add to that various short stories and some poetry."
"Was it you that wrote 'Ghosts of Trentford Castle'?"
"Yes," I affirmed. "That was my first book."
"So you're an expert on the occult?"
I gave him a slight smile. "Expert is, perhaps, too strong a word. Compared to someone like Steve Wilton, I'm just a dabbler: an educated dabbler maybe, but a dabbler all the same."
"But you could say that the occult is an interest of yours?"
"Not really," I disagreed, "I'm a historian. My only interest in the occult is where it has a bearing on history."
"But you've written two books on the subject."
"No, I've written two books on occult history. Both of them were attempts to provide a rational explanation for the legends that have grown up around the area."
"And what rational explanation do you have for what you saw last night?"
I sighed. "I'm afraid I don't have one."
"What do you think you saw?"
"I don't think I saw anything. I know I saw someone murdered in circumstances that seemed to have occult overtones. I've already told you that."
Gault leaned forward. "Mr Gill, I must tell you that we've found no body at the site you indicated. In fact, there's no evidence that anyone, save yourself, has even been up there."
"Are you sure you've got the right place?"
"We think so, but we'd like you to come up and check, just to be sure."
I shrugged. "Very well then."
Neither Gault, nor the constable, spoke on the drive out of Trentford. The Witchwood turn off was much easier to find in daylight than it had been the previous evening. I was unable to see the milestone that I had found, but the road was unmistakable. As the car pulled up to the copse, I began to feel apprehensive. My memories of the previous night began to seem ridiculous in the cold light of a February morning.
"Is this the place?" asked Gault.
I turned to face him. "Yes, this is it."
"Could you show us exactly what you did?"
Slowly, I led the two of them around the outskirts of the wood. None of us spoke as we trudged our way through the snow. I, especially, kept my eyes open for any sign of my passage. However, the night's snowfall and the footprints of the police made that impossible.
"I think the path in the snow was here," i announced. "It seemed to have come from the direction of Boselum."
"So what did you do then?" asked Gault.
"I was about to return home when someone lit a fire in the woods."
"And?"
"And I tried to find out what was happening, as I told you."
"Thank you Mr Gill, that will be all for now. I'll have the constable run you home."
"That's it?"
"Yes, thank you. We'll be in touch."
Unable to do anything else, I allowed the constable to lead me to the car and drive me home. All the way back, something nagged at my mind but I could not put my finger on it. At the time, I think, I just put it down to paranoia brought on by the night's events and lack of sleep.
Once back home, I spent a good two or three hours working through my bookcase, attempting to track down any mention of Shub-Niggaruth. Unfortunately, what I had got was very sparse. For a few moments, I sat at my desk before I reached for the telephone. It only rang a couple of times before i was answered.
"Hello," came the distorted voice on the other end.
"Steve, its John. I need a favour."
"What can I do for you?" asked Steve Wilton.
"You know this place Nayton I've been looking into?"
"Yeah, I remember you saying you've been drawing a blank."
"Yesterday I found a copy of 'Hauntings in Trentford" by Wordsmith, an uncensored copy."
"I didn't know that it had been censored."
"Neither did I until last night. Anyway, there's a whole chapter about Nayton and its destruction. i think I've found the place."
"Good for you. How can I help?"
"I need to know all you can tell me about Shub-Niggaruth."
"Not much off the top of my head. If I remember right, it was some kind of fertility deity that was linked to Cthulhu and the rest."
"That's what I know myself. I don't suppose you've got a copy of the Necronomicon have you?"
Not for lack of trying. I know a bookseller that's got a copy of the Dee translation but I can't afford it. Why do you want it?"
"I can't tell you yet but its linked to my investigation into Nayton. Something weird is happening around here. I'll tell you when I see next, I ought to be get over in the next couple of days."
"OK. In the meantime, I'll see what I can dredge up for you."
After I hung up, I sat thinking for about ten minutes before deciding to pay the old bookshop another visit. Because of the treasure trove it had been in the past, I thought I would try and see if I could unearth anything more from there. My decision made, I got to my feet and reached for my coat. Just then, the telephone rang.
"Hello."
There was no answer from the other end.
"Hello."
Again there was no response. As I listened, it seemed that I could hear a strange melodic hum overlayed by a muted whispering. The sounds were so faint, I could not be sure if I could hear it or if it was my imagination.
"Hello."
The sounds seemed to grow in intensity until the connection was broken and all I could hear was the dialling tone. Carefully, I laid the receiver back in the cradle and stared at it. Receiving no revelation from that, I decided to continue with my plans and exited the house, carefully locking the doors after me.
For some strange reason, as I drove into Trentford centre, I was unable to tune in the radio. Snatches of signal would drift in and out to be replaced by static. Periodically, I thought I heard the sound of strange pipe music but, when I tried to tune in clearer, the signal eluded me. In the end, I put the music down to some trick of the static, a kind of aural hallucination, and turned the radio off. I came to the conclusion that it must have been caused by some strange atmospheric condition though the sky was a pale, hard blue with a pale sun.
When I arrived at Hope Lane, I was in for a surprise when I saw a couple of police cars and fire engines parked outside. The shop itself was a smoking, burned out wreck. Miraculously, the two flanking buildings had survived intact.
"What's going on?" I asked the PC who was controlling the traffic.
"Some sort of fire in the book shop," he replied.
"Anyone hurt?" ,br>"We can't be sure how many, but we've found one body. Probably the owner."
"How did it start?"
"That's the strange thing. Whatever caused it, went through the place like a bomb."
Unable to find out anything more, I decided to return home. As I entered, i saw the message light on my answerphone flashing. With a shrug, I played it back.
The first few messages were of no consequence: double glazing salesmen or people who hung it immediately. Then the voice of Steve Wilton caught my ears.
"I know you're coming down soon, but I thought I'd let you know that I've found something that I think you'll be interested in."
"Good old Steve," I said to myself, "you always come up with the goods."
By this time, the tape had spooled onto the next message. Once again, I thought I heard that strange humming sound, only this time it seemed that I could pick up words underlying it. Quickly, I pressed the rewind button and replayed the message.
Try as I might, I was unable to make any sense of the words. As I listened, I did manage to notice a number of similarities to the chant I had heard up in the Witchwood. This began to lead me along the path to a conclusion that disturbed me greatly. Quickly, I rewound the tape and played it a third time. Once more, I was unable to make any sense of the gibberish. However, one word did seem to be repeated with some degree of regularity: Kahless.
For about fifteen minutes or so, I sat there and racked my brains but was unable to recall if I had ever heard the word before. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind so I wrote the word in bold capitals on a sheet of paper and wrapped it around the tape. Perhaps, I thought, Steve might recognise it.
A glance at my watch told me that it was 2.50pm. I decided it was time to go see my old friend and, hopefully, gain some insight into what I had seen.

Steve Wilton lived in a rambling old house in a small village called Smallton, which was about six miles outside Trentford. I had always liked Smallton. It was the sort of place you would expect to see in the Yorkshire Dales or huddled on Dartmoor. The buildings were mainly quaint cottages or larger edifices, none of which were less than 150 years old. The only exception was the church of St Michael which had been built around 70 years ago. The old, abandoned church of St Jude stood like a sentinel atop the hill around which Smallton was huddled.
Wilton, himself, was a big, burly man with jet black hair that had just begun to grey at the temples. He was about fifty: a good natured man whose passions were, in no particular order, history, folkmusic and real ale. When I had first begun my researchers into the occult history of the area, one of my college tutors had introduced me to him and we had struck up a close friendship immediately.
No matter how many times I visited Wilton, his house never seemed to amaze me. As he lead me down a dim hallway towards his study, I was, once more, astounded by the miscellany he had collected.
The study contained more of the same. Rows upon rows of books lined the walls- most of them in leather bindings with faded print on the spines. Pride of place was given to a locked cabinet with a glass front which contained an original edition of 'De Vermiis Mysteriis'. I cannot think of anyone in Britain who had a wider selection of rare occult books than Wilton.
Wilton motioned me towards a comfortable chair before settling himself in another opposite me. "So," he asked, "what can I do for you?"
"For a start, you can tell me what it is you've found. You said I'd be interested."
"I think," he told me, lighting his pipe, "that you'd better bring me up to date on everything." He pointed to the thick file and book I had brought with me.
"This," I told him, indicating the file, "contains I've everything I've dug up about Nayton. A lot of it you'll have seen but this," I handed him the typewritten sheet I had found, "may be new."
As he read the sheet, I settled back in my chair and lit a cigarette. A smile formed on my lips as I watched his eyes scan the page.
"Where did you get this?" he demanded.
"It was hidden in this," I told him, handing him the book.
"And this is..,"
"An uncensored copy of Hauntings," I finished.
"Where did you find this?"
"The old book shop in Hope Lane."
"Have they got anything else?"
"I don't know, the place burnt down this morning."

"Damn," he swore. "So, is this everything?"
In reply, I handed him the tape from my answering machine. "This," I explained, "is the tape you left your message on. Its the call afterwards that's interesting."
Wilton placed the cassette in his stereo and pressed play. Immediately, the eerie music and whispering filled the room.
"Have you ever heard anything like that?" I asked.
"No."
"What about the name Kahless. Does that mean anything to you."
"Not really. What's this all about?"
I took and deep breath and began top tell him about what I had seen in the Witchwood. Once again, his eyes widened and, for a few moments, he sat there, thinking over what I had told him.
"Its difficult to believe," he said.
"Tell me about it," I replied.
"Strange cults and human sacrifice in the twentieth century. Its almost unbelievable."
"The police certainly think so. They believe that I imagined the whole thing."
"If I didn't know you better, I'd be tempted to believe the same."
"Thanks," I replied. "So, what have you got for me?"
Wilton handed me a piece of paper that was covered with flowing script. At first, I was unable to read it until I noticed that, on the back, was a transcript.
"What is this?" I asked.
"This," he explained, "is a reproduction of an extract from the chronicles written by a monk who lived in this area about 900 years ago. No-one is certain where the monastery was located, although they think Nayton may have been built on the site."
"So why would his be of interest?"
"Read it and find out."
Once more I lowered my eyes to the sheet of paper. The transcript was a verbatim reproduction of the original. I present it here in my own words as the style was archaic and difficult to follow.

'Know that, despite the best efforts of those of us sent by his eminence, we have made little progress in this area. Despite our most devout prayers and our most severe punishments, the people still adhere to their heathen ways. No matter what my brothers and I say or do, they still conduct business in the Sabbath. Far worse is the fact that they still perform their blasphemous pagan rituals upon the hill. Only last night did some two score of the villagers dance naked around a fire upon the hill. And, as they danced, they offered obscene prayers to the Black Goat of the Woods With a Thousand Young. Only this morning has the abbot sent a request for assistance so that we may stamp out these impious and unholy rites.'

For a few moments I sat there speechless as I re-read the passage once more. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Wilton watching me with some amusement. In the end, I could stand it no longer.
"Is this genuine?" I asked.
"Absolutely," he replied. "A friend of mine found it and made me a copy. The original has been carbon dated at around 1050 AD. Its authentic for certain."
"Black Goat of the Woods With a Thousand Young," I mused. "That rings a bell."
"The Black Goat is another name for Shub-Niggaruth."
"So it has something to do with what I saw in the woods."
"It would certainly seem so. If the monastery was built on the site of Nayton, where you saw the ritual, it means that Pagan worship has been going on there for something like a thousand years."
"And is still going on now," I added. "What do you suggest we do?"
"Well," he mused, "for a start, I'd like to go up there and have a look."
"I can show you the way but..,"
"But what?"
"Its the site of a police investigation. It may still be sealed off."
"Ah, ,but if the police are as sceptical as you say they'll have buggered off by now."
"Ok," I conceded, "what are we waiting for?"

The drive from Smallton to Nayton took about thirty minutes. Neither of us spoke as we sped along Moor Road in the deepening twilight. Only once did we break the silence.
"I wish we'd come up here a few hours earlier," Wilton remarked as I overtook a motorcyclist.
"Well, we can put it off until tomorrow if you want."
"No way," he replied, slamming the dashboard for emphasis. "You've got me too curious. I've got to see it tonight."
With a laugh, I continued along the road as, all around us, the dark spread across the sky. The first pale stars of evening were beginning to appear as I saw, illuminated in my headlights, the trees of the Witchwood.
"So this is the place?" asked Wilton.
"This is it," I replied as I rolled to a halt.
"You can understand how the place got its name," he commented, "its got a brooding air."
"It may have it now, but you should see it in daylight. It seems much more prosaic."
"Come on, I want to see everything." Wilton was acting like a child taken to the zoo.
The two of us got out of the car and, after collecting a couple of torches from the boot, we made our way into the trees. As we progressed deeper, I told Wilton what I had seen there once more.
"You've heard the legends about trees being the tormented souls of the dead," he commented as we paused for a few minutes, "well, you can see where the idea came from." To illustrate his point, he directed the beam of his torch against a tree that, in particular, looked like a tormented and twisted old man.
I gave a nervous laugh. "Most of them look like that."
Soon, we found ourselves in the clearing where I had seen the sacrifice performed. At least I think it was the same clearing. The monolith was there, nut it did not look as big, nor as imposing, as it had.
Cautiously, we approached it. The thing thing stood about six feet high and seemed to be carved out of black granite. Unfortunately, this prevented our torches from picking up any bloodstains that may have been on its rough surface.
"Its fantastic," said Wilton, "I've never seen anything like it."
As I walked around the black stone, my foot caught something which caused me to stumble. Directing my torch down, I caught sight of a small metal case, about a foot square. "Steve," I called as I stooped to pick it up.
A brief examination of the box revealed a small catch that allowed the lid to spring open. This action revealed a folded piece of parchment. Eagerly, I removed it and began to read by the light of m y torch.
"What does it say?" asked Wilton.
"I don't know. I can't make head nor tail of it."
Wilton took the parchment from my hands and scanned the strange words. "I don't know the language but, if read phonetically, it goes something like this.

I must choose my words carefully now as I do not wish for any misunderstanding. There was no dramatic flash of lightning or clap of thunder, but the air took on a strange feel, almost as if I were stood near a Van der Graaf generator. Somewhere, deep in the forest, I began to see a strange phosphorescent glow. It was a sickly green and sent a feeling of unease crawling up my spine.
From all around us came the sound of whispering. It felt as if the wood were filled with secretive watchers who were discussing us in low voices from their places of concealment. Every so often, I thought I heard the name Kahless whispered.
And there was more. As I listened, it seemed as if I could hear that strange piping music I had heard over the telephone. This, as much as anything, filled me with a feeling of dread that grew as a strange rustling reached my ears.
I heard a strangled gasp from Wilton and spun around. There is no way I can explain what was happening except to tell you what I saw. Even now, I find it hard to believe despite all the times I've replayed it in my mind.
One of the trees of the Witchwood, one of those tortured, human looking, damned trees, had come alive. Quietly, it had moved until it was stood behind Wilton. Its branches had extended until they had encircled his body.
Gently, almost paternally, the tree had lifted him high, like a father picking up his son. Slowly, the branches had begun to contract.
Wilton's body began to convulse and his eyes rolled up into his head. His mouth stretched open and let out a scream of pain and terror. I had never heard a scream like that before and I hope, to any gods that may exist, no-one else ever does again.
I stood there. God knows I wanted to help him, but I just stood there. It was as if every part of my body had ceased to function, every part of me except my eyes. All I could do is stand there and watch as the life was squeezed out of him, my mind reeling with the inability to understand what was happening.
To my fevered brain it seemed that I noticed two small knotholes in the trunk, knotholes that looked like eyes and appeared to be filled with an unholy red light. Beneath these 'eyes', a large fissure opened. As I watched, I saw Steve Wilton's blood drip into that black maw. With a contemptuous gesture, the thing threw his desiccated body to one side.
For a few moments, it stood there. It was at that moment that the strange spell holding me broke and I took a few steps back. Before my eyes, the tree thing that had killed my friend began to shake, loose bit of bark falling to the floor
As the outer shell fell away, the vague outlines of something beneath the surface began to appear. Almost sobbing in terror, I took another step back as the shaking reached fever pitch. Without warning, the thing seemed to detonate from within, revealing the shape that had been concealed.
In the light of my torch I saw it clearly. For the second time in two days, my nerve snapped and I ran screaming from the Witchwood.

So there it is.

That is exactly what happened six months ago. I did not go to the police this time, I knew that they would not believe me. The disappearance of Steve Wilton was reported in the local paper but the investigation progressed no further. His body has never been found.
I have tried, many times these past months, to convince myself that it had all been a dream but there is too much evidence to discount that theory. I have in my possession three pieces of paper and a strange box. Try as I might, I have not been able to bring myself to destroy them. Every time I try to do so, some strange compulsion stops me. It seems that something wants kept in one piece.
And there is more. Things which have driven me to to write this account. I know that they have not forgotten me. The telephone calls have started again. the same music. The same voices with one addition. One voice which ties in with what I saw in the Witchwood, planted on the site of the damned and destroyed Nayton.
Last night a voice told me that they are coming soon, tonight. A voice that has prompted me to place a cut-throat razor on the desk in front of me. You see, I have decided that I will not let them have me. As soon as I have finished this, I will use it to take my own life. I do this because the voice that spoke to me was the voice of Steve Wilton.
And what did I see that night?
I saw a figure, vaguely human in shape, part of which was comprised of twisting black snakes. The rest of it was made up of the sickly green luminescence I had seen in the woods. And the head, my God the head. Its shape was ill defined but it had a face that I recognised, the face of Steve Wilton.
I can hear them now. They are outside the door. I barely have time to finish this and hide it. Hide it in the hope that someone will find it and be warned. It is too late for me. It must not be too late for you.