It was cold, or so the legend goes. The wind outside hollered like a pack of wolves. Up the icy road no one can tell if the dim headlights are coming or going. It doesn’t matter, the severed hands of Dartmoor will be waiting until spring and then summer and then autumn and until winter comes again. One day, we all have to pass the icy road.
Many say, they lost control of their vehicles on the road between Postbridge and Two Bridges, their steering wheels being forced off course by severed, hairy, monstrous hands with no limbs attached.
The stories are many and they all have one thing in common; every new chapter just feeds into a pattern, an eerie pattern of senseless dying.
Once, a woman saw the hands creeping on the side of her car and just by doing the sign of the cross, the hands suddenly vanished. This only fuelled the belief that the hands were the devil’s work. Who else would run away at the mere sight of god’s presence?
On the other hand, a skeptic once claimed that all sightings were in fact reindeer in the fog, and that overtired, careless drivers swerved away to avoid them and THAT is how the legend was born.
…but no one really dares question their existence; at least not on a winter night, on the icy road between Postbridge and Two Bridges when the wind hollers like a pack of wolves.
Somewhere in between imagination and reality a pair of hairy, monstrous hands, severed from their master’s control, are waiting to jolt our senses to the very edge of sanity…What lies beyond?
Do we dare ask?