The Ogre.

My grandfather told me this story.

Once in his youth, he was camping in the Yorkshire moors. He often stayed there for 10 days or more and took in the high air. He walked the waving hills for hours in the afternoon, on occasion stopping to sketch the scenery. He was not a brilliant artist but enjoyed its calming effects. On this day when returning from his afternoon walk, he saw that his tent had been blown away by the passion of the wind. The tent had found its way over a fence and among some sheep. The sheep took no interest in it and got on with feeding upon the grass, my grandfather jumped over the fence and retrieved the tent and by evening had put things back in order.

That night the stars were bright, the sky was dark and the moon glimmered with frost. He put his head on his pillow and slept for a while. He dreamed of nothing, tossed and turned, and awoke to the sound of sheep in distress. The wind was growing more and more frustrated. Soon he heard the sound of large feet pounding upon the ground. The vibration climbed up his spine and wrapped itself around his skin. He was frozen for a while in anxiety, thinking about what the noise could be. The thuds of feet grew closer and closer and soon enough he and his tent were thrown into the air and across the field. A great roar was then heard and once again he heard the pounding of giant footsteps moving towards him. He unzipped the opening to the tent and there in clear sight was an Ogre, green as the grass and large as a boulder. Its face was spotty and its eyes dirty. Its hands were blistered, giving off a stench that no man should ever experience. It ran towards my grandfather with carnivorous intent, its mouth drooling in excitement.

My grandfather stood there in a panic, his eyes in silent need. He thought about his options, and nothing came to mind except to run. He ran as fast as he could while holding his tent, the Ogre coming up behind him. He soon tripped over a rock and fell to the ground. The Ogre hovered its head over my grandfather, drool dangling from its mouth and onto my grandfather’s face. The Ogre’s smell burned my grandfather’s eyes, the sting like hot coals. The Ogre lifted my grandfather by the waist while making a growling sound. My Grandfather’s only hope was a knife he had strapped upon his right leg. Luckily enough he had the use of his arms and so took the knife and pierced it into the right eye of the Ogre. The Ogre immediately let go of my grandfather and roared in agony, began to swing its large arms about, and went off into the night. My Grandfather did the same but in the opposite direction. He walked through the night and passed dawn until he found his way to the closest town. There he told his story to people in the pub. Some thought he was crazy, others believed what he was saying. He showed them the eye of the Ogre which scared those that looked at it. He took the eye home and put it in a jar of vinegar. My grandfather tells me he sometimes hears the sound of pounding footsteps in the middle of the night and if they get very close, he takes the eye out of the jar and prods it with a knife and the footsteps fade away.