Terror at Devil’s Dyke
The weekend just gone was perhaps the strangest, most terrifying experience of my life. At the height of our fear, we believed our lives were in danger as the sole witnesses to the brutal torture and murder of an unidentified man by a gang of Irish Travellers who were inhabiting a wasteland nearby.
This is an account of the night, as it happened.
Devil’s Dyke is a 100 meter deep and mile long valley with sharply descending banks forming a crisp v-shape at its foot. It was the devil himself who — according to local folklore — was responsible for this striking feature of the landscape. Legend holds that the dyke was an unfinished trench excavated by the devil in order to flood the churches across the Weald of Sussex. An old lady living nearby had heard the shovel crunching into the earth and lit a candle to follow the noise outside. As she passed a roosting cock, he crowed his morning reveille, giving the devil the false impression that dawn was fast approaching and that he would not have enough time to finish digging before sunrise. He abandoned the trench and fled, leaving behind what is now known as Devil’s Dyke.
My friend, Michael, and I had ventured to Brighton on the Saturday to enjoy some bank holiday sunshine by the sea, planning to leave well before dusk to seek out a place to camp wild, somewhere in the South Downs. Devil’s Dyke appealed because it was just five miles north-west of Brighton town and was served via a pleasant and scenic route by the number 77 bus. The dyke promised spectacular panoramic views of the South Downs and looked to have plenty of places to sleep outdoors, and so that was that — off we went.
We arrived in good time to catch the last of the hand gliders traversing the wind currents against the backdrop of the evening sun, which gilded a patchwork of farmers’ fields below with a warm amber light. After a hearty dinner at the local inn which occupied the high ground overlooking the dyke, we bounded for the woods in search of wild camping and adventure. We spilled out rearwards onto an open hillside which looked east across the valley; such an expansive horizon set the perfect stage upon which we hoped to see the sunrise come morning. The weather forecast was clear, so we were confident that putting up a tent wasn’t necessary — which was highly convenient, not having a tent and all. So, sleeping bags laid out, we reclined with a beer to contemplate the masterpiece of ancient light pricking the black canvas of the night which blanketed us. Campfire stories and several beers later, we cocooned ourselves in our bags and drifted off into a wild slumber.
At 2:15 am, a violent shake sent me hurtling out of dream land and into a world decidedly scarier than the one I went to sleep in. Now there was light. Not moonlight, nor starlight, but bright artificial light beaming out toward us from the woods. With adrenaline fuelled stares, we looked back into what was once a wall of darkness only to see it illuminated from its heart by two torches. They were heading directly towards us. We lay in absolute silence and stillness; any noise could alert these intruders to our presence. Who knows what could happen then? The torches scanned in lateral sweeping arcs as though seeking something in particular, or someone. Whoever they were, and for whatever reason they were lurking in the woods in the dead of night, they came perilously close to us before eventually halting and diverting their course back on themselves. A moment of relief came, and dissipated just as quickly. It seemed silly to get worked up but our bodies had undeniably been jolted into survival mode, regardless.
An uneasy silence fell as the inaudible murmurs and crunch of the forest floor underfoot took a breath, before being shattered by the unanimously unwelcome sound of what we could only agree was a the starter chord on a chainsaw being yanked. As the motor coughed and spluttered, it seemed an entirely plausible assumption at this point to believe that these were professionals from, or working on behalf, of the Forestry Commission, conducting specialist work which, for whatever reason, was better to be carried out at night — perhaps to minimise the threat to visitors of the area. Professionals or not, after several attempts, it was obvious that they couldn’t get the chainsaw started, and so the pair, unable to do their work, headed back to their vehicles. We continued to lie quietly, nothing to hear but the delicate rustle of the trees in the gentle night air. Finally, a pair of headlights emerged on the road which flanked our camp, about half a kilometre to our left. The strangers were leaving, using the only road which connected Devil’s Dyke to the rest of civilisation. We were safe, for now.
Not more than 5 minutes had passed before our relief relapsed into fear, as the strangers’ vehicle returned. The questions we were now asking were, ‘where have they been?’ and ‘how did they get back so quick?’ Our anxiousness raised a level when we realised that the only explanation we could muster was that these previously unidentified men were from the gypsy camp which occupied a desolate area that we’d passed on the drive in. There was nothing beyond the travellers’ camp which could be journeyed to and from in such a short time. We agreed they must have gone back to fetch fuel for the chainsaw, but we still were guessing as to the nature of their visit to these woods at such an unusual hour.
Their head torches once again appeared on the horizon, lighting up the belly of the woods as we listened with tense anxiety to the chainsaw finally choking to life. At first, we were perplexed by the fact that, even after several minutes, we had yet to hear the typical whine of the chainsaw as its teeth sunk into the flesh of a tree, but our attention was drawn aggressively to our rear as a convoy of three more vehicles teared up the road from the direction of the gypsy commune. We turned to each other, faces beset with alarm, and, without words, expressed to each other that our fears were now justified. With the softest of whispers, we debated the pros and cons of fleeing to a safer distance, but due to a vague recollection from my army days that sound travels further at night — something to do with the refraction of sound waves at cooler temperatures — I declared my hesitancy, sensing that the strangers were close enough to hear any unzipping or the friction of our sleeping bags as we tried to escape. I also wasn’t wearing any trousers, which was also carefully factored into the equation.
The voices became louder and more frequent. Though they remained unintelligible, we could hear at least one of the men speaking in a strong Irish accent. Our Irish Traveller theory began to stand up, giving our fear levels an unwanted boost. They continued to talk and laugh. We were vulnerable and still had no idea how dangerous this group were. We decided that a risk had to be taken. As stealthily as possible, we manoeuvred ourselves out of our bags, put our clothes and shoes on, and stalked our way down the embankment. An outcrop of dry scrub offered us enough cover to feel safe as we listened for more clues as to what was unfolding beyond the treeline.
After being exposed to the chill of the night air for some time, our body temperature had dropped and we began to shiver, but we were safe, we thought, which was a reasonable compromise. Our fear had been slowly subsiding since finding relative safety, but our nightmare was about to turn even darker. Piercing the cool night air came the harrowing screams of man being subjected to irrepressible pain. The yelling came in violent staccato like bursts, evenly spaced, as though the torture was being administered with a brutal methodology. Punctuating the screams came the desperate cries, “HELP! HELP ME!” Our alertness went into overdrive. There was no more doubt. We had proof enough that these were not only Irish Travellers from the nearby commune, but they carrying out what seemed like the wanton gratuitous torture of an unidentified man. Just as we realised we were about to witness a cold blooded murder, our nightmare worsened. If they were to commit murder, we would be the only witnesses. While they were unaware of our presence, our camp was easily discoverable, and with it, every piece of identification they would need to hunt us down and make sure that we didn’t talk — or couldn’t.
We agreed that now would be a good time to summon the police, but out of two mobile phones, one was fresh out of battery and the other void of signal. The screaming continued. Every cycle contained ten or so screams, followed by two cries of ‘HELP ME!’ and then a period of silence. It was too predictable to ignore. The longer we listened, the more we recognised the pattern. It was as though the same scene was being played out, over and over. Is it possible that this isn’t the gruesome torture and murder we imagined? Could it be some sort of sick and twisted torture fetish video being filmed? Not ideal, but definitely the best of two terrible possibilities — at least everyone involved would (probably) be a willing participant. Our train of thought led back to the chainsaw, which we could hear running but which apparently hadn’t been used, at least from what we’d heard. Was it definitely a chainsaw? The steady churn of the motor didn’t seem to match our typical notion of what a chainsaw being used sounded like. Could the machine in fact be a petrol powered electricity generator, perhaps creating energy for a lighting rig? We hadn’t noticed it shift, but the light seemed too constant and bright to be emanating from torches. Besides, if it were a film set it would surely have a lighting rig, and if the lights were powerful enough, they’d need a strong power source to run. Whatever was happening, it didn’t make much sense, but it was somewhat more comforting to believe that this was a staged production rather than a genuine crime. Either way, we weren’t yet confident enough in our deduction to return to camp, despite now being extremely cold.
A slither of moon barely peered out from behind its own shadow, the only light on offer being the creamy ambient glow of the Milky Way. We had been in hiding now for over two hours, and had discussed our escape route as best we could with our limited knowledge of the ground. The noises from the woods showed no sign of stopping. We both agreed that we would give it until sunrise before making a move back to camp.
And so came sunrise.
In what seemed like an instant, daylight had broken and our faces had become more than mere outlines. From the light, we inherited the belief that anybody committing a crime this serious would not be lingering in such a way as to risk being caught. It had to be a film shoot! We composed ourselves and gathered the necessary courage to venture back up the hill to face the source of our terror. Though still not daylight, the light now qualified as dawn, and visibility had become much better. We arrived at the camp and, for the first time, were able to glance the area from which the noises had come. Two large rectangle lights on 7ft poles shone dazzling light inwards at 45 degree angles, downwards to the floor. Seven or so people clustered in two small groups and were talking among themselves. From this distance and in this low light, it was still hard to make out, but the group’s mannerisms seemed animated, those of young men. We didn’t waste any time packing our camp away. Rucksacks loaded onto our backs, we headed anti-clockwise around the wood’s perimeter, predicting the route would bring us back to the car park of the inn from which we came.
By the time we arrived at the car park it was fully light. There were four cars parked and several more small groups of people were scattered around. We walked past one of the groups, analysing them with each step. One of them, a young girl with long ash blonde hair and wearing an blue anorak which was several sizes too big for her, engaged us in conversation.
“Morning!” she grinned, with a hint of bewilderment as she tried to figure out our story.
“Morning. Are you part of the film crew?” I asked.
“Yeah, we’re shooting a horror film! They’re still in the woods finishing a scene while we’re out here expecting the police to turn up at any minute. We’ve been shitting ourselves all night!”
I looked at Michael, and he looked at me, incredulous. We both turned back to this young group of amateur film makers, the source of our absolute terror for the past 4 hours, and with a sigh that seemed to release all that tension, fear and adrenaline in one fell swoop, replied, “You have no fucking idea.”
