I made my living as a teller of romantic tales, all knights in silvery armour and damsels in distress. You don't get much variation from that basic storyline. But my experiences one day have forever prevented me from writing such fluffy works again. Such terrible creatures and evil and twisted people as I have met have erased from my heart the charms of love.

It began as I was sitting at my desk one day, idly reading a newspaper, scanning for any good stories I could rework. Suddenly I saw a little "filler" article about a man who had been taking photographs of unusually-shaped rocks, and who had won a prize for them. Included was a photograph of one of these rocks, and I was struck by how remarkable it appeared. It was almost like a man, humped over as though inspecting something on the ground before him. The dirt and the rock itself were a deep, rich red in colour and the sky was blue and clear. It looked so wonderful, so amazingly beautiful that I was immediately drawn to it. At once I decided to visit those rocks, to make the journey to the plains of Meano. Doing so was not easy, my friends wondered at my sudden interest in such a remote place, and I had to spend a great deal on a hired car, money I could ill-afford. But I was drawn to that place so strongly that I dreamed of it at night, and in the day I looked at that picture over and over again until I knew every feature of the rock-man and the landscape. I never questioned why I felt so strongly, but justified it to myself and others by saying that it would make an excellent backdrop for a romance novel, which would quite repay my expenses in going there. I read up on the region, and found that it was noted for its curious plant life and for the remarkable inbreeding of its inhabitants - which the law had been quite unable to stop.

One clear spring day I was at last free to go to Meano. I had my hired car, suitcases, camera and notepad, and planned to stay somewhere for a couple of days before returning home. The area is remote, and so I had brought a tent in case I was unable to find an hotel or guesthouse. I felt rather like an explorer as I drove out of the city, for I am not a countryman nor am I familiar with the countryside. I shall not be again, for such horrors haunt pastoral scenes as cannot be imagined by those who laud them so, and the people grow sullen and suspicious of strangers, so great is their burden of terrible secrets.

Mine was a long and rather boring journey, the dullness of the scenes livened only by the passing of small villages, squalid in their poverty. As the countryside grew starker, and the villages ever fewer, I felt no inclination to stop. I reckoned on approaching Kayton, the nearest village to the plains, before dark, and had resolved to stop there, and see the rocks the next morning.

Around six in the evening I entered the village. It looked much like the others I had passed through - dusty and poor. I stopped the car in the main square and got out, grateful for the change to stretch my legs at last. Kayton could boast of only three establishments - a bar, a general goods shops and a survival shop selling tents and other camping equipment as well as a grand assortment of knives, axes and rope. I supposed that the people of that region must be great hikers and tree-choppers. I would have gone into the survival shop but it was closed, so I determined to go into the general store instead. As I walked through the door I was struck by the uncared-for look to the shop - shelves stood half empty and everything looked dusty. The whole town was like it - no one seemed to care what it looked like, though I saw pleasant enough buildings despoiled only by poverty. It was in the general shop that I met my first person of the day, and I was glad, for it is lonely to drive long distances. As I approached the counter an old lady appeared from the back of the shop. Her dress was messy, and her hair wild - evidently the people of Kayton were not interested in taking care of themselves either. Her face showed years of worry, with deeply ingrained lines, and the sun had made her face brown as wood. With some hesitation, for I am a shy person, I asked her whether there was anywhere I might stay in the village. With a curiously dull voice she said, "There is a camping ground just west of here. Nearest hotel is fifty miles eastward." I thanked her, and resigned myself to sleeping in a tent - something I have never much enjoyed. I then took out my now worn copy of the newspaper and asked her whether she could tell me where the photographer, Michael Parks, lived. I saw a flicker of something like disgust as she looked at the photograph, then she named his house, and gave directions before bidding me a curt "good day". Realising I was not welcome to stay and chat I drove to the street she mentioned.

Michael Parks lived in a dilapidated house, with peeling and blistered paint much in evidence. His garden looked as though some wild beast had recently trampled through it, leaving soil and plants everywhere. I knocked smartly on the door, and waited for some time before I heard answering footsteps. Even then several moments elapsed before the door was opened just a crack, and a wavering voice said, "Yes? What do you want?"

"Are you Michael Parks?" I asked, "I saw your photograph in the paper, the photo you won an award for? I was wondering if I can talk to you about it as I'm planning to visit those fascinating rocks tomorrow morning."

Another long moment went by until the door opened and I went inside. I was greeted by a middle aged man who, but for his hands and eyes, I would have thought was much older. His face was as wrinkled as a baked apple, and they were not happy lines. His eyes were dull, and his clothes shabby. When I shook his hand it felt like paper, and I noticed he was shaking.

"Come in," he said, and I followed him to what was obviously a parlour, thick with dust and smelling musty. I introduced myself and told him of my strange compulsion to visit the area after I saw his wonderful photo. To my surprise, he did not seem altogether pleased.

"Listen," he said urgently, "those rocks are dangerous, do you hear? I oughtn't to have photographed them at all, and I wouldn't have sent them off to that paper - my wife did that. She died just after. Its bad luck to go see the rocks, touch them or do anything at all with them! The people here won't even talk about them, especially not to an outlander like yourself. They're bad, bad leftovers from a time best forgotten, do you understand? Leave them be! Leave Kayton and go home! Never mind the rocks, just take your car and GO!"

I was startled by the man's vehemence and his curious superstition about the rock formations near his home. But I remembered the books I had read, which had stressed how very unusual were the people of this locale, and I supposed I had just seen an instance of that. I decided to ignore the man's warning. Evidently seeing from my expression that I still intended to visit the rocks, he begged me not to, with such persistence that I wondered at his strange fear for me. I asked him if he had any other photos but he told me that he had destroyed them, for they caused his wife's death. Again and again he emphasised the danger until I made haste to leave his house, feeling most uncomfortable.

I was as determined as ever to see the amazing rocks of Meano, and all Michael Parks' warnings had only served to make me more curious about what I would find. It was dark now and I decided to visit the only bar in Kayton before settling in for the night. Evidently they were unused to strangers in the town, for the bar fell silent for a moment after I walked in. It was crowded - almost everyone in the village seemed to be inside. It was not an especially nice place, dirty and in need of repair, but the barman obligingly served me cold beer and I was really not expecting anything wonderful from the village by then.

After I had drunk enough to get rid of my thirst (and to make me more confident) I decided to approach a man standing next to me at the bar. He was the youngest person I had so far seen, being in his early twenties. From his dress and deep tan I judged him to be a farmer or something similar so I thought he would certainly know of the rocks.

"Excuse me. I'm new in town, I came to see the beautiful rock formations I saw a photograph of in the newspaper. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about them."

To my surprise, the man looked at me and then pointedly turned his back on me. I tried other people, but got the same response. When even the barman started to ignore me I remembered Michael Parks' comment about the rectitude of the people of Kayton on this topic. I went to the camping ground, assembled my tent, and slept, feeling rather disappointed and demoralised.

My first thought upon waking was to go and visit the stones, but as I intended to spend the day there, I decided to stock up on food and water first. I went to the general store I had visited the previous day. It looked rather worse in full sunlight. As I paid for my purchases I thanked the old lady for her directions to Michael Parks' house. She looked at me most oddly and said, "Michael Parks? No Michael Parks around here." I remonstrated, showing her the photograph and I was frankly astounded when she claimed that the photograph must have been taken in some other place.

I left the shop feeling very confused. I tried to tell myself that the old lady must have a bad memory, but I did not have a quiet spirit. So discomfited was I that I decided to revisit Michael Parks, to verify my memory and also to see if he was in a less fearful mood. I drove again to his house, and knocked on the door. I nearly fell down the steps when a young man answered. I asked him if Michael Parks was in and the whole world seemed to grow dark and strange when he said there was no Michael Parks. In a haze I walked back to the car, not knowing if I had even said goodbye to the strange man or not. Had I had a brainstorm? Were any of my memories real?

I spent much of the next few hours debating whether I had indeed spoken to a frightened man named Michael Parks or had merely dreamed it. I even went back to the bar to see whether anyone there had heard of Michael Parks, but no one would admit to it. My whole world seemed now to be built on shifting sands, for either I could not trust my own memory or an entire village was lying to me for reasons I could not comprehend. I sat, reading over and over the legend on the photograph which had drawn me to this place: Taken by Michael Parks, Kayton.

So long I sat that it was with a start that I realised the time was growing late, and it was five o'clock already. I quickly left the bar, and grabbed my camera before heading to the plains. The plains of Meano lay east from Kayton, and it took me almost half an hour to reach them. I had wanted to see them in the full force of the sun, but reckoned I had an hour or two before sunset to view them in any case. I had come a long way to see these rocks, and though still distressed over the Michael Parks incident, resolved to see them anyway. At least I could in part prove the old lady at the shop wrong - for it Michael Parks' rock was here, then she had lied to me.

I drove up a small hill and as I reached the top was amazed. I could see ahead of me vast red rocks, many, many times bigger than a man. I got out of my car and walked quickly to the first rock. It stood as though a man was reaching up to the sky, one arm outstretched. It really did look like a giant man, caught supplicating the sun for some favour, and I stood for long moments mesmerised by this vast red rock. Hesitantly I put out a hand and touched it. The rock was cold, far colder than it should have been from the heat of the sun. There was something menacing about the great height and suddenly I felt slightly afraid of the rock above me. I determined to find Parks' rock, the one bending over, and I scanned the plains until I saw one that looked right. I hurried over on foot and saw the rock which had drawn me here. It was much more magnificent than the photograph - huge and bulky, made of some hard rock without chips or any sign of weathering by wind or rain. So impressed was I with the idea that the rock was looking at something on the ground that I actually found myself bending down to look. The dirt was a lighter red than the earth around it, more like the colour of fresh blood, and churned up, but otherwise there was nothing unusual.

I lost my sense of time as I looked at the amazing rock formations - every one of which looked like a man or woman. Here there were no simple rocks, no boulders, crags or shards, but all the rock was shaped. Try as I might I could not find any marks of tools on the rock that might explain their shape. I felt sure no man had made these. Yet what colossal feat of nature could mould such hard stone into clearly man-like figures? I did not know then, but I now know how those figures came to be.

I was thrilled by my discovery, as thrilled as if I had been the first to see the rocks, and felt I must take photographs to show my friends. I picked three particularly wonderful rocks - three figures, regal in their bearing, in a circle as though talking to one another. They seemed two Lords and a Lady, and that is how I thought of them, and found myself thinking that they were turned to stone by jealous gods - jealous of their power and beauty. I took a roll of photos of these rocks, and found myself being almost silent as I did so - as reverent as though I were in a chapel.

As my shutter clicked for the last time I realised that the sun was setting. Thinking this a good time to go back to Kayton, I began to walk toward my car. I had strayed far from the place I had parked in my excitement over the rocks and it was with some unease that I realised I could barely see any more. I hoped I should be able to find my car in the dusky light, and that I should not lose my direction in the gloom. I have never liked the dusk, that half-light between day and night when nothing seem as it should be. That feeling was rather worse in this place, where the rocks threw long shadows and strange dirt shifted under my feet. The sunset made everything even more red than it had been before, and the silence I had tried to preserve previously now seemed oppressive. As the air grew colder and the sun retreated ever further I found myself humming a tune to keep the silence away. The alien nature of this landscape became more apparent as the light changed, and I discovered a desire to be away, back among people again.

Walking rather quickly now, I began to feel very uneasy about this place. Michael Parks' warnings about the rocks being dangerous were much more believable as the night came in. I half-fancied now that these curious stones could move, were watching me, seeing me as an alien interloper in this, their place since time immemorial.

I heard a sound then which quite stopped all my humming. It was not a very loud sound, but it was a decided creak, as of a door opening or an old man rising from a chair. Now I felt a certain menace in those ancient rocks, and I heard the sound again. Quickly I turned my head, trying to see if there was someone else on the plains with me. Bu I could see no one. My heart was beating faster now, and I wanted nothing more than to be gone, away from strange sights and sounds and back among the familiar. I walked faster, and faster still when I heard another creak. I began to run when I heard a most prolonged and loud groaning noise, as of distressed metal or a landslide approaching. I should not have run, but could not help myself, so far had fear gained a mastery over me. I tripped, and fell heavily upon the ground. I must have lain there stunned for some moments for the moon was the only thing to light the scene that met my eyes when I at last awoke.

I believed my heart must stop with horror for, when I stood up, I saw clustered around me five of the rocks where no rocks had been before! A strangled croaking noise came out of my mouth as I struggled to comprehend what was going on. I felt like crying tears of self-pity at my predicament. All my powers of reason deserted me, and I could not think of how or why this was happening to me. With ever more horror I watched as the rock people began to move. The time for deception was over, as heads turned to me and massive legs moved I could not persuade myself that my eyes were tricking me or that this was some mirage. Standing and staring at the rock-people I decided I could not wait to see their intentions. Parks had been terrified of these beings, and all Kayton bore the marks of long fear in their faces. I ran between one rock and another, as fast as I could go.

I ran, my lungs screaming with the unaccustomed exercise, but I could not run fast enough. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a red rock arm shoot out, and a second later I was flying through the air, my back aching from the impact. I landed heavily, skidding for some time on the dirt before coming to a panting halt. I could not delay, I had to get away from these strange creatures which were bent on my destruction. Thanking God that I was not seriously injured, I scrambled to my feet and ran, confident that such large creatures could not be so nimble as even such an unfit person as I.

I was wrong. They were monstrously, hideously fast. with creaks and slithering sounds their great legs moved and they ran. And I looked and saw that there were many of the creatures, their blind faces toward me and their ungainly bodies moving strangely fast. I ran, and dodged the flailing arms and kicking legs of the fastest. My breath sounded loud in my ears and I could feel my heart's beat in my eyes. I heard a great deep monotone noise, of indescribable menace and violence - and turning saw the Lords and Lady I had photographed earlier racing over the flat plain towards me.

I think I screamed then, for such was their speed that I did not think I should reach my car alive. And if I did? I had visions of my little car being tossed by these giants, crushed between the tons of solid rock that made up their fingers. I could not bear to look at those implacable figures, but ran. I ran for my life, life had never seemed so worth living as when it was endangered. I shall never forget the horror of hearing those heavy footsteps behind me as I ran, knowing they would never tire, never stop until they had found me. I could barely see, for it was night, and I begged an unhearing God for the night to end and for my deliverance. On and on I slogged, my muscles screaming and my mouth dry. I dodged between rocky legs and avoided swipes. I was most fearful of the Lords and Lady - faster than the rest, I sensed they were more nimble. My only hope lay in finding my car in the dark, in an unfamiliar place, and in driving to Kayton where I hoped they would not go. I wondered if Michael Parks had met some unspeakable end at the hands of these rocks, an end colluded in by the people of Kayton, enslaved by fear to the ancient rocks. I could not help turning and looking to see how close my pursuers were to me and to my horror realised they were growing ever closer while I was getting ever more tired. My breath was coming in wheezes and I was terrified. The footsteps were right behind me now and then I was grabbed and lifted into the air. I had been caught by the hand of the Lady. As I was drawn up I saw her featureless face and wide open mouth. All my nightmares resolved into this as I feared being crushed in the maw of a rock-creature.

Her palm was open - evidently she wished to bite me, but we were a long way from the ground. Yet I would rather fall to my death than die in her mouth. It was now or never. Feeling sick with fear I slipped between two of her fingers and, moving fast so I could not be stopped by fear, I threw myself from her hand to the ground.

It seemed like an age I spent in falling, feeling certain I would die in agony on the ground. An age, and at the same time it passed quickly. I hit the earth with an awful thud, and could not breathe. As I landed I heard a cracking sound and shooting pains ran up my arm. That at least prevented me from lying there stunned, and gave me the ability to stand and run again. Being so far above me the rock creatures seemed to take some time to realise I had escaped their all-too-literal clutches. I have never run so fast before or since and I wept real tears of joy when I realised that through some Providential chance, my car was just over the hill in front of me! I sprinted to the car, wrenched open the door and drove as fast as I could down the dirt track towards Kayton. Through my mirror I could see the rock-people still following me but at least I could now go considerably faster - even with a useless arm. The car made terrible noises but I managed to make it into Kayton ahead of the rock people. I was finally able to stop to breathe.

I drove to the campsite but a terrible suspicion came upon me. The people of Kayton had definitely colluded with the rock people in some way - their denial of Michael Parks pointed to that, but I did not know how far they would go in their collusion. Their fear of the rock-people might lead them to give me up to the rocks - as I assumed they had done with Michael Parks. I know that if I lived in such a terrible place I should not take kindly to those who angered the proprietary beings who could wreak havoc on me and my family. I grabbed my possessions and decided the time was ripe to leave Kayton altogether, and not worry about finding help for my arm until I was once again safe. I drove through Kayton and realised as I did so that people were stirring out of their houses and looking to the horizon - I looked behind me, and could see the huge figure of one of the rock-people towering over the village. I sped out of the town then, lest either the rock person or the villagers capture me. I would not be caught by those things again. I reached the highway and drove back to the city, as fast as I dared, ignoring the pain in my arm.

Since that terrible time, I have not been free from the scars of that journey, though my arm healed soon enough. Over and over in my nightmares and in waking dreams those implacable figures follow me in the darkness, never swaying from their hatred of me. As for the pictures I took, I have destroyed them, in the hope that that destruction will ward the rocks from my door. Poor Michael Parks had the same intention, I fear. I tried to tell my friends of these events, but was not believed. My life is a hell, constantly looking on the horizon, expecting to see those figures coming for me. I pray God they will not come, or that some ordinary accident will claim my life instead of those evil creatures. I shall never return to the countryside, nor stir from the safe and familiar, whatever wandering spirit I once possessed died in that struggle with the rock-people of Meano.