Jack returned to the fork. He had no alternative but to take the other road home.
His body trembled, but he was not sure weather it was from cold or fear. He swung his banjo off his shoulder and began to strum it as he went.
Somehow, the sound, any sound, seemed comforting. Jack strummed louder and louder as he approached Haggard's Crossing.
The rippling river provided a rhythmic background to his playing. And then he stopped in his tracks.
Before him at the point where the four roads crossed, he could just make out a dark figure.
Although his strumming had stopped, the lapping water could still be heard. And the beat of Jack's heart hammered in his ears.
Jack moved slowly and cautiously, his eyes fixed on the still figure had still not moved.
The nearer he got, the louder and quicker his heart thumped against his aching ribs. His palms felt clammy.
Jack drew even closer to the motionless figure in the darkness. He was just an arm's length away, yet the figure had still not moved.
Jack could now make out the form of a man. Jack's heart missed a beat. Was the man alive? Was this the ghost of the traveller who had been killed so long ago.
