Nicola Ridd May 2026

It started with the gate. The old iron gate at the foot of Black Combe, the one that led to the abandoned shepherd’s hut. Every morning on her run, Nicola would find it swinging open. Every evening, she’d latch it shut. And every dawn, it would be open again, groaning on its hinges like a tired old dog.

Nicola spun around. No one.

Nicola drove to the moor that same hour, flashlight trembling in her hand. She walked to the shepherd’s hut. The gate was open, as always. But this time, she looked at the bottom hinge. nicola ridd