Transmission 8: Hartshead Pike
Friday 12th July 1985 — it had all been arranged. Rory and a few friends were calling it a ‘party’, as you did when you were 14 or 15, but really it was just a small gathering. They were heading to Charlotte’s house for the night.
The deal—set by Charlotte’s parents—was simple: the boys could stay for the evening, but once her parents got home around 11 p.m., they’d have to camp out in the tent in the garden. Sounded great to the boys. School was nearly out for summer, ‘Live Aid’ was on TV the next day, and they’d be hanging out with Charlotte and her mates.
Rory had forgotten, though—‘hay fever’.
They arrived around 7 p.m., still full daylight of course. Rory, as usual, didn’t really know where he was, but it had taken a long time to get there—one bus from Stockport, then a lift from Mark’s dad. The man was older than Rory’s dad and not especially friendly. He dropped them off in what felt like the middle of nowhere.
As they walked toward the cottage at the end of a long gravel path, Martin pointed up at the nearby hill.
“Hartshead Pike. You get a better view of the ruins from Lottie’s garden,” he said.
Rory just nodded and looked.
The night went well. Rory got to hear loads of records he’d never heard before—Someone put on a seven inch vinyl— The Smiths. The first time Rory ever heard ‘What Difference Does It Make?’ blaring from someone else’s stereo. It stuck with him.
Eventually, Charlotte’s parents returned and it was time to move into the garden. They took what little they’d brought and headed into the tent.
That’s when the sneezing began.
And kept going.
And going.
In 1985, hay fever was just something you put up with. Rory remembered a trip to the GP once, after a particularly bad attack. The doctor had nodded sympathetically and said:
“Shut the windows.”
By midnight, Rory’s eyes were puffy and raw, and he kept rubbing them, which made everything worse. Sleeping outside in July? Seemed like a good idea at the time.
Eventually, the chatter inside the tent died down. Rory, in a haze of congestion and drowsiness, managed to nod off.
By 5 a.m., the sun had already risen. The tent was “boiling”. Pollen hung heavy in the early morning air. Rory stirred, eyes gummy, throat raw. He crawled out of the tent and blinked against the brightness.
His eyes stung. He rubbed them. Opened them just enough.
There. On the hill.
A figure, standing in front of the ruins at Hartshead Pike.
Rory squinted. His vision was blurred—but the outline was unmistakable. Tall. Still.
Ryden Nova.
He blinked again.
Same shape. Same stance. The same man he'd seen on the bus at Stockport. The same man he saw near Jodrell Bank.
Something tugged at Rory’s stomach. Not fear. Not surprise.
Something else.
Like he already knew. Like he’d been here before.
“Déjà vu” in stereo.
Then came the sneeze. Violent. Rory’s neck snapped downward.
When he looked up again—Ryden was gone.
Just the ruins.
Just the morning.
Just the garden tent behind him, zipped and silent.
Rory stood there for a moment longer, the breeze drying the tear-tracks on his cheeks, not sure if he was still dreaming.