The pitch had not known light in days. When the Balcombe XI emerged, their pads were clean, their eyes gleamed… but something else stepped out with them — unseen, unsaid.

They won the toss. And so they batted.

Gary Botting opened the innings. 50 runs, silent, methodical, retiring as though he’d offered just enough to satisfy something beneath the soil.

But the shadows stirred.

**Richard Botting**, struck down by **Ollie King** for *2*. Gone as if plucked by unseen hands. **Nick Warde**, *5 from 44* balls, fell to **Simon Knight**, his time at the crease drawn out like a scream echoing down a corridor.

Then came the storm.

**Toby Vickerstaff** — a man whose bat spoke in whispers — *53 from 42*. And **Alex Botting**, eerily identical in his fury — *52 from 41*. Both retired not out. Both left the pitch without once turning back.

**Louis Bohm** was flame incarnate — *31 off 18*. He fell to **Ollie King**, but not before his blade summoned fear in the fielders’ hearts. **Matt Rawbin**, too, fell — *bowled by King*, his name etched into the ledger of the cursed.

And then, from the deepening dusk, came **Tom Waters** (*15*) and **Jack Teasdale** (*4*) — not batting, but *completing the rite*.

They ended on **253 for 4**, their score unnaturally precise. But not one of them celebrated. The wind shifted. The crows stopped circling.

Something had been let loose.

The chase began under a pale and trembling sun. **Outwood** walked to the crease with purpose… but none of them would walk away unchanged.

**James Malley** struck early blows — *47 from 51* — but fell to **Toby Vickerstaff**, whose very deliveries hummed with something unholy.

**Harvey Baldry**, gone for *9*, undone by **William Barratt**, whose seamers are said to *move against time*. **Danish Ullah** burned bright — *60 from 24*, a flash of fire in the cold — but his bat cracked mid-swing, and he vanished before the applause began.

Wickets fell like rotted teeth:

* **Nick Courtenay-Evans**, *20*, removed by **Louis Bohm**.
* **Simon Knight**, trapped by **Tony Rawbin** — *caught by Tom Waters*, who smiled far too wide.
* **Zach Evans**, taken by **Vickerstaff** once more.
* **James Sherwin Smith**, *run out*… by Vickerstaff *again*. Always there. Always watching.

And then the collapse.

**Matt Burgess** — bowled by **Gary Botting**, who had returned to collect debts.
**David and Edward Cload** — both stumped by **Alex Botting**, as if led to their end by someone they trusted.
**Ollie King**, not out on *0*, stood alone at the end. A man on a battlefield after the war.

Outwood, all out for **227**. So close… yet *never truly close at all*.

Balcombe had won — by **26 runs**.

The scorebook fluttered closed on its own. The pitch turned grey. And the pavilion doors locked from the inside.

Witnesses said Danish Ullah was *never seen again*. Vickerstaff still walks his garden backwards. The bails refuse to sit straight on their stumps.

And on the wind, if you listen close, you can hear a faint voice whisper:

*“Retired… not out… not yet.”*