Here is the horror tale: NO SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE 

HORROR SHORTS

BY

DREW BROWN

Published by Apricot Alliance at Smashwords.

Copyright 2011 Drew Brown

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

NO SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE

I'll be home safe, Hannah. I promise.

The screaming was so loud that Thomas Baxter felt it pushing through his skull, squeezing

his brain. He wanted to cry out. To make it stop. The other passenger's voices threatened to

overcome his thoughts.

Not so sure now, though. Reckon it's a promise I can't keep.

Turning his head, he saw the tops of trees stretching out to the distant horizon, where the

green carpet of thick rain forest met the blue sky.

Fucking planes.

Out on the wing, the engine smoked with flames streaking out behind it like the trail of a

comet. The blue sky turned dark, the windows suddenly submerged in the foliage. There was a

thunderous noise as the airframe tore through the leaves and branches, ploughing through the

tops of the trees, plunging to the swampy rain forest floor.

Dead.

Darkness. Silence. Nothing more.

I'm alive.

Thomas uncurled from the ball he'd made in his seat and opened his eyes. The photograph of

his daughter was still clutched in his hand. He stared at the faded picture, surprised to see her

small face and blonde hair again. She was smiling, a perfect image in the pink dress she got for

her fourth birthday.

Nearly a year ago. Away so long. It was worth it. I'm alive.

He reached into his shirt and touched the leather pouch that hung by a chain around his

neck. The diamonds were still there.

Safe and secure.

Thomas widened his field of vision. There were wisps of black smoke in the cabin, but not

much. The smell of burning fuel teased his nostrils. So much had changed; he'd been

unconscious.

But he was still alive.

He hadn't expected that.

There was lots of noise; someone cried, fires crackled and the shattered starboard engine

whirred to a halt. But compared to a few seconds before, when the straining engines had failed

and the Beech King had torn into the tree canopy, ripping through the foliage on the way to the

forest floor, it seemed like silence.

“Are you okay, Mr. Baxter?”

Thomas turned to face the steward. His dark face was stained with sweat but his mouth

displayed large white teeth behind a forced smile. “Mr. Baxter?”

“Fine,” Thomas answered.

“We must get off the plane.”

Thomas unbuckled his seatbelt, wondering why he’d even bothered to apply it.

It didn't save your life; you just got lucky.

Rising to his feet, he rocked into the plastic back of the chair in front of him. The plane

wasn't level, it had landed nose down, easily the angle of a steep hill. From the windows,

Thomas saw that the wing was gone. Only a few struts remained, jutting out into the

undergrowth. Vines and leaves rested against the small round windows.

“Wait here, Mr. Baxter,” the steward said.

Thomas nodded and glanced back at the rest of the aircraft. The back section, the tail and

part of the cabin were gone. Blue sky lashed with leafs and the woven branches of the highcanopy

were all that could be seen. There were four other passengers. An African with several

gold teeth and kaki clothes, a young couple in their late teens or early twenties and a middle-aged

woman in a loose-fitting yellow blouse and cream trousers. She was the one nearest the opening,

the one whose chair was now the furthest back.

There had been more. Thomas remembered that at least two people had been on the back

row, their legs stretched out as they relaxed during the flight.

They were gone now.

All dead.

But I'm alive. I can go home.

A scream came from beyond the cockpit door. Thomas turned towards it, surprised at the

sound. He'd not expected the pilots to survive, not so exposed in the cockpit. He hurried to the

door and gripped the handle.

The scream became a voice, a terrible cry. “Please, God, help me.”

Thomas opened the door.

The cockpit was wrecked. The windows were obliterated and the metal of the nose cone was

twisted and ruined. Bits of glass, metal and pieces of the plastic console covered the carpet,

surrounded by leaves. The forest had forced its way inside, filling the small room with green and

brown.

There was red as well.

A branch had pierced through the back of the pilot's chair, impaling him where he sat. It was

the size of a fence post and its bark was stained with his innards. Blood oozed down the chair's

backing. His right arm hung into the centre of the cockpit, lifeless and still. Even without seeing

him, Thomas knew the pilot was dead.

It was the co-pilot who'd screamed.

His chair had broken loose and slid into the console, crushing his legs. At the sound of the

door he'd turned his head to Thomas, his eyes gaping with pain and fear.

He was not alone in the cockpit.

Between the two seats was what looked like a chimpanzee. Except it was much too big. It

was as big as a man, bigger than most. Even hunched over, its body sloping forwards with its

knuckles flat on the cabin floor, the creature could look Thomas straight in the eye. Its hairless

face was the size of a dinner plate, the bone of its forehead protruding far beyond its shadowy

eyes. A wide, pinkish scar ran from the corner of its mouth to its ear.

Thomas felt as though his feet were pinned to the ground. Nailed in place. He wanted to run

but couldn't even turn.

The scarred chimp turned to the dead pilot. It wrapped its padded fingers around the body's

outstretched arm and gave it an effortless yank. The cockpit filled with the crack of bone and the

wet, snapping tear of muscle and flesh. The white shirtsleeve ripped, turning crimson with blood

where the arm had been pulled clean from the shoulder.

Thomas vomited.

Holding its prize aloft, the chimp's lips slid open over its teeth. To Thomas, they looked like

jagged yellow dominoes.

The co-pilot screamed again.

Yellow teeth sunk into the arm, biting away a fist-sized chunk.

The gun!

Thomas pulled the revolver from inside his grey waistcoat and swung it towards the chimp.

The gunshot filled the cockpit with noise. Acrid smoke wafted from the barrel. The chimp

screeched as a shock of black fur left its shoulder. There was a spray of blood as well, but

Thomas knew he'd been too hasty.

The shot was only a flesh wound.

He pulled at the trigger again, but by the time the chamber had revolved another sixth, the

chimp had squeezed out of the empty front window and escaped into the trees.

The bullet ripped uselessly out into the rain forest.

“What was that, Mr. Baxter?”

Thomas felt the steward at his side, but was too absorbed by the pilot's arm to answer. The

chimp had discarded the appendage when it had fled and the limb rested on the console beneath

the window. The steward squeezed past him and knelt beside the co-pilot. “Mr. Lewis, are you

all right?”

“My legs.”

“We must get help. Is the radio still working?”

“We've already sent the mayday.”

“Be still, Mr. Lewis. I will get the first aid kit.”

Thomas stood aside to let the steward out of the cockpit. The co-pilot caught his gaze. “I'm

glad you had that,” he said, eyeing the revolver.

“So am I. What was that thing?”

“A chimp?”

“Too big.”

“Yeah,” the co-pilot said. Thomas noticed that there was blood in the injured man’s mouth,

bubbling up from his chest. His lungs. It lingered in the gullies between his teeth. “But it sure

looked like one.”

A screech spread through the trees. Another one came in reply, close by. Thomas looked out

through the shattered cockpit window, staring out into the foliage.

More screeches sounded.

“It wasn't alone,” Thomas said. He raised his revolver.

Something thudded against the outside of the cabin. It clanged against the metal airframe.

Thomas hopped back a couple of paces, swinging his gun. The co-pilot jumped in his chair,

causing him to cry out in pain.

“What was that?”

A rock sailed through the opening of the broken window and clattered against the back wall

of the cockpit. It settled by Thomas's left boot. Grey, damp and vaguely round, the rock was the

size of an apple. “What the hell?”

“Help me out of here,” the co-pilot said.

Another rock came through the window.

Is this really happening?

Thomas knelt at the co-pilot's side, making sure he was protected from the rocks by the

console. He examined the co-pilot's legs. They were pinned in place, crushed between the seat

and the controls. Blood showed around the brown material of his trousers. “You're safer where

you are until help comes. Releasing your legs might cause more complications.”

“A village,” the co-pilot said. “We saw a village up river. Not far. Some huts and a fire.

Take me there.”

A flurry of rocks entered the cockpit. Others banged against the airframe. One flew straight

through into the passenger compartment. Several cries of surprise came from the occupants.

The steward rushed in, a brown satchel over his shoulder. There was a red cross printed on

the zipped flap. “What is happening, Mr. Lewis?”

The co-pilot didn't answer. His head was slumped against his shoulder and blood gushed

from a large dent in the top of his skull. The hair was matted around the broken bone.

He'd been hit by a rock.

“I think he's dead,” Thomas said. “At least unconscious.”

All around the outside of the cockpit, the screeching seemed to be getting louder.

Closer.

The foliage started to shake. The leaves and branches rattled, hissing in the still air.

That’s not the wind.

A rock smashed against the wall beside the steward. He dropped to his knees. “What is

happening?”

“I don't know,” Thomas answered. “What's your name?”

“Winston.”

“I think we need to get out of here, Winston.”

There was a scream from the passenger compartment. Thomas looked beyond the steward,

straight up the central aisle.

The noise had come from the woman in the yellow blouse. Another giant chimpanzee had

entered the aircraft, climbing in through the opening created by the missing tail section. The

chimp’s wide, long black arm had wrapped across the woman's chest.

In its other hand the chimp held a four-foot long stick, an inch in diameter that had one end

worked into a jagged point. It shook the spear in the air, then bounded from the aircraft, carrying

the woman off. She screamed as she vanished from sight.

“Mrs. Dawson,” the steward shouted. He ran into the passenger compartment but the scream

faded away.

Around the cockpit, the screeches were getting closer. Thomas levelled his revolver at the

empty windscreen and backed away. The foliage outside shook with more violence. He saw

fleeting glimpses of black fur through the gaps. There were chimps all around.

Lots of them.

Too many to count.

More rocks crashed against the outside of the Beech King.

Thomas stepped back out of the cockpit and slammed shut the door. He turned to the other

passengers. “We have to get out, now.”

The black African with gold teeth raised a long machete. It glinted orange in the light of

some of the fires outside. “Did you see that monkey?”

“There's more,” Thomas replied. “And they're attacking.”

“I'm a hunter,” the African said. “Monkeys don't do that.”

From behind the cockpit door came the sound of glass breaking. There was a moment of

silence and then a scream. A long, pain-filled scream.

It ended suddenly.

“Mr. Lewis!” Winston the steward cried out, and he dashed towards the cockpit, shoving

Thomas out of the way. He pulled open the door.

The two seats were empty. The bodies had gone.

Winston sunk to his knees, doubling over on the debris-strewn carpet.

Thomas saw why. One of the co-pilot's legs remained pinned in place between the console

and the seat. The rest had been ripped away from the knee joint.

Blood soaked the seat.

Thomas grabbed Winston and dragged him back out of the cockpit. He slammed the door

shut and looked for a lock. There wasn't one. He held his revolver at the ready.

You gotta survive. Gotta see Hannah.

“What are these beasts?” Winston sobbed.

Thomas left him on the floor, turning to the others. “Who else is armed?”

The African hunter turned his knife back and forth. “I only have this.”

It's nearly her birthday.

“Right, there's a village not far away, just up river. We have to reach it.”

“Maybe we should stay here, white man,” the hunter said. “They'll kill us outside. Better to

defend here.”

“Those monkey’s eyes. They're different. They'll kill us if we stay,” Thomas said. He started

up the central aisle. The steward tugged on his trouser leg.

“We should remain with the aircraft. Help will come. Mr. Lewis said they sent the mayday.”

Gotta keep going.

Another voice piped up. “Hey, please. You have a gun. Stay with us.”

Thomas turned to the young man. He had risen from his chair, but not moved any distance.

His female companion, blonde and pretty, remained in her seat. She was crying into the palms of

her hands. For the first time, Thomas noted the crutches stowed beneath her seat.

“My sister has a broken ankle. She can't leave.”

Thomas weighed his options.

Stay alive. Fuck the rest.

“Sorry, kid,” Thomas replied. He jogged up the aisle to the opening. Looking down, he saw

the wet, sticky ground beneath through a weave of leafless branches. It was a ten-foot drop.

He would have to climb down. He started to look for a vine, a strong enough branch,

something to grab hold of.

At the other end of the Beech King, the cockpit door burst open. It flew off its hinges.

“Please, God,” Winston yelled.

The pretty blonde screamed and her brother shouted in panic.

Thomas took one look over his shoulder. Half a dozen of the oversized chimps were rushing

up the aircraft, speeding on feet and knuckles and leaping over the seats.

The leading one's face was already splashed with blood.

Another carried the co-pilot's arm between its decayed teeth.

Forgetting the distance, Thomas jumped.

His body jarred when he landed. The stagnant, putrid water came up to his knees, splashing

up into his mouth. It tasted like death.

He wiped it from his eyes and started to run, dragging his boots from out of the cloying

mud. His progress was slow in the knee-deep water, some steps sent him sinking deeper,

plunging up to his waist.

He scanned the way ahead, searching for drier ground.

The African hunter dropped down from the Beech King with his machete clasped between

his teeth. Thomas heard him splashing through the water close behind.

The screams from the aircraft faded to nothing.

All Thomas could hear was his rasping breath and the water around his legs. Then, the

screeching resumed. He glanced back to the aircraft, despairing that he had only managed to

cover thirty yards.

The African was only half that far.

Perched on the tip of the broken fuselage, one long arm raised towards the blue sky, the

other thumping its hairless chest, was the scarred chimp. Others appeared behind it.

One carried the headless torso of the pretty blonde.

The unencumbered chimps took to the trees.

Thomas felt his boot fall upon firmer ground. He emerged from the water and surged on

with renewed effort. Weaving through the tree trunks and low branches, Thomas gasped for air

but kept running.

He heard the trees around him rustling, high above in the canopy.

“Wait for me,” the African shouted.

Thomas looked back but didn't stop.

A chimp swooped from the trees to bundle the African to the soaking ground. The machete

flashed in the sunlight as it flew from the hunter's hand.

He cried out in despair.

The chimp ripped his head from his shoulders and blood spewed into the air.

Thomas kept running. The trees started to thin, the canopy reducing until the only thing

above him was the blue, cloudless sky. There was the sound of running water in the distance.

The river.

Thomas scanned the horizon for the village. The co-pilot had spoken of huts and a fire. He

spotted a column of black smoke in the distance, rising up from beyond a slight incline. Thomas

veered towards the smoke, away from the churning river.

He was in a clearing, out from beneath the canopy of trees.

He forced himself to look back.

Five of the massive chimps were still chasing. They were on the ground, running on all

fours, their knuckles pounding the floor. They were forty yards away. But they were gaining.

Thomas took three quick shots with his revolver.

None of the creatures were hurt, but the sound disrupted their rhythm, sending them reeling

a few paces here and there. All across the tree line, birds took to the sky.

The chimps were soon back on the pace.

Thomas reached the top of the incline.

The village lay before him.

He hurtled towards it, his legs threatening to run away from him.

There were several huts made from wood and mud, and they ringed a bonfire that raged in

the middle of the camp.

Black figures surrounded the blaze.

A flash of yellow caught his eye.

His mouth gaped open.

Beside the fire was the woman from the Beech King, the one who’d been carried away. She

was right alongside the flames, bound to a stake in the ground with her head slumped down onto

her chest. Thomas hoped she was dead. In a flash, her hair turned to cinders. Next her yellow

blouse flared up red and orange, burning around her.

The skin of her face bubbled.

She began to scream.

Thomas stopped and aimed his revolver. He put a bullet in her head, silencing her cries.

Around the fire, the black figures, the chimps, went wild.

One of them approached the woman, dashing in quickly and snapping off her right arm at

the elbow. For a moment, the chimp held the arm into the flames, then retreated back and started

to tear at the flesh with his teeth.

Thomas fell to his knees.

He put his revolver to his head.

Better off dead.

The hammer clicked harmlessly.

No more bullets.

Thomas let the gun drop to the floor and spread his arms out wide. He looked up at the blue

sky and screamed.

# # # #

 Here is the horror tale: THE VOICE OF THE WATER

THE VOICE OF THE WATER
by
G. W. Huber
Berry was not troubled by the sounds filtering in from beneath his door. The momentary clamor of hall-walkers and passers-by did not disturb him. Their prattle was meaningless, nothing in its meter or measure was meant for him.
Such disruptions were infrequent given the proximity of quarters. Boardinghouses, transient places that they are, are often given to noisy antics and melodrama. Not here, however. He had been pleasantly surprised that the place kept its peace. Apart from the occasional three A.M. fracases, he was not bothered.
Berry heard the water call to him, and so, filled his glass and walked to the window. It was raining lightly and beyond the embrasure the water sang a lilting tune. He pulled his chair as close as possible in order to listen better.
Tonight, the water’s voice was soothing and restful. Uncertain though he was, he believed its song was of redemption and salvation. Its intonation told of rediscovery and purpose. Although often frustrated by his inability to discern the precise meaning of its dialect, he was content to allow the water’s cadence to ease him. Soon, he drifted off to sleep, like a child to a lullaby.
He had been listening to the voice of the water for some time now. How he loved its patois! It spoke to him all the time. In the pipes within the walls of his room, its softly muffled
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voice confided to him. In the tinkle of ice cubes in a glass, he caught its effort to be heard. In the rumble of a thunderstorm, the rush of a river over rocks, and the tumult of the ocean, it strove to be understood. Still, he could not translate its language.
Berry’s marriage had brought him to this place, or rather; the dissolution of that marriage had brought him here. He had been surrounded by treachery. His wife’s affair had gone on for years before it was exposed. His so-called friends had known more about it than he and had aided her in hiding the facts. After the reality of those betrayals, he had seen complexity and connivance in the manner and expression of everyone around him. They called it paranoia. He accepted it as the truth of life. But such truth pained him, and he drank to escape that pain.
The noise of garbage trucks making their early morning rounds woke him and unraveled his nerves. The whine of their hydraulics became a scream. The scream pierced his heart, his head, and his soul. That exclamation was the sound of his life, and he replied to it with an anguished cry of his own.
His shaking hand poured amber liquor into a small rocks glass and he raked his fingers through his hair. Often, he did not wake well, but that shrieking arousal was the worst of it. Lately, he’d been finding a measure of peace with his fate. He attributed that bit of quiescence to the voice of the water. Something in its message was granting him a reprieve. If only he could entirely understand what it meant to tell him. He felt certain it had something important for him to know.
As his nerves quieted and he made his way into the bathroom, he listened for the voice of the water. It usually greeted him here every day. Its welcome might come in the form of a subtle rush through the pipes or an absent trickle from a faucet, a faint gurgle from somewhere
5
deep inside the building, or a splash from some indiscernible source. Today, however, it was silent. He was met by nothing but the hollow staccato of ceramic tile and porcelain fixtures.
He was troubled by the thought that the water might never speak to him again. After all, he was a poor listener. For all its effort at dialogue, he still did not comprehend. Perhaps it had gone in search of a better interpreter.
Until its return, he would seek his other solace. The liquor store opened in a short while, so he would have to make haste to freshen himself. A glance in the mirror told him he was only slightly out of sorts. He was still a handsome man, even though his hairline had receded a bit, front and back. Gray pervaded his temples and sideburns. The lines around his eyes were more prominent. Most of his muscle had given way to gaunt. He supposed the hard eyes and emaciation could be attributed to his steady diet of alcohol. Still, given his circumstances, he seemed only a little the worse for wear.
He returned from the errand to replenish his liquor supply a little later in the day and he continued to consume its measure well into the evening. Just as he began to give up all hope of congress, the water spoke to him. He wondered, as he sat mildly intoxicated, if he could be hallucinating or going crazy. But the water’s phonation soothed and assured him. There was expression and articulation in its utterance that, although beyond his comprehension, brought him peace and validation. Its timbre led him into restful sleep of a kind he had not experienced in a long time. He woke gently the next morning, to consider how best to pursue his calling to define the water’s message.
He spent as much time as he could in places given to the water’s tone. He traveled to the park a short distance from his lodgings. There, he tried to pick out meaning from the whispering babble of the creek’s rush over smooth rock. He attempted to glean the sense of the water’s
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contemplative mood beside still ponds and stagnant pools. He listened for its rage, excitement, or fear, in its frantic plunge over the falls. Still, he could not grasp precisely what it meant to tell him.
He wasn’t entirely certain when he had given up speech. The function seemed to slip away from him in small doses. He had no telephone, as there was no longer anyone to call. He’d long ago driven away his false friends with this new faculty that they called madness. He did all his banking at an ATM. Twice a month, he slipped a rent check beneath the super’s door. When he remembered to eat he cooked on the hotplate in his room, and he drank alone.
Thus, conversation had become irrelevant. Dispensing with banter gave him the opportunity to become an even better listener. With his mind freed from the necessity to create and formulate language, it could better focus on deciphering the water’s message. So much vocabulary was nothing more than bluster and bravado anyhow. Many times in his life he had spoken just to hear himself talk. It was much better to really attempt to hear.
There were occasions when he found his voice, but they were few. Usually, in the midst of a thunderous downpour, he would add his own strains to the cacophony of the water. He would include his shouts with its resolve to beat against the brick and shingle of the building. He would call out encouragement as it flung itself wantonly at the world. Still, blaring and bellowing its futile rage until the storm’s appointed end, it revealed little more of its meaning.
He decided that in order to entirely grasp the water’s dispatch, he would have to immerse himself fully in its voice. So, one day he swam from shore, far out into the great ocean’s prosody. There, he encountered the voice of the water as never before.
He was beyond the simple experience of hearing. He was engulfed by the water’s tone and buoyed up by its melody. Its revelation was eternal, epochal, and he waded farther out and
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deeper into its depths in search of its dividend. The further he progressed from shore, the more it revealed itself to him. He swam until he could not see land, and beyond, he continued.
His body tired, but his spirits were lifted. A rush of lyricism washed away all his cares and concerns for the past or the present. He pressed intensely into its resonance and he passed the limitations of his physical and spiritual pain. As he united with the water and gave himself up to it, he finally understood its message, its call to finality.
THE END

 Here is the horror tale:THE GROWLING

The Growling
“Stop it! Stop it, for Christ’s sake! You’re killing him!”
The voice was distant, a dream within the nightmare, fogged by fury and the need to
get even, to set things straight; rage fuelling the repeated pummeling punches; blunting
the pain in the knuckles as they parted lips, mashing them against teeth, the sickening
crackle of a nose disintegrating under the onslaught. The gurgle of warm blood in the
back of the throat.
Retribution is a cold beast, but Cory Anderson was warmed by it, juiced up on it,
getting positively high on it and all the time his heart pounding, pounding, pounding; in
beat with the beating he willfully doled out.
Hands upon him now, small hands, hands with nails that used to rake him in the
throes of desire; Jennifer Spencer loved to do it, hell, he loved her to do it, loved her
leaving her mark on him.
A sign of her love.
But no love now. No love for quite a while, in fact. Just lies and deceit and
distance.
And Malcolm.
Malcolm with his Ford Tigris and faux gold Rolex that rotated on his twig thin
wrist. Malcolm with his thin laugh and wide boy charm. Malcolm with his bloodied lips
and pulped nose.
“Get off of him, Cory!” Jennifer was back in his head, insistent, the tone in her
voice lilting and frantic, and the nails raking his neck.
Anderson dislodged her, knocking her aside as he climbed to his feet. Jennifer was
on her knees, mouse-blonde hair hanging, strands of it clinging to the sweat about her
neck.
God, even pissed off she looked great.
Malcolm lay sprawled across a coffee table, his face splattered. He waved an arm
feebly in the air and one of his loafers had fallen off. He was making thick mewling
sounds.
Jennifer scuttled over to him, her hands unsure of where to go. They settled on his
chest.
“Why did you have to do this?” she sobbed without taking her eyes from her lover.
Her little secret, now in the open and bleeding out on the green carpet.
“Why did you have to do that?” Anderson said, his sneer made even uglier by his
breathlessness. His eyes caressed her lithe frame in an attempt to avoid any possibility of
meeting hers.
“You just don’t get it do you, you fucking animal?” she spat. “You and me, we’re
done. And that was before this. Now GET OUT OF HERE!”
Her skin on her neck was mottled red fire. With some incongruity Anderson noted
that it was the same colour as when Jennifer came, hot and hungry and holding onto him
breathless and sated. That was back in the days when their lovemaking had actually been
informed by love. Anderson felt a tear in his chest, realisation that he would never again
bear witness to such an act. Never again feel her warmth lying against him, around him.
His remorse chased off the remnants of his anger. His desire for vengeance now
giving way to his desire for her. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing
wanted to step up to the mark. Nothing wanted to be shot down in cold blood. Instead he
turned and without looking back left Jennifer’s flat to the sound of sobs and ragged
breathing.
* * *
Threlfall House had fourteen floors; a stalagmite of shite brought from the brink of
demolition on more occasions than anyone could remember. The housing estate that
existed in its shadow was no better; tried, run down, the people who lived there pretty
much the same.Anderson loathed the place. The smell of stale piss and booze pervaded
the stairwells. And the lifts were something else. Floors eroded by years of drunks using
them as latrines, the top layer of linoleum a corroded ovoid, a mini piss-lake for all to
avoid.
But if Anderson was totally honest, it wasn’t this that kept him from using the lift. It
was something far more primordial, far more basic.
Confinement wasn’t a friend of Cory Anderson. The thought of those small cars and
the long drop had him shivering and heading straight for the stairwell. What were nine
floors amongst friends? Besides he’d have guilt and the sharp stinging in his knuckles to
keep him company on the way down.
He’d not meant to lose it like that. He just wanted to know why Jennifer had traded
him in for a no-mark like Malcolm. And then the little shite had answered the door, the
grin on his face, Jennifer’s lipstick on his neck, pushing all the wrong buttons and setting
the green eyed beast loose. It had started with a shove and then went from there.
Anderson’s muse unleashed in the tiny flat in a giant turd of a building.
Anderson began his descent, his footfalls amplified by the concrete space about
him. He kept his hands in free space, avoiding the stair rail. His hands hurt enough
without coming across a hypodermic strategically placed to catch an unsuspecting police
officer or Community Nurse.
Junkies and their sense of humour.
He made the seventh floor before he heard it. It was loud enough - close enough - to
make him stop in mid stride.
Growling.
His first thought was that a dog was loose in the stairway. There were plenty of
them in the building after all; their owners mostly drug dealers or games machine junkies.
He tried to place it. Was it above or below? He waited; his breath on hold for a while.
It came again, from the landing below, thick and gruttal. And no matter how many
times Anderson told himself the contrary, he knew now that it was definitely not a dog.
He knew this for many reasons, but the main clue making him sure enough to start
backing up the stairs, was the click clicking sound accompanying the growls; the sound
of big claws tapping against concrete.
Someone had once said that we fear the unknown more than anything else in the
world; and it was this adage that had Anderson going against his instinct to get the hell
moving and encouraging him to peer over the railings, to make known the unknown, to
quell the gnawing fear in his belly.
Slowly he inched over the banister, the vertical corridor of railings coming into
view and dropping out below in a dizzying sense of height. He leaned over a little more,
trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was on the next landing, and began to question his
initial trepidation. He was about to call time on his misplaced anxiety when he saw it.
And it saw him.
Anderson pulled sharply away from the railing, his back slamming against the
pistachio coloured wall behind him. He wished that the concrete barrier could absorb
him in some way, make him invisible to the thing he’d seen on the floor below. The thing
that was slowly making its way towards him.
It had been a brief glimpse, but the image was branded upon his brain, seared there
as though he’d inadvertently stared at the mid-summer sun. Red eyes, it had red eyes and
they bore into him, marked him far deeper than the nails of his ex-lover ever could. And
teeth, oh God it had teeth, lots of them that cluttered its maw so much so that the mouth
had been forced into a razor sharp grin.
Anderson noted the door leading to the seventh floor flats. It was made of wood and
glass and had no chance of stopping the thing coming to introduce him to those terrible
teeth.
But through the glass he saw something else: the steel doors of the lift were open;
wide and inviting. And although Anderson never thought the day would come when he’d
welcome such a thing, he found himself weeping with joy. He edged towards the
stairwell’s exit, eager to get inside the lift before the creature could get anywhere near
him. The door to the exit opened smoothly for the first few inches, then the squeal of
neglected hinges carved its name in the air.
“Shit!”
An explosion of movement now; heavy footfalls from below, the hideous growling
a soundtrack to the event as the creature pounded up the steps. Anderson moved too,
throwing open the door and launching himself towards the lift, his feet slipping
haphazardly on the greasy linoleum.
But he was a few feet away when, to his total horror, the doors began to close.
* * *
He threw himself at the doors, his arm stuck out in front of him in an attempt to
activate the opening mechanism. He got lucky, his hand made it through and the sensors
picked it up. The doors slid lazily open with the incongruous, bright chime of a bell.
Just as Anderson bundled his body into the car, the doors to the stairwell were
yanked open, the noise loud as the frame came with it and the remains were cast aside
with the din of splintering wood and shattering glass.
The growling was louder now, filling the landing, filling Anderson’s world. The
reek of piss was overwhelmed by another stench, the stench of something he couldn’t
immediately place until it was so powerful it was difficult to suppress.
The stink of dead meat.
Not the clinical butcher’s shop stink, but that of road kill, or something trapped
under a floorboard or behind a skirting board.
In his frenzy, Anderson flailed at the buttons on the wall. The lift doors began to
close just as Anderson’s new buddy came into view, the eyes - ruby red and devoid of
empathy – scanning his, a streak of viscous saliva swinging from its lower jaw almost
hypnotising the trapped man with its pendulous motion.
The doors dragged themselves together as the creature launched at them. The lift
began its descent as the beast’s bulk struck the outer doors, the impact bowing them
inward and shaking the car violently. Anderson cried out as he was dumped on his ass as
the car shimmied. The lift shaft creaked and groaned but the car was moving, leaving the
thing battering the external doors on the seventh floor landing.
“Guess again, you sonofabitch,” he said, his voice frayed with fear and relief. As
the car slid down the shaft, Anderson climbed to his feet, his mind trying to shrug off the
sluggishness his fear had saddled him with. Rational thought needed to re-assert itself and
fast.
He pulled out his mobile, his intention to notify the cops, to tell Jennifer and that
sorry fuck Malcolm to stay put. His brain was just registering that there wasn’t any signal
when a huge, distant thud occurred overhead. There was the distinct din of metal being
bent and twisted and then something clattering down the lift shaft, bouncing against the
sides with a series of dull echoes until it smashed into the roof of the car.
Again the whole lift bucked and Anderson was knocked into the doors, cracking his
forehead a good one as he went, and filling his head with bright shiny lights. The car
came to a shuddering halt as fell to his knees, his hands clutching his brow.
Then, the lights went out.
* * *
Darkness, complete and suffocating.
Anderson tried to stem the tide of horror threatening to wash over him and drag him
down into madness. The car remained stationary; the steady creaks from outside adding
to the ominous sense of threat.
He activated his mobile phone, the light from the tiny screen seemingly huge in the
pervading blackness about him. He checked his signal again, his heart scudding against
his sternum before falling into the pit of his stomach when he saw the “No Service”
warning on the screen.
Another squeal, another creak brought him into focus. The car jolted, skidding
down the walls of the lift shaft for a few seconds before grinding to a halt. Anderson
cried out in surprise and terror.
How the tables have turned, his mind teased. And it was wearing Jennifer’s voice
just to drive the point home. Who’s scared now, Cory? Who’s at the mercy of something
that has no care for the fear of others? How does it feel? How does it taste?
He tried to shut her out. But that would mean facing something else, right? Facing
his true fear: the confined space.
The darkness.
It brought back memories, memories as dark as the ebony piss perfumed cloak
wrapped about now. Hiding from Tommy, his psychotic brother, a perverse game of hide
and seek that always ended the same: a beating for being so shit; then confinement,
thrown in the cupboard under the stairs, a real life Harry Potter but wearing bruises rather
than a cloud of magic.
Even though Tommy was now kept somewhere with lots of doctors and nurses
keeping him a splendid isolation, courtesy of heavy doses of Olanzepine and dull brown
leather straps with bright silver buckles, Cory Anderson wore his brother’s legacy like an
ill fitting suit. Usually a quiet soul, nagging from a distance, but sometimes, times like
these for example, coming to the front of the stage and bringing the whole wretched
house down; the phantom bringing about destruction in a wreath of flame.
A huge crash on the roof of the car sent the phone tumbling from Anderson’s grasp.
The small screen splashed its watery light to the ceiling, and Anderson followed its beam
instinctively, his braised hands clamped across his mouth; not in an attempt to stifle his
scream but to stop a huge wave of vomit ejecting from his mouth. “Fear is nature’s
purge” Tommy had once said before beating Cory senseless with their mother’s old
broom.Now the purging was back and wanting to let off steam. He swallowed hard, the
acrid vomit burning his throat on its return journey. And all the time Anderson watched
the roof of the car, waiting for something terrible to happen.
His fear wanted to morph so badly into anger. Some of the hot stuff he’d dished out
to Malcolm not fifteen minutes ago as Jennifer begged him to stop. But impotence had
moved in, his fear consuming as the thing overhead began to pace, heavy foot falls
making the car tremble in a steady, sullen rhythm.
“Oh God, oh God,” he whispered behind the palm clasped to his mouth. “What the
hell is it?”
But he wasn’t really concerned about what it was; he was more concerned about
what it could do. What it would do. Part of him became convinced that there was no way
on this God-given-Earth the thing would be able to get into the car.
Get to him.
But then Anderson’s rational mind suggested that if it could smash its way into a lift
shaft and jump three floors onto the roof of the car, then it would be near enough able to
do what the fuck it wanted. And what it wanted now was to torment and tease and show
that it called the shots. It wanted its prey to know that it was cornered, and although he’d
fought against his darkest fear and entered the lift, Anderson was yet to know what fear
truly was; what it could truly do.
The power save mode kicked in, throwing the lift into total darkness.
“Jesus H Christ!”
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and the sounds of pacing
overheard came to a sudden halt. And then the growling returned, deep and coarse and
powerful.
Anderson scrabbled around for his phone, trying bring back the light. “Are you
nuts?” his mind sang. “You really want to see what’s about to tear you apart?”
From far away, he made the decision, that yes, perhaps, after all of these years the
dark could become a friend. He would make his peace with it. Just for this one day, the
last day of his life.
The roof overhead groaned as a huge force struck it, and the lift was suddenly full
of light, Anderson covering his eyes from the brilliance as the fluorescents came back
online. Through his blurred vision he could see a portion of the roof had been hit with
such might it sagged inwards. Another blow opened the dent like a lanced blister.
Anderson could only stare as the big gnarled hand came through the gap, probing,
searching for the edges. Twisted fingers - thick as rope and blending seamlessly into
wicked, wicked talons - curled around the ragged hole they had carved and then yanked
backwards, peeling away a section of roof as though it were a swatch of fabric.
Below Anderson watched, his eyes so wide that to any onlooker they appeared
about to leave their sockets, his fear morphing into terror, not the mind numbing kind, but
the kind that is bright and final. Anderson opened his mouth and gasped, and it came as a
reed-thin sound.
And when the growling began, filling the car with its savage music, Cory Anderson
added to the lift’s aroma by pissing his pants.
* * *
Sitting in a cooling pool of his own urine, Anderson watching the thing as it
emerged through the makeshift opening. First came those hands, fingers hooked and
eager, followed by a long slim wrist, the skin smudged with whites and purples, the veins
knotted and so close to the surface Anderson could see the blue-green blood pumping
through them. Saliva dropped into the car from the dark, ragged hole above in viscous
strings, a terrible rain that purged nothing.
Then came the face.
And those eyes.
Up close Anderson was mesmerized by them, twin orbs of fire locking onto him,
piercing him, branding his very soul with their intensity. The rest of the creature’s face
was no less incredible: a high brow, thick black hair matted and plastered to its skull, and
the side of its head so the pointed ears jutted from the mane like twin shark fins cutting
through the surf.
Then it was in the lift, landing with a heavy thump and bringing with it the putrid
reek of decaying meat; forcing Anderson’s gut to unload its contents again, and there was
no stopping it this time, his puke slapping down his chest and into his lap, where it made
its acquaintance with his piss soaked pants.
The thing reached down and took hold of Anderson by the throat, lifting his dead
weight as though it were nothing at all. Instinctively, Anderson’s hands went for the wrist
attached to the vice now crushing his larynx. The world turned to fog as his oxygen
supply was severed, but in the mist of his fading consciousness, he realised that the hands
he’d clamped about the beasts wrist were making contact with cold, hard metal. Before
he could make sense of it the creature was savaging him, teeth making contact with the
flesh of his face, ruining it, severing lips and ears and the nose, chewing on the skull as
though engaged in a brutal, bloody kiss.
Then powerful jaws clamped down and cracked open the skull, and Cory Anderson
ceased to exist. The beast sucked out his brain and swallowed it in two bites; releasing
the mutilated corpse almost immediately and leaving it to crash to the bloodied floor.
For a short time the thing watched Anderson’s remains, its eyes unblinking, and as
red as the blood splashed across its misshapen face. Then it was moving again, its long
scrawny arms reaching up to the ceiling and hooking onto its crude exit in the roof.
And as the beast reached up and hoisted itself out of the car, a small object slipped
down the creature’s wrist, an object made from cheap steel and plated with yellow paint.
A fake Rolex watch.
END

here is the horror tale: CROWNFORD'S SECRET

HORROR SHORTS

BY

DREW BROWN

Published by Apricot Alliance at Smashwords.

Copyright 2011 Drew Brown

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

CROWNFORD’S SECRET

Very few people in the village of Crownford had bothered to use their cars to attend the

Neighbourhood Watch meeting at the local hall, despite the inclement weather. Wind swept

across the hill, howling down the chimneys and bringing with it rain that lashed against the sash

windows.

By the time the doors opened and the thirty-five gathered villagers began to leave, huddled

inside overcoats and protected by flat-caps or umbrellas, there were deep puddles on the old

road. Water streamed along the gutters, carrying a flotilla of fallen leaves from the surrounding

woodland.

If any of the attendees were uncomfortable with the meeting’s decision, a suggestion put

forward by the newest resident, the distinguished geneticist, Albert von Mainz, none of them

showed it. The German immigrant and his English wife had only lived in the village for twentyone

years, a short time by local standards, where houses often belonged to the same family for

several generations, but there was no dissent, no questions beside those that concerned the

credibility of the scientist’s proposal.

After these had been addressed, validated by the images inside von Mainz’s red photograph

album, the decision was unanimous.

After all, their world was changing. The gutter-folk of civilisation were spreading from the

nearby towns and cities, bringing with them an epidemic of crime and burglaries that now

plagued the residents of Crownford.

To preserve their way of life, something had to be done.

And now they knew what.

* * *

WHAT IS CROWNFORD’S SECRET?

The headline captured Jason Shepherd’s imagination. The newspaper article went on to

highlight the fact that the village of Crownford had not suffered a single reported crime for more

than two years.

There was no doubt it was a strange statistic.

Crime was on the up elsewhere in the county. The records showed it rising year on year.

Almost every type of criminal activity was above the national average, especially the number of

missing persons. Other villages in the local area were riddled with burglaries, so much so that

some of the more affluent ones had even invested in extra security, employing firms to keep

guard at night.

But not Crownford.

Its residents were forced to take no such measures. The journalist had ended the article

without an answer to his opening question, but Shepherd had an idea.

Luck.

He had robbed many places, thieving was his work, but he had never stolen from

Crownford. Indeed, he had hardly known of its existence, except for reference to it on a

scattering of road signs.

That would change, and the newspaper article had given him the idea. After all, with so long

since the village had suffered a crime, they would probably be complacent. They would not

expect a one-man crime-wave to take place on a single night.

And that is what Jason Shepherd intended to be.

* * *

There was no one about.

The wind slipped through the nearby trees and bushes, rustling the leaves, but there was no

other noise beside the soft tap of his footsteps. Happy that the small courtyard was empty,

Shepherd approached the Land Rover, crossing the damp cobblestones. A line of second-floor

windows overlooked him, but all of the lights were switched off.

Shepherd reached the car and tried the handle.

It wasn’t even locked.

Opening the front-passenger door, he slid up onto the seat and rummaged through the glove

box and door pockets. He ignored some loose change in the ashtray, as it would jangle in his

pockets. In the glove box he found an MP-3 player and a switched-off mobile phone, which he

took and stashed in his small rucksack, adding to the bounty he’d already plundered.

He still wanted more.

Shepherd dropped from the Land Rover and quietly closed the door. He glanced around the

courtyard again, checking that he was still alone. His eyes went to a stone wall covered in

creeping ivy. There was a black-painted iron gate in its centre.

The old hinges squeaked as Shepherd eased the gate open enough to pass through. Staying

in the shadow of the wall, he knelt down and scanned the area. Before him was a long path, lined

on either side with well-manicured turf. On the lawn a few feet ahead of him was a signpost.

STABLES.

Above the word was an arrow pointing to the right.

Shepherd went that way, following the path as it ran between the stone wall and a dense,

seven-foot tall hedge. All he could see was the route that lay ahead; a hundred yards of concrete

slabs, bathed in shadows, a space so narrow that two people could not have walked side-by-side

along its uneven surface.

He kept his footsteps as light as possible.

At its end, the path led out onto a dirt-track road that was lined on either side with a shallow

drainage ditch and the occasional tree.

The cloudless sky was cold and bleak.

Shepherd crouched down and looked left and right, up and down the new road, unsure which

direction to take. He spotted the stables on his right, a further two hundred yards away.

He crept along the dirt track.

At the makeshift-road’s end were two brick pillars, one of which was mounted with a plaque

that read: ‘Crownford Hall Stable Yard’.

Below it was another sign: ‘Beware of the Dogs’.

Beyond the pillars was a gravel-covered open space, a fifty-yard square, which lay before a

large barn. In its centre, the wooden building rose to a peaked roof, thirty-feet tall.

Directly opposite the road in the centre of the barn was a pair of massive doors, both of

which were propped fully open.

The sight surprised Shepherd; horses cost a lot.

Moonlight crept in through the open doors, illuminating a few yards of straw-covered floor.

Further inside, he could see only darkness.

The barn, however, was not the reason Shepherd had come to the stables. He wanted to find

the office, the small administrative centre that any business needs. It stood to the left of the barn;

a small flat-roofed room made from red bricks. There was a window beside the single door, but

before Shepherd moved towards it, he cursed and dropped to the ground.

There was a kennel outside the office.

Shepherd gazed around, frightened that the guard dog might already be padding across the

gravel. He sighed with relief when he saw no sign of one, but he still considered leaving the

stables. There would, he was sure, be much easier pickings elsewhere in the village, and there

was still plenty of night left before he needed to leave the grand, sprawling scene of his crimes.

Before he turned to search for somewhere else, he noticed something about the kennel that

intrigued him enough to creep forwards. His feet crunched the loose stones as he crossed the

gravel, approaching the large metal kennel.

Finally, he was close enough to be sure.

There was a sturdy grill across the arched opening, sealing it closed. Lying with its head on

its front paws, and looking out through the metal bars, was a fully-grown Doberman.

The dog was a prisoner in its home.

Shepherd almost laughed as the tension he felt washed away. He got back up to his feet and

started once more towards the office. He skirted around the kennel because of cautious habit

rather than necessity. The Doberman’s black eyes followed him closely, but the dog made no

objection to his approach.

It neither growled nor barked.

Upon reaching the office, the door handle creaked as Shepherd started to turn it.

He froze.

A sound had rippled out across the still air. It was as if someone had started to rev a

motorcycle, except that the noise was more fluid than any engine Shepherd had ever heard. As

light-footed as he could be, he ran to the corner of the office and crouched down.

Inside its kennel, the guard dog whimpered.

The noise’s source was inside the stable.

Shepherd slunk into the shadows, retreating back across the gravel to where he’d entered.

Slowly, keeping out of the glare of the moon, he moved towards the road. His eyes darted from

place to place as he went, although they were often drawn back to the empty space of the open

stable doors.

He felt sweat on his forehead inside his balaclava and the palms of his hands moistened

within the confines of their leather gloves. He struggled to think what the noise from the stable

could be. If it was an engine, then it implied that someone was inside the wooden building. But

there were no lights switched on, and the noise did not sound exactly like the mechanical rhythm

an engine would produce. It sounded more organic, natural, more as though it was created by a

living thing.

But it was too loud.

The Doberman had gone from view, hidden inside its metal kennel, whining in the darkness.

Shepherd rounded the brick pillar and stood with his back pressed against it, facing up the

road. With his exit clear, his breathing returned to normal. The tempo of his heart lowered and he

closed his eyes, trying to calm his nerves.

You’re being stupid, he told himself. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just an old

generator.

Feeling better, he peeked around the brick pillar, back across the gravel.

His jaw dropped open and his eyes went wide.

Two yellow ovals hovered in the blackness between the barn doors. They seemed to hang,

unsupported, twelve feet above the ground. They were widest horizontally, at least a foot across,

and they were located a couple of feet apart.

Shepherd knew what the yellow-glowing objects looked like, but that was impossible.

He thought they were eyes.

There was nothing to see beyond the yellow ovals; they simply seemed to float in the dark

shadows of the wooden stable.

They can’t be.

Gracefully, the ovals came forwards.

Jason Shepherd gasped.

The creature walked out of the barn at a leisurely pace, although it was forced to lower its

head so that its ears could pass below the underside of the doorframe. Paws the size of dustbin

lids crunched the gravel as it stepped into the moonlight, revealing a fur coat of black and white

blotches. Sniffing at the fresh air with a pink nose, the creature’s head moved from side to side.

It looked to the metal kennel, pricking its ears towards the dog’s whimpering.

When its entire body had left the barn, the creature’s tail rose to point upwards. The tip was

almost the height of the peaked roof.

Shepherd pulled his head back behind the pillar.

A cat, he thought. A big cat.

But not in the sense of a lion or a tiger

No, this was a giant, monstrous freak-of-nature of a cat that, even excluding the tail, towered

more than twice Shepherd’s height.

He would not have to duck to run between its legs.

The engine noise, the purring, he corrected himself, stopped and there was no sound other

than the wind in the trees. The guard dog was silent. Gradually, Shepherd allowed half of his

balaclava-hidden face to peer out from the pillar.

The cat was looking right at him, the yellow eyes staring out from a face that was black

except for a white patch around the left eye. It had sunk down low, almost prone across the

gravel, and had its massive front paws stretched out ahead of it. The trunk of the cat’s body was

still, but, pointing vertically, the tail swished back and forth like an inverted clock pendulum.

Shepherd knew the feline-giant had spotted him.

There were twenty-five yards between them, but for the cat, Shepherd could see, such a

distance mattered nothing. It would cross the gravel in a flash.

His face began to itch with the mix of perspiration and balaclava wool. His hands shook and

his heart thundered.

Across the stable yard, the cat edged one front paw forwards, preparing to pounce.

This can’t be.

Shepherd broke cover and ran.

He dashed back along the road, skirting the edge of the drainage ditch.

Adrenaline flowed through his veins.

Beneath the soles of his feet, the dirt-track road sped by. He spotted the entrance to the path

along the stone-built wall and he careered towards it, wishing for the cover of the shadows.

He risked a look over his shoulder.

Bounding along behind him was the cat, which didn’t appear to be moving with any

particular effort. It merely kept pace, following at a distance of ten yards. The feline eyes were

on Shepherd, flashing yellow in the moonlight.

Tears of desperation streamed from Shepherd.

He knew the creature was toying with him.

What is this thing?

His vision was blurred by the time he reached the narrow path, but he plunged into the gap

between the wall and the hedge, running along the concrete slabs with all the speed he could

muster.

A scraping noise to his rear caused him to look around. He saw the cat grind to a halt out on

the road. It’s head dropped and it looked along the pathway, its eyes following Shepherd.

The cat was too wide for the narrow path. Its whiskers twitched and, high above, its tail

swung from side to side. The creature’s frustration was clear to see.

Shepherd felt elated. I’ll escape, he thought.

The cat raised its head and then sprung from a standing position to leap over the stone wall.

Landing on the far side of the six-foot high structure, the cat was lost from Shepherd’s view, but

then its gargantuan black and white head appeared over the top of the wall and, having seen its

prey, the creature continued the chase.

Shepherd used his sleeve to dry his eyes. His body was gripped with fear and there was a

warm sensation around his groin.

He knew what he’d done.

This can’t be happening.

His shoes continued to pound the concrete slabs.

The hedge gave way to the view of the lawn, but Shepherd focused instead on the iron gate

to his left. Although the cat was following along a perpendicular route, and going through the

gate would seem to put Shepherd in the cat’s path, he remembered that the courtyard had been

enclosed.

There would be at least one more obstacle in the cat’s way.

He pushed through the gate, unconcerned with the noise he made.

The Land Rover was still there.

For a moment, Shepherd considered its sanctuary, but the thought of being confined in such

a small space, trapped like a fish in a bowl for the cat to see, filled him with terror.

He had a better idea.

Discarding his rucksack, Shepherd slithered beneath the vehicle. As soon as he was in the

centre, he stopped and laid still. He tried to quieten his breathing and to listen for sounds beyond

the pumping of his heart. His nostrils were filled with the scent of diesel.

From out in the courtyard came a thud as the cat landed on the cobblestone ground. The

nearest paw was five yards from the Land Rover, almost level with Shepherd’s eyes.

The feline took a pace forwards, and then its front right paw rose up, vanishing from the

narrow vista Shepherd had between the cobbles and the underside of the Land Rover.

With tears once more falling from his eyes, Shepherd feared what could happen. That the cat

would see through his deception and push the Land Rover aside to get to him, or, if the effort

proved too great, it would simply wait until he was forced to emerge.

There were still many hours until daybreak.

Shepherd’s entire body trembled with fear; suddenly, the gap between the Land Rover’s

base and ground seemed much smaller, much more confined.

The rucksack vanished following a swipe from the lost front paw.

The pack shot up, crossing the courtyard to slam back to the cobbles. Even while the

rucksack was still airborne, the cat was already pouncing, and as it landed it brought it massive

front left paw down on the pack, covering it over.

After the briefest wait, the cat’s paw came up a fraction, as if allowing the pack a chance to

escape.

When it remained still, the cat’s paw dropped once more.

Beneath the Land Rover, Shepherd watched the cat run through the game a second time. As

the rucksack still did not move, the cat tired of playing with it and turned away.

It came closer to the Land Rover and then stopped.

Shepherd wondered what the creature was doing, whether it was sniffing the air or looking

down at his shelter. He waited for the cat’s eyes to appear beneath the Land Rover’s edge. He

was sure they would; he was sure the cat would find him and play with him like it had the

rucksack.

He closed his eyes, blinking back his tears.

Please, please, please.

When he opened them, the paws were gone.

He moved his head all around, looking over every section of the courtyard. The only

movement was the occasional leaf blowing across the cobblestones.

The cat had left.

Shepherd smiled. He laughed through his tears.

As his adrenaline level’s dropped, he began to feel the cold rising through his body from the

stony ground.

But he was safe. And there was no rush.

He would wait beneath the Land Rover until he was sure. Then he would go to the house

and raise help. His car was parked more than a mile away and he could not face the thought of

crossing the dark lanes and country roads.

Never again, not while that thing was out stalking the night.

A police cell was much more favourable. Shepherd decided to remain in his shelter until the

sun was in the sky and then turn himself in to the first person he could find.

He would give up crime.

* * *

The frantic, incessant knocking at her front door did not wake Mary von Mainz, but it did

greatly upset her morning routine. At five o’clock each day she would take tea in bed, which her

husband would bring to her. In any day, it was the only pot he made, and as such he did not

resent the chore. After forty years of marriage to a respectable English woman, the German had

taken happily to the drink.

Tightening the belt of her white dressing gown, Mary descended the staircase. Her grey hair

was held in rollers.

The noise from the front door continued. Not only was the visitor using the knocker, they

were also banging the letterbox. As soon as she opened the hallway door, she could hear a male

voice calling out. There was a dark shadow against the front door’s stained-glass windowpane.

Pausing to attach the twin security chains, Mary opened the door only three inches. She

looked out through the gap to see a man dressed in black trousers and a jumper. He had

dishevelled blond hair and wide, blue eyes. His skin was blotchy and sore, and his eyes were

puffy and red. There was a faint smell of stale urine about him.

Another one, she thought. All because of that blasted journalist.

“Please, you have to let me in.”

“Kevin,” Mary von Mainz shouted.

Surprise filled the face of the man at the door. “Please, don’t call out. You don’t

understand.”

“Kevin,” she shouted again.

“Stop, please. Is Kevin your husband? He must come inside. There’s a monster out here.”

Mary von Mainz smiled and pointed with a single finger over the shoulder of her visitor.

“Oh, I know there is, young man. It’s you and your kind. But Kevin keeps us safe.”

“Kevin?” the visitor asked, his voice suddenly fearful.

Mary von Mainz pushed closed her front door.

* * *

Out on the doorstep, Shepherd tried to jam the door with his foot, but his reactions were

slow and his body was stiff from lying on the cold cobbles. The shock of what had happened

stung him; he didn’t want to turn around.

The day promised to be beautiful.

A smell of roses drifted from the borders near the house and the first grey light of dawn was

beginning to lighten the sky. Hope had drawn him from the sanctuary beneath the Land Rover,

but he felt it crumbling away. He raised his fist to beat the door, but then he heard a noise behind

him.

Reluctantly, Shepherd turned to face down the garden path. At the bottom, straddled over

the low gate and privet hedge, was the black and white cat.

With a flutter of his whiskers and a swish of his tail, Kevin pounced.

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