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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