Author: Mikey Campling
Date: 2017-03-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Fiction; Short Stories
Description: When another body is discovered - a young woman washed up by the tide - it seems that someone stalks the streets of the nearby town of Whitby, after dark. Someone who preys on young women, and kills them in a very singular manner. And as crowds of Goths arrive to celebrate an annual festival, the scene is set for a gothic tale with a contemporary twist. After Dark is a horror story set in modern day Whitby, the town where, according to Stoker, a certain Count came ashore. In recent years, Whitby has held an annual Goth festival, and this surreal event sets the stage for a deliciously dark tale
Publisher: Shadowstone Books
Rights: All rights reserved (#334965598739643)

AFTER DARK
by

Michael Campling

A Tale from the Dark

The Short Horror Collection - Book I

This story is dedicated to creators everywhere - your work makes the world a little brighter.

Michael Campling

Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that.

-Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

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Table of Contents

Indulge Your Inner Awkward Streak

Friday Night - The North Sea

Saturday Morning - Whitby, North Yorkshire

Saturday Afternoon - The Steps to Whitby Abbey

The Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Whitby

The Crescent, Whitby

Thank You For Reading

Also by Michael Campling

About the Author

Copyright

FRIDAY NIGHT - THE NORTH SEA

The dog swims. It swims with every fiber of its frozen muscles, fighting the crippling cold with every fierce surge of hot blood pumping through its shriveled veins. In this pitch-black night, struggling against this seething mass of stinking salt water, there is nowhere to swim to, but still it swims. There is no other choice.

A wave breaks over the dog’s head, stinging its eyes, its nose. The dog blinks and pushes on, stretching its neck high, straining to keep its muzzle above the waterline. It cannot stop, cannot give in. It has to live, has to survive.

But tonight the sea is hungry. And its unforgiving grip is cruelly cold: cold enough to stop the dog’s heart; cold enough to drain every last drop of energy from the creature’s exhausted body. And soon, the dog’s muzzle dips below the surface. It splutters, chokes and drives its legs hard against the icy water, striking out against the wintry fingers that claw at its belly and pluck at its sodden fur. It shakes its head and blows the freezing water from its nostrils. Its paws thrash through the water in a frenzied, desperate effort to stay alive. It raises its head, its eyes wild, staring into the darkness. And this is when it sees them.

Lights. Warm, yellow lights, twinkling through the distant mist. The kind of lights that mean people, warmth, shelter. The kind of lights that mean safety, that mean life.

The dog feels a growl building at the back of its throat. Its heart beats stronger. And now it will swim, it will make it to those lights, to those people. And as it forces its legs to plow on through the icy water, it knows that whatever else might happen, it will live.

SATURDAY MORNING - WHITBY, NORTH YORKSHIRE

Detective Sergeant Lowry made his way carefully down the steep path. He glanced at the waves crashing against the cliff face far below. He could taste the salt spray on his lips, feel it spattering against his cheeks. The chill early morning air leached the heat from his fingers. He paused and rubbed his hands together. It didn’t help. Christ, he thought, what a job.

The rough path had been trampled and churned by those who’d been first on the scene, and now it was treacherous; a slippery blend of smooth shale and slick mud. Lowry looked down the slope, toward the huddle of hunched figures who’d gathered where the waves broke against a cluster of fallen boulders. They’d be watching him, wondering what was taking him so long. He took a breath and walked on, keeping his eyes on the path. Always on the path.

At last, Lowry grunted and stepped down from the slope onto a patch of shingle. Thank god for that, he thought. He pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets and picked his way among the boulders toward the group of men. There was no need for crime scene tape in this desolate spot, and no need to show his ID. They all knew why they were here, and it wasn’t a duty any of them would’ve chosen. As Lowry approached, there were nods of recognition from a couple of uniformed officers who were standing guard, but the crime scene crew merely glanced in his direction and carried on with their grim work. Lowry looked at the photographer. The man was fussing with his camera, wiping the salt spray from his precious lens.

“You’ve finished?” Lowry asked.

The man nodded. “Not much choice,” he said. “The tide’s coming in. We’ve had to do the best we can.” He glanced over at the rocks. “A few more minutes then we’ll all have to go.”

Yes, Lowry thought, back to your warm lab. But he gave the man a sympathetic nod and moved on. The Medical Examiner, Doctor Myers, was kneeling down as best as he could on the rocks, and Lowry stood behind him. He took a deep breath of damp air and looked down at the body.

The young woman had come to rest on her side, her arms and legs splayed awkwardly against the jagged rocks. Her long dark hair was plastered across her face, and the contrast made her pale skin seem almost pure white. Her mouth hung open and her eyes stared out into nothingness. Lowry looked away, but the image of her face would stay with him. It was always that way, especially with the younger ones. He ran his eyes over her twisted body. Her coat looked expensive. It was black leather and would normally have reached almost to her ankles, but now it was twisted around her legs and flecked with strands of seaweed. Her dress was long too. It looked as though it was dark red or burgundy, but it was hard to tell when it was soaked in seawater. The color was more obvious, though, in her calf-length boots. They were bright purple and each was adorned with a row of silver buckles.

Lowry sighed and Doctor Myers looked up, his expression grim. “I hate to say this,” he said, “but we’ve got another one.”

Lowry’s shoulders slumped. “Show me,” he said.

Myers moved the collar of the woman’s coat a little to one side, exposing the side of her neck.

“Christ,” Lowry muttered. And there on her neck, was the last thing he wanted to see: cut deep into the woman’s pale skin, directly over her jugular vein, was a single pair of puncture marks.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON - THE STEPS TO WHITBY ABBEY

Jen reached out and shook Matt’s arm. “Stop it!” she hissed.

Matt smiled. “Why? Everyone counts the steps. It’s just what you do.”

“Yes, but you’re the only one doing it in hexadecimal.”

Matt laughed. “Relax. Geek is the new chic.”

Jen shook her head. “Not when you do it,” she said. “When you do it, it’s just... geek.”

“Just keep walking,” Matt said, “I want to, at least, have a look at the Abbey before it closes.”

Jen sighed and took hold of Matt’s hand. “You know,” she said, “you can be very immature.”

Matt grinned. “It’s part of my charm,” he said and moved forward to the next stone step. “Now, where did I get up to?”

“10, F, 8, 3, B, 2, 7,” Jen called out.

“No, don’t do that, I’ve totally lost my place now.”

“Oh dear,” Jen said. “We’ll just have to talk to each other instead.”

Matt shook his head and looked away. “Come on,” he grumbled. They walked in silence for a while, holding hands and watching the other tourists climbing and descending: the excited children running whenever they were allowed, the teenagers dragging their feet, the middle-aged couples looking faintly bemused, and the most elderly with walking sticks and determined expressions. And, of course, there were the Goths.

“There’s another two,” Matt said, as they passed a young couple. “That’s twenty points to me.”

Jen glanced at the couple, taking in the young man’s frilled white shirt that puffed out from the top of his red paisley waistcoat. His top hat was adorned with a ribbon of matching Paisley and his black frock coat was studded with two rows of silver buttons. Quite an outfit, she thought. But the young woman’s frock was to die for: voluminous scarlet taffeta overlaid with a layer of intricate black lace. It oozed Edwardian authenticity and must’ve been hand-made. Jen pouted and looked down at her own attire: sensible warm coat over chain store jeans and regulation canvas shoes. “Don’t make fun of people,” she said.

“I’m not,” Matt said. “I’m just mucking about.”

“Well don’t. I’m not playing your stupid game.”

“All right,” Matt said. He paused and took a breath as they climbed the next step. “But you know, they dress like that to attract attention don’t they?”

Jen dropped his hand and stared at him. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

Matt stopped walking and turned to her. “Well, it’s true. And they’re getting on my nerves, cluttering the place up. All I wanted was a quiet weekend: a cottage by the sea; walks along the seafront; nights in by the fire.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve checked there wasn’t something going on, like, I don’t know, a Gothic festival.”

Matt gave her a withering look but carried on as though he hadn’t heard her. “And what do we get? Every pub is full of people looking like extras from a second-rate horror film, every café is packed out. We have to queue up for everything.”

Jen glanced anxiously from side to side. Matt was raising his voice and a group of elderly ladies was looking in his direction. One of them raised her eyebrows and said something. The other ladies laughed and shook their heads. “Matt,” Jen said, “stop making a fuss.”

“I mean, look at that guy.” Matt hooked his thumb toward a man leaning against the metal rail. “He looks like he got sacked from the freak show for breaking the dress code.”

Jen looked at the man in question. His black leather outfit, with its zips, straps, and buckles, was not the strangest she’d seen that day. But there was something about him. Something... unsettling.

He stood alone. His face was hard, his skin pale beneath his back-combed jet-black hair, and his cheeks sunken. He stood still, almost rigid, and stared into space, ignoring the passing tourists, his mouth fixed in a cruel sneer. And suddenly Jen realized: he’d heard what Matt had said, and he didn’t like it. She felt the skin prickle at the back of her neck. She turned back to Matt. “Just be quiet,” she said. She glanced back at the Goth. He hadn’t moved, but even so, it wasn’t a good idea to hang around. She took hold of Matt’s arm and urged him towards the next step. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get up these damn steps.”

But Matt hung back. “Don’t pull me,” he said, “I’m not a child.”

“Then stop bloody well acting like one.” She let go of Matt’s arm and carried on alone, stomping up the steps as fast as she could. It was the only way to get Matt moving.

Matt sighed and ran a hand over his face. He was in trouble now, there was no doubt about it. He glanced back at the leather clad Goth. Freak, he thought. But then, almost as if he’d read Matt’s mind, the Goth slowly turned his head and looked Matt in the eye. His stare was cold and hard, an unspoken threat, and Matt felt the blood drain from his face.

He swallowed hard and looked away, then turned and hurried after Jen. One of these days he’d learn to keep his mouth shut. Just my luck, he thought, to get beat up by one of the Lost Boys.

***

Johnny watched the couple hurry away. That’s right, he thought, run. Who the hell did these people think they were? Bloody tourists. What gave them the right to stare, to leer, to take his photo and make stupid remarks?

“Ignorant,” he muttered. A middle-aged man gave him a sideways look as he passed by. Johnny stared at him. Go on, he thought, say something. Give me a reason. But the man was already moving away and looking firmly ahead.

Johnny snorted and looked further up the steps. The young couple was together again. The man had his arm around her waist. Lucky bastard, he thought. He didn’t deserve a woman like that. She was nice. And she had brown eyes. He liked it when they had brown eyes.

He ran a finger across his lips. Maybe I’ll see you later, he thought, after dark.

***

As the sun slid slowly toward the horizon, the great dog lay on its side on the sand and stretched its legs to get some life back into them. It had slept all day, sheltering in the shade of a shallow cave at the base of a cliff. But despite its long rest, when the dog arched its long back its muscles burned with the familiar ache of old injuries. It bared its teeth. The men on the boat had made very free with their heavy boots, their lengths of thick rope.

And now it whined and worked its stiff jaw. Remembering the moment when it had finally fought back: the simple ease of its teeth slicing into the men’s salty flesh; the glorious spurting of hot blood; the rich, delicious tang of fresh blood on its lips, its tongue; the maddening, vivid stench of it. Wonderful. If only there’d been more time to enjoy it.

But no. The men had rallied, drawing their long knives, their vicious clubs, and there’d been no choice but to escape, to dive into the wild black water. The dog shivered. The cold had seeped into its bones. But it had survived. And now it was free - free to live as it liked, free to hunt, to feed.

Its stomach groaned and the dog rolled onto its front and pushed itself up to its feet. The sea breeze was growing cooler now and the dog flexed its powerful neck muscles and raised its snout to sniff the salty air.

It licked its lips. Its throat was dry. The thirst was almost overwhelming. But when the dog stepped forward, its legs buckled beneath it and it crashed down onto the sand.

It growled and struggled to stand, but it was no use. The dog closed its eyes and rested its head on its front paws. It exhaled loudly. It needed to rest and regain its strength. But not for too long. Because soon it would be dark, and then it would be time. Time to hunt.

THE CHURCH OF ST. MARY THE VIRGIN, WHITBY

Jen leaned against the stone wall that bordered the churchyard and looked out to sea. The long nights of the northern winter were drawing in, and although it was only late afternoon, the weak sunlight was already fading. And below the brooding sky, the North Sea was a restless mass of seething gray water. She plucked at the collar of her coat, pulling it tighter around her throat, and watched a boat dawdling home toward the harbor. She wondered where it had come from. From the flock of gulls that followed in its wake, she guessed it was a fishing boat, home from a long day battling against the biting wind and cruel waves. Just the thought of it made her shiver. I hope they caught something, she thought.

She turned and looked back toward the church. Matt was in his element, darting among the rows of crooked gravestones, his long coat flapping in the breeze, as he took as many photographs as he could. Jen sighed. She’d be expected to appreciate Matt’s handiwork later and he must’ve taken a hundred shots of the ruined abbey. Still, she had to admit that the gravestones had a melancholy beauty; their hard lines softened by centuries of sea spray. She thought of the grieving families who must’ve thought these monuments would last forever. How sorry they’d be to see their epitaphs eaten away, their loved ones long forgotten beneath a crumbling headstone.

She smiled sadly. Life was too short to stand and mope. She dug her hands into her coat pockets and walked to Matt’s side, trying hard not to step on the graves.

“Are you all right?” Matt asked. “You look cold.”

Jen stood close and Matt put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him and looked up into his eyes. “Do you mind if we go?”

Matt glanced around the graveyard. He’d be happy to stay and take photos until it got dark. “I suppose so,” he said. “What do you want to do? Get something to eat?”

Jen nodded. “In a while,” she said. “But I’d like to go down and walk by the sea. Before it gets dark. ”

Matt looked toward the sea. “I think the tide might be coming in. There won’t be much beach.”

“I know. We’ll find somewhere.” She snuggled closer and rested her head against his chest. “It’ll be romantic. Just you, me and the waves.”

***

“Can I help you, sir?”

Johnny snapped out of his reverie. He turned to the shopkeeper. The man was a joke, a cartoonist’s idea of a bookshop owner: a threadbare tweed jacket, a limp mustache, a pair of large round spectacles. “No,” Johnny said, “just browsing.”

The shopkeeper pursed his lips. “It’s just that we do have a specialist section for customers with your... interest.”

Johnny grimaced. What the hell would you know about my interests? About me? The words battered against the sides of his brain, aching to be free. But there were other ways to fight back. Other ways to swat this petty little man down. “Really?” he asked. “You have a section on hematology?”

The shopkeeper rocked back on his heels. “Ah, well...”

“Because that’s my interest,” Johnny said. “I’m doing a Ph.D. At the University of York.”

“I see,” the man said.

“I work with blood.” Johnny grinned and leaned closer to the little man. “Lots of it,” he whispered. “Gallons.”

The shopkeeper cleared his throat. “I was just trying to help,” he said. “A lot of visitors like our local history section.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. But listen, ghost stories and fairy tales are not histories.” Johnny was raising his voice now, enjoying the look on the little man’s face. “And I’ve got news for you, Bram Stoker wasn’t a historian, he was a bloody novelist. Not even a very good one.” Johnny looked around the shop. A few heads were turned toward him, but most people were busying themselves, scanning the shelves and pretending they hadn’t heard. Johnny waved his hand toward a gaggle of teenagers dressed all in black. “All this dressing up,” Johnny sneered. “It’s pathetic. They’ve no idea.”

The teenagers stared at him. In the children’s corner, a young mother grabbed her daughter by the hand and marched toward the exit. They weren’t the only ones to leave.

The shopkeeper’s face hardened. “I think you’d better go,” he said.

Johnny snorted. “Really? And we were just getting along so well.”

The shopkeeper pointed to the door. “Out,” he said, “before I throw you out.”

Johnny laughed. Go on, he thought, have a try. But no. The little man would be too easy. “All right,” he said, “I’m going.” He headed for the door, still chuckling under his breath. He opened the door then paused, studying the card attached to the glass. He smiled and turned back to the shopkeeper. “I see you close at five,” he said. He lowered his voice to a cold whisper. “Maybe I’ll drop by. We can carry on our friendly little chat.”

The little man’s angry, florid cheeks were suddenly as pale as old paper. It was wonderful. Johnny sighed and waltzed out onto the crowded street. He hadn’t been interested in the books anyway. He’d only been loitering in the shop because he’d been able to peer out of the window and keep an eye on the famous steps to the Abbey.

Now, he stretched his arms wide and yawned, enjoying the way the tourists skirted around him and averted their eyes. But that wouldn’t entertain him for long. He was bored. Tired of waiting. Where the hell was she? He needed to see her again, needed to fix her in his mind, to drink her in. He pictured her long dark hair, her brown eyes, her shyness when she’d seen him looking at her. She didn’t even know how desirable she was. She had no idea. No idea of the fire she’d started in his belly, the hunger that burned in his heart for her.

Johnny licked his lips. She was so lucky. He’d chosen her. Chosen her above all others. But he couldn’t wait much longer. He crossed the street and leaned against the wall by the entrance to an alley. He’d watch from there.

He glanced at the sky. It was starting to get dark. Surely she couldn’t be much longer. He looked up and down the narrow street. He couldn’t have missed her could he? No. Not her. She was special.

And suddenly, there she was - sauntering down the steps, holding hands with her pathetic little boyfriend. Childish. But he’d show her what a real man could do. Oh yes. He’d show her soon enough.

Johnny stayed close to the wall and stepped back into the alley until he was almost completely hidden. And he watched.

***

Matt scrambled down the last few feet of bank and jumped down onto the beach. He turned and offered his hand to help Jen down.

“I’m not helpless you know,” Jen said.

“I know,” Matt said, “but I can be gentlemanly can’t I?”

Jen laughed and took hold of his hand. She jumped down to join him, landing heavily and colliding with Matt, forcing him to wrap his arms around her to stop them from falling backward. Her warm body pressed hard against his. “Ooh,” she giggled. “Thank you kind sir.”

Matt smiled. It hadn’t been easy to get down to this little, deserted, cove but Jen was right, there was something exciting about being so close to the sea, just the two of them. And if it put her in a romantic mood, then so much the better. “It’s my pleasure,” he said and lowered his head to kiss her.

Jen pushed him away. “What the hell was that?”

“What? I thought you...”

“No,” Jen said. She looked from side to side. “Didn’t you hear it? It was like... growling or something.”

Matt grinned. “My stomach I expect. I’m starving.”

“No.” Jen stepped back from him and scanned the length of the tiny beach. “Where did it come from?”

Matt shrugged. “I don’t know what-” And that was when he heard it. The long, low growl echoed across the empty beach. “Christ,” he hissed. “What was that?”

“It came from over there,” Jen said, “by the cliffs.”

Matt took her hand. “It’s probably just a stray dog,” he said.

Jen looked left and right. If it was a dog, then there was certainly no sign of its owner. So it could be a stray. Unless... “Maybe it’s just got lost,” she said. “Or maybe it fell down the cliff. It could be hurt.”

“Or it could be just a mangy old mutt,” Matt said. “We should steer well clear.”

Jen shook her hand free from Matt’s. “No,” she said. “We should check it out.”

“I don’t know, Jen,” Matt said. “I don’t like the sound of it. Maybe we should go back to the cottage.”

Jen folded her arms and stared at him. “We’ve got to have a look. It’s the least we can do.”

Matt pursed his lips. This was a bad idea. But Jen had always had a soft spot for dogs. If he let her down now, she’d never forgive him. “All right,” he said. “But we’d better be careful.”

“OK,” Jen said. “It must be over there somewhere.” She pointed to a rocky outcrop at the base of the cliff.

Matt nodded. He squared his shoulders and walked toward the rocks. Jen followed.

Matt moved slowly, scanning the shadows, expecting at any moment to see a snarling Rottweiler leaping toward him. But there was nothing. He climbed up onto the slippery boulders and suddenly the growling grew louder. Matt froze. There, on the other side of the rocks, a dark shape lay on the sand near the cliff. Hell’s teeth, Matt thought, it’s enormous. The shape shifted and stirred. It raised its head. Yes, it was definitely a dog. Matt tensed, ready to run. But the dog didn’t get to its feet. It whined and let its head fall back onto the sand.

Matt looked back to Jen. “You were right,” he said. “A dog. I think it’s injured. We should call someone.”

Jen nodded and rummaged in her bag for her phone. “Damn,” she muttered. “No signal.”

Matt tutted and took his phone from his pocket. “No, me neither.” He looked at Jen. “We’ll have to go back to town. We’ll call someone from there.”

Jen climbed up onto the rock and stood next to him. She held onto his arm to keep her balance. The dog whined - a long mournful cry of pain. “Poor thing,” Jen said. “It sounds awful.”

“I know,” Matt said, “but what can we do about it?”

Jen looked out toward the sea. “We can’t leave it here.”

“What?”

She looked at Matt. “The tide’s coming in. If we leave it here, it’ll die.”

“What else can we do?”

“Let’s go and have a proper look.”

Matt opened his mouth to complain, but Jen didn’t give him a chance. “Listen, maybe we can get it on its feet or something.”

“Bloody hell,” Matt muttered. But he climbed down from the rocks and gave Jen a hand. Together, they walked slowly forward until they were standing over the dog. The creature didn’t even raise its head. It just lay still and let out a pathetic high-pitched whine.

Matt put his arm around Jen’s shoulders. “There’s nothing we can do.”

But Jen shrugged him off and knelt at the dog’s side. “It’s all right,” she murmured, “you’re all right.” She put her hand on its heaving chest and stroked its matted fur.

Matt took a breath. “I think... I think we’re too late.”

“No,” Jen said. “It’s not that bad.” She looked up at Matt. “We’ll have to take it into town.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No, Matt. I’m serious. If we leave it here, it’ll die.”

Matt ran a hand across his eyes. “Jen,” he said, “it’s bloody huge. I can’t carry it up there. It was hard enough getting down.”

Jen stood up. She bit her bottom lip, put her hands on her hips. “Then we’ll have to find another way. We’ll have to carry it between us. I’m not leaving it here. I’m just not.”

Matt snorted in frustration. But there was no point arguing. He knew that tone of voice. Jen would not give in. “All right,” he said and unfastened his coat. He slipped it from his shoulders and held it out to Jen. “Here. See if we can get this underneath, like a stretcher.”

Jen took the coat and bent over the dog. She arranged the coat alongside the dog then slid her hand beneath it shoulders. Matt put his hands under the dog’s back, then together, they slid the dog onto the coat. It was easier than Matt had expected. The poor creature was little more than skin and bone.

“You take the back end,” Matt said. They gathered the edges of the coat together above the dog and between them, they lifted their makeshift stretcher and set off across the beach, their feet sinking awkwardly into the damp sand. The dog grumbled a little, but it seemed content to lie still.

Matt looked at Jen. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll find a way up. We’ll manage. We’ll be fine.”

***

Johnny had been cold at first. But not now.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been waiting for her to come back from the beach. He’d paced up and down the street, at least twenty times, scanning the steep slope below, checking for any paths that might let her slip past him. And all the while, the chill early evening air had plucked at his cheeks. But now she was back where he could see her, and all his worries were forgotten. Now, a savage warmth ran through his veins.

“Welcome back, my sweet,” he whispered, and took a step sideways so he’d be hidden from view by a bus shelter.

The boyfriend was still there though he wouldn’t be much of a problem. But there was something strange going on. Something unexpected. They’d brought something back from the beach, carrying it between them, and whatever it was they were struggling with it. It was large and hard to handle. Some piece of flotsam? Something valuable perhaps? It did happen on this beach from time to time. But then, you never knew what people would value. It could just as easily be some piece of driftwood they’d thought would look nice in their living room.

It didn’t matter. In fact, it would work in his favor. He hadn’t quite decided when to make his move, but now they’d made themselves so easy to follow, he could afford to take his time.

The girl staggered and the couple paused; talking or maybe arguing.

“Come on,” Johnny murmured. “Get a move on.” He ran his hand across his mouth. It was time to find out where she lived.

***

“Wait a sec,” Jen said. “I need to get my breath back.”

“OK.” Matt looked up and down the deserted street and chewed the inside of his cheek. It had taken them a lot longer than he’d hoped to find a decent path back up the steep slope. And even then, it had been difficult to climb with the dead weight of the dog dangling and swaying between them. And the last few yards had been made harder by the failing light. Now, it was almost dark. And something about the street, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, made his skin crawl.

“Listen,” Matt said, “we can’t just stand here.”

Jen exhaled. “Well, what shall we do then? It’s too late to call anyone isn’t it?”

Matt shook his head. “It’s not too late. There’s bound to be someone - a vet or a dog warden or something. But I want to get moving.”

“Shouldn’t we call from here - wait for someone to arrive?”

“No,” Matt said. “It could take ages for someone to turn up. I’m not going to just hang around here. It’s getting dark and anyway, I’m freezing.”

“So what are we going to do? Go back to the cottage?”

Matt nodded. “We’ll have to. We’ll call from there. At least, we can wait in the warm.”

“OK,” Jen said. “Let’s go for it.”

THE CRESCENT, WHITBY

Johnny pressed himself back against the high stone wall. They wouldn’t see him from this distance. They wouldn’t even look back. They were too busy fumbling with their keys and maneuvering their heavy bundle in through the door.

Johnny smiled. A nice little house, he thought, and quiet neighborhood too. It was very promising. He waited until they’d shut the door behind them, then he pushed himself away from the wall and sauntered past the holiday cottage. The front door wasn’t ideal. It was overlooked by neighboring houses. But a lot of these little places had a back garden or a backyard. It was worth a look.

He checked the street was clear then strolled to the corner and turned left. There. The entrance to a narrow alley. No doubt it ran along the backs of the houses. And the best thing about it–there wasn’t a street light in sight.

***

As he led the way into the cottage, Matt fumbled for the switch and turned the light on.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll put the dog in the kitchen.”

“All right,” Jen said, “whatever you think.” It wasn’t like her to blindly follow Matt’s lead, but now that they had made it back to the cottage, her tiredness and hunger had suddenly caught up with her. It seemed selfish, but all she wanted to do was sit down with a hot drink. No, she thought. We must sort the dog out first, then we can relax a bit.

The cottage’s hallway was narrow and cluttered with antique furniture. The old-fashioned hat rack, the hall table, and the umbrella stand had seemed quaint at first, but now they were just in the way.

“Careful,” Matt said.

“I know,” Jen snapped. “Just look where you’re going.”

Matt stumbled on the threshold as he crossed into the kitchen, and cursed under his breath. Still, at least, the kitchen was a decent size. They shuffled across the tiled floor and gently lowered the dog to the floor near the heater.

The dog whimpered and rolled its eyes, then laid flat; still and listless on the cold floor.

Matt and Jen stood side by side and looked down at the helpless creature.

“I’ll go and figure out who to call,” Matt said.

Jen smiled gratefully. “Thanks. I’ll go and get some towels, give it a rub down.”

Matt patted her on the arm and headed for the stairs. The bedroom was the only place he could be sure of getting a phone signal.

Jen went to the bathroom and fetched their towels. It was a shame to make a mess of them, but there was nothing else to use. She knelt down by the dog and rubbed a towel gently down the length of its body. Its damp coat was matted and ingrained with sand, and as she smoothed the tangled fur down, the dog’s muscles twitched as though she’d knocked a sore spot. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. But you’re all right now. We’ll look after you.” The dog wagged its tail, just twice, as if it had understood; a feeble gesture of friendliness. After everything that had been done to it, this dog simply wanted to be accepted, to be a good companion. Jen choked back a sob and a flash of anger surged through her. How could someone treat an animal like this? How could they? She could see its ribs for god’s sake.

Jen sniffed and tilted her head back, blinking back her tears. And when she looked back down, the dog had raised its head and was watching her. The dog’s deep brown eyes locked onto hers and it raised and lowered its eyebrows as if to ask her what was wrong. Jen couldn’t help but smile. “It’s all right,” she said, “I’m all right.” She put her hand out to stroke the top of the dog’s head, but at the last minute, the dog turned its head and licked her hand. The dog’s tongue was warm and soft, and Jen let it lick her fingers. It seemed strange that such a big dog could be so gentle, so tender. It was as if it understood that she needed some comfort.

“You’re just an old softie, aren’t you?” Jen said, and she took her hand away and stroked the dog’s ear. The dog lay back and closed its eyes, rolling over a little to show its stomach, displaying the pale skin beneath its fur. Jen rubbed the towel gently along the dog’s belly and it let out a contented sigh.

“Everything all right?”

Jen turned with a start. She hadn’t heard Matt come in the room. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve got it pretty dry. It seems... like it’ll be OK.”

Matt peered over her shoulder. “I don’t know,” he said. “It looks in a bad way to me.”

Jen pursed her lips. Why did Matt always have to pour cold water over everything? She sighed. “Did you manage to call someone?”

“Eventually,” Matt said, “but...”

“But what?”

“No one answered,” he said. “I kept getting put through to voicemail.”

Jen stared at Matt. “Is the vet coming or not?” she said. “Because if this is about the cost-”

Matt held out his hands. “Look, I left a message. I told them to call me back. What else could I do?”

Jen turned back to look at the dog. She stroked the top of its head, where its fur was softest. Assuming Matt was telling the truth, it could be ages before anyone called back and even longer for them to turn up. What should they do to keep the dog alive? Without looking up, she said, “We need to give it some water. Can you find a bowl or something?”

“Sure.” Matt rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, clanging the pots and pans together. “This will do,” he said.

Jen didn’t watch as Matt busied himself at the sink. She was intent on stroking the dog’s head, watching its muscles relax. It looked so peaceful. And as she ran her hands over its fur, its coat seemed to grow softer, smoother. The dog looked sleeker, almost as if it was healing and growing stronger right before her eyes.

“There you go,” Matt said and laid an earthenware pie dish on the floor by the dog’s muzzle.

Jen looked up at him. “Thanks,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s all right,” Matt said. “You’re tired that’s all. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah.” Jen lowered her gaze for a moment then she bit her bottom lip and looked up. “Do you think...” she started, “I mean, shouldn’t we give it some food or something?”

Matt pursed his lips. “I suppose so. But we haven’t really got anything. We were going to eat out tonight.”

Jen nodded. “I know. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind popping out to buy some.”

Matt sighed. “Really? Won’t everywhere be closed?”

“There’ll be somewhere open - a corner shop or a filling station or something.”

Matt frowned and folded his arms, but he didn’t say a word.

“And you could pick up something for us to eat as well,” Jen went on. “There’s bound to be a takeaway place open.”

“All right,” Matt said. “I’ll go and see what I can find.”

Jen gave him a warm smile.

“I’d better go and put some warm clothes on,” Matt said. “I can’t wear my coat, that’s for sure. I don’t think it’ll ever be the same.” He turned and left the room. Jen listened to him stomping up the stairs and then looked back down at the dog.

“Oh!” The dog had rolled back onto its front and opened its eyes. And it was watching her. Watching her intently, as though it had understood every word she’d said. Jen smiled. “Did you hear me say, F, O, O, D?” she said. “I bet you know that word don’t you?” She pushed the dish of water closer to the dog. “Go on,” she said, “have a nice drink. We’ll find you something to eat soon. You won’t have to wait long.”

And the dog lowered its head and lapped at the water. But it never once took its eyes from Jen’s face.

***

As Johnny opened the rickety wooden gate, he lifted it a little so the hinges wouldn’t make a sound. He slipped through and closed the gate behind him. The cottage’s back garden was ideal. There was no sign of a security light and the high fence concealed the garden from the prying eyes of nosey neighbors. The tiny lawn was bordered on one side by a row of tall shrubs, and though they’d shed their leaves for the coming winter, their branches were dense enough to provide a web of deep shadows.

Johnny stalked toward the house. He needed a hiding place that offered an uninterrupted view of the windows while shielding him if the couple decided to look outside. I’m spoilt for choice, Johnny thought. He waited for a moment, savoring the anticipation, then caught a glimpse of movement at one of the downstairs windows. Showtime, Johnny thought and sidled in among the bushes.

He didn’t have long to wait before the performance began.

At first, he could only see the man. Johnny chuckled to himself. The man did not look happy. It was comical the way that he bowed his head and shrugged his shoulders. You’re whipped, mate, Johnny thought. You’ve got to show her who’s in charge. And then he realized something: the man wasn’t bowing his head so much as looking down to talk to someone below him. Was his girlfriend crouching on the floor? Why? Johnny’s mind reeled. “You’d better not have hurt her,” he hissed under his breath. “You’d better not have laid a finger on her.” He clenched his fists tight, driving his nails into the palms of his hands.

And then the man was gone and an upstairs light came on. Johnny waited, hardly daring to draw breath, his eyes darting between the upstairs and downstairs windows. What the hell was going on?

The upstairs window went dark again and the man appeared downstairs. He walked backward and forward then bent down for a moment. What was it that occupied him down on the floor? Johnny shook his head. Perhaps it was something simple; a dropped glass that needed sweeping up. But when the man stood up, he looked defeated. His shoulders slumped and he folded his arms. And then he pulled a face, an exaggerated expression of dismay. A moment later, he flounced out of view, and this time, no upstairs lights came on. Instead, echoing in the still night air, came the distant thud of a slammed door.

Johnny waited. And waited. There was no sign of movement. He licked his lips. Could it be true? Could it be possible that the man had gone out? He had to know, had to find out. This could be his only chance.

He crept forward, staying close to the row of shrubs, clinging to their shadows.

And suddenly she was there. She stood at the window, gazing out into the darkness. She can see me, Johnny thought. She’s looking right at me. And it was true. She was staring at him, looking into his eyes. A pulse of pure adrenaline surged through Johnny, tearing through his veins like ice water. His heart raced, his lips opened. And then it happened.

Without taking her eyes from him, the girl - his girl - nodded. An invitation. She turned away from the window and walked away.

“Oh my god,” Johnny whispered. This was the best day of his life. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and checked that his special tool was there. Yes. The smooth metal was cold and familiar against his fingertips. He was ready.

He took a deep breath and walked toward the house.

***

Jen gave the dog one last stroke along its ears and then stood up. She’d been kneeling on the floor too long and her knees tingled with pins and needles. She sighed. She felt like an absolute mess. She looked at her reflection in the kitchen window, staring at the state of her bedraggled hair. The sea breeze had done its worst. She felt as though her scalp was encrusted with salt. But she was too tired, too weak and hungry to do anything about it.

Her eyes flicked to the dark garden beyond her reflection. Had she seen something? A hint of movement? No. It was pitch black out there. She couldn’t see a thing. Perhaps a black cat had slunk through the shadows.

She took a breath and stared once again at her reflection. What she needed was a nice hot shower. The cottage’s bathroom was a haven of modernity: all glistening chrome and sparkling tiles. And the power shower was fantastic.

Yes, she thought, the dog will be all right for a few minutes. She nodded to her reflection, then turned away from the window and headed for the stairs.

***

Matt pushed his hands deep into his pockets and headed out along the empty street. The icy breeze cut through his clothes and pricked his skin. What a waste of time, just for a bloody dog, he thought. But he trudged on. Jen was right. They did need something to eat themselves. Perhaps a hot meal would do them a world of good. And it wasn’t an overly long walk into town.

The cold wind was making his eyes water. He blinked and peered toward the distant lights of the main street. It looked as though quite a few shop windows were still lit. That was promising.

He walked a little faster. The exercise would keep him warm. I won’t be long, he thought, and then I’ll be back in the warm.

But the first few shops that he passed were of no use to him. They sold trinkets to tourists, and even these establishments were closing up for the night. Outside a Gothic themed clothes shop, a young woman in a parka was pulling down the metal shutter.

“Excuse me,” Matt said.

The woman did not turn around. “We’re closed, love.”

Matt shuffled his feet. “Yes, I was just wondering if there’s a supermarket open.”

The woman glanced over her shoulder and looked him up and down, then carried on with her work, fastening the shutter with a huge padlock. When she was satisfied, she turned around and pointed down the street. “Go straight down there, then turn left at the traffic lights,” she said. “Go along the road for half a mile. You’ll see it on your right.”

Matt’s face fell. Half a mile? But he didn’t forget his manners. “Thanks,” he said.

“You know what,” the woman said, “you ought to have a coat on.”

Matt nodded and did his best to smile. “Yeah, I know. Thanks again.” He turned and walked away. And at that moment, it began to rain; a fine drizzle that quickly soaked him to the skin. He shook his head. This, he thought, is the worst day of my life.

***

Johnny studied the door that led out onto the tiny lawn. The door was old-fashioned; small panes of glass surrounded by a flimsy wooden frame and secured with a simple latch. And of course, it was locked. That was all part of the game. She’d let him know that she wanted him, but he had to fight for her. That was his role. Hers was to put up a show of resistance.

Johnny pulled his knife from his pocket and flipped the blade open. The knife was solid; a relic from World War II. Its handle was metal and its blade was thick and strong. He pressed the blade against the edge of the door and smiled as its sharp edge sank into the soft wood. When he felt the resistance of the latch, he lifted the blade and pressed harder. There. For a moment, the blade grated against the lock’s metal tongue, but then, suddenly, the old latch gave way and the door juddered open.

Johnny grinned and closed his knife before pocketing it. He wouldn’t need it. Not tonight.

He opened the door and stepped inside, scanning the living room for any sign of danger. “Very nice,” he murmured. “Very cozy.” But he didn’t have time to hang around. He let himself out into the hallway. From upstairs he heard the sound of running water, the faint, lilting tones of his girl singing to herself. She was getting ready for him.

Johnny took a breath. This was so good, so perfect. It was all he could do to stop himself giggling like a teenager. Our first time, he thought. Yes. And it would be her last.

He unzipped his jacket pocket and took out his special tool, slipping the smooth metal band over his fingers. He’d made it himself and the metal band fitted perfectly across his hand. He flexed his fingers, checking that the twin points protruded correctly from his palm. He’d fashioned them from the largest bore hypodermic needles he could find, cutting them down and clamping them onto the metal band. He’d cleaned and sharpened them just last night and he knew they were ready. All he had to do was press his hand hard against her neck and the needles would puncture her skin, releasing the warm torrent of her glorious blood. He could almost feel it gushing onto his skin, flowing over his fingers.

Johnny bared his teeth and sucked in a breath. Everything was as it should be. Everything was perfect. He squared his shoulders and walked toward the bottom of the stairs. Like the hallway, the stairs were carpeted. She wouldn’t hear his heavy boots as he came to claim his prize. Good. It would be such a shame to spoil the surprise.

He placed his foot on the bottom step and began to climb the stairs. But then he heard something that rooted him to the spot.

The growl was like nothing Johnny had ever heard; low and deep, a sound dredged up from the depths of hell. The hairs stood on end on the back of Johnny’s neck, and he turned, as slowly as he could, keeping his hand on the stair rail to steady himself.

The dog stood in the hallway, its eyes narrowed, its lips twitching, and a growl rumbling in its throat. Christ! Johnny thought. It’s huge. And it was unexpected - a wrinkle in his plans. Where the hell had it come from? They hadn’t had it with them earlier. But whatever the explanation, the damn dog was here now, and it would have to be dealt with. Johnny held his ground. It might be big, he thought. But it’s still a pet - just a friendly pet.

“It’s all right,” Johnny said, keeping his voice calm and level. “Nothing to worry about.”

The dog pricked its ears up and tilted its head to one side. Its growl faded to a quiet grumble.

Johnny nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “Go back to your bed.”

The dog raised its nose and sniffed the air as though trying to decide if it knew him.

I’ll have to shut it in one of the rooms, Johnny thought. Keep it out of the way. He stepped down into the hallway and the dog backed away. “That’s right,” Johnny cooed. “You’re scared of me aren’t you? You stupid mutt.”

The dog shuffled further back. It bent its legs and lowered its body. But it didn’t take its eyes off this strange man. It didn’t even blink.

Johnny grinned and took another step toward the dog. “Go on,” he said, “go to your bed. Don’t be a bad dog.”

The dog froze, its body tense, rigid.

For god’s sake, Johnny thought. He raised his fist and advanced on the dog. “Just get out the way,” he hissed, “before I teach you a lesson you won’t forget.”

And the dog struck. It had drawn every muscle tight, wound every sinew, and now it unleashed their lethal energy, hurling itself through the air; a furious eruption of cold vengeance and ancient anger. Its huge paws slammed into Johnny’s chest, knocking him to the ground. Johnny fell heavily, crashing onto the floor, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. His head clipped the corner of the oak hall table and he cried out in pain. But not for long.

The dog fastened its jaws on his throat, tearing into his flesh, crushing his windpipe. Johnny gasped for air, but none would come. The blood gurgled and bubbled in the back of his throat. He flailed his arms against the dog’s massive flanks, the needles on his palm sinking into the creature’s hide, but they had no effect. The dog hung on for grim death, closing its jaws tighter, squeezing the life from its prey.

Johnny’s muscles twitched, convulsing his body, shaking him apart. And while his vision faded to gray, a burst of white-hot pain exploded into his mind. It scalded his soul, ripping through his body, searing into every cell.

The dog watched its prey shudder and shake. It won’t be long now, it thought. And sure enough, within moments the strange man’s body went limp and flopped against the floor.

The dog relaxed its grip and let go of the man’s neck, listening carefully as the gentle rasp of breath returned to the stranger’s throat. Good. He wasn’t dead. That would’ve spoiled everything.

The dog changed its position to study the man’s neck. Among the mass of ruined flesh, the damaged jugular vein pulsed and dribbled blood. The dog bared its teeth. It would have to do better than that. It lowered its head and gently pressed its fangs against the man’s skin. There. A small bite and the vein was fully ruptured, the blood gushing out in a delicious stream.

The dog drank, gulping at the rich blood, almost choking in its haste to swallow it down.

And when there was no more to drink, the dog licked its lips and laid down on its front, nestling against the empty husk of the man’s body. It gave a satisfied grunt, rested its head on its paws and closed its eyes.

A pulse of warm energy was already beating within the dog’s heart. Soon, its full strength would return, and then it would change, take on its true form.

The dog sighed. The transformation would be painful, but it would be worth it to walk once more among the world of mortal men. It closed its eyes and made itself ready. And from upstairs, came the soft sounds of the woman singing.

LIKED IT? TRY THIS:

Once in A Blood Moon

England. A quiet stretch of wild countryside. An isolated farmhouse. And an American visitor taking a break from it all. It sounds idyllic, doesn't it? But on this night, the full moon looms especially large in the sky - a supermoon. And this event just happens to coincide with a lunar eclipse, tinging the moon with red. But it's probably safe to be outside at night. After all, some things only happen once in a blood moon.

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ALSO BY MICHAEL CAMPLING

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The Downlode Trust Series:

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CHEATC0DE - The Downlode Trust Book I

The Trust - The Downlode Trust Book II

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Breaking Ground - A Darkeningstone Prequel

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Outcast—The Darkeningstone Book II

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The Short Horror Collection

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I know it’s traditional to write these things in the third person, but tradition can be a crutch, so here I am, writing to you, making it up as I go along, which is not just my job, but also the way I live my life! I confess, I’ve never been much of a planner, as you’ll see from this potted summary of my chequered career.

I have been a computer programmer, a website builder, a full-time dad, and a primary school teacher, and those last two roles are the ones that fill me with the greatest pride. Bringing up our two children was the most wonderful, fulfilling, challenging, and exhausting thing I’ve ever done. Our son and daughter are both adults now and away at university, but as all parents know, the job never ends (and we wouldn’t have it any other way).

After parenthood, teaching came a close second in the fulfillment stakes. As a lifelong bibliophile, my particular interest was in encouraging children to love books, especially through reading stories aloud. I have no training in drama, but I poured as much emotion into those readings as I could, including funny voices, accents, and even rude noises. The children always seemed to enjoy my readings, and my proudest moment was when the parents of a boy with a learning difficulty told me that their son had finally switched on to stories and was begging for books at home for the first time in his young life.

Today, I write stories with the same kind of commitment that I gave to those youngsters. My books are my babies, and I love them to pieces even when they’re being awkward and refusing to go along with my preconceived ideas. I work hard to build characters that readers can believe in, and to craft plots that people can sink their teeth into. My style is vivid but never flowery; every word has to pack a punch or out it goes. My stories tend to be complex and often contain more than one point of view. I also hope that they are thought-provoking, atmospheric and grounded in real life.

I’ve always read widely, and my work spans many genres, but all my books have one thing in common: respect for the reader. My approach is summed up by the idea that amateurs strive until they get it right; professionals strive until they can’t get it wrong.

I’m known to friends as Mikey, so if you’ve read this far, go ahead and drop the formality. My books are listed on michaelcampling.com, but my blog (and scintillating newsletter) are run from mikeycampling.com where you can sign up for my readers’ group, which is called The Awkward Squad, and I’ll send you free books and stories, plus a newsletter that’s actually worth reading. Here’s the only link you’ll need:

mikeycampling.com/freebooks

COPYRIGHT

© 2016 Michael Campling All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the copyright holder, except as permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.