Werewolf by Moonlight
Author: Guy N. Smith
Date: 2010-07-01 21:37:12+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Horror
Description: A Welsh hill farmer imports an expensive dog from the Black Forest of Germany. When this bites his son he promptly becomes a werewolf whenever there is a full moon. Sheep start getting mauled and part-eaten, then people, and ...
Publisher: Black Hill Books

Werewolf by Moonlight - Kindle Version 1.0

(c) Guy N Smith 1974 - 2010

Published by Black Hill Books, July 2010

ISBN : 978-1-907846-00-7

First Published by New English Library (NEL) September 1974.

Converted to Ebook from original paperback by Scan2Ebook.com

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Contents

Title

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

The End

Chapter 1

THE jay screeched its harsh warning from the midst of the deep conifer thickets. The late October sunshine filtering down through the branches reflected the richness of this bird's splendid plumage, as it flitted away in retreat, never ceasing to inform its feathered colleagues that Man was afoot. It delighted in mocking him, tantalising him, perhaps allowing him the briefest glimpse of its fine feathers before finally disappearing into the deep, dark, silent woods.

The mallard on the pool had heard the jay's announcement of an intruder in their domain. Their feeding chuckle automatically changed into guttural alarmed quacking as they paddled into the safety of the surrounding reeds. They had long since learnt to be sceptical about the noisy jay. Usually it was a flockmaster searching the coverts for a sheep which had broken through the rotted fencing of the adjoining fields or a party of hikers who would pass by, harming none. These five wild ducks were reluctant to interrupt their feed on the strength of a false alarm. So, infiltrating into the thick reed beds, they floated silently, every sense fully alert.

Suddenly a massive yellow Labrador dog appeared on the far bank, his nose twitching at their scent. He'd got theirs, but they hadn't got his. Obviously he had approached the pool up-wind. The ducks decided that departure was probably the best policy after all.

The silence was broken by loud quacking and the splashing of five pairs of wings as the mallard suddenly erupted into flight, airborne in unison, and fighting to gain height to clear the tops of the surrounding trees.

The two shots sounded almost as one, the deep reports of the 12-bore shotgun deafening in that small clearing, and then echoing and re-echoing across the range of hills beyond. The leading drake never heard the sound of the shot, for he had folded up, and was plummeting downwards, to land with a splash, stone dead, in the brackish water, before the noise had had time to reach him. The second duck, a female, followed in his wake, a wing broken, which would not allow her to swim and elude the dog which was already after her.

The other mallard, however, had already attained the necessary height, and were soon lost to sight as they winged their way back towards the distant reservoir whence they had come.

The man stepped into the clearing, twin spirals of smoke lazily wafting from the twin muzzles of his gun. There was a smile of satisfaction on his handsome, black bearded face as he took the wounded duck from the dog, despatched it with a single jerk of its neck, and dropped it into the bag on his back, whilst the dog plunged back into the pool to retrieve the drake.

There was something ruthless about the man, evident in the efficiency and precision of each movement. The camouflaged combat-jacket, with wide-brimmed hat to match, blended him perfectly into the background. His cavalry-twill trousers were tucked neatly into the olive green shooting boots, and the well filled cartridge belt around his waist left nobody he chanced to meet in these woodlands in any doubt regarding the reason for his presence there.

This was Gordon Hall, the shooting-tenant of this 600-acres of wooded hillside, known as the Black Hill, situated in the heart of the Shropshire/Welsh border hills, an area steeped in legend and mystery, and stained with the blood of the English-Welsh wars. This, too, was the roaming ground of the legendary Black Dogs, the canine harbingers of doom. According to the Chronicles of the Middle Ages, they brought death to all who saw them.

Gordon Hall was as tough as they come, ruthless, a hunter by nature, both of game and women, the only two quarries worth pursuing, he frequently told his associates. His occupation as a freelance journalist gave him ample opportunity to pursue his two hobbies, being able to work flexible hours to suit his own needs. Although he lived some seventy miles away in the heart of the industrial Midlands, he made the journey regularly to this desolate rural area where he enjoyed solitude with his gun under his arm in search of rabbits and pheasants, an antidote to long hours of work or long nights of womanising. Since his wife had left him some three years ago he had developed a liking for this type of life, the privacy of a small flat in the city and the freedom to roam where he chose. Nevertheless, his bitterness towards life in general was reflected in his features; his pale blue eyes, and the arrogance with which he strutted through his domain, brooking no interference, and prepared to trample any who tried to stand in his way.

The sun was sinking behind the distant mountain range, a glowing red ball in a clear sky which heralded an autumn frost, when Hall paused at the summit of a hillock in order to survey the scene below him. Remus, his dog, rubbed up against his leg content in the solitude of his master's existence.

The journalist's gaze rested on the small, neat hill farm, nestling in the valley below him, the spiral of smoke from the single chimney drifting vertically into the evening sky. He had half a mind to descend the heather-covered slope and knock on the door of the snug, white-washed cottage. Then, he changed his mind. He could just see the rear end of the mini pick-up protruding from behind the barn. Vic Gunn was returned from the top fields, and Hall's call would be futile. In his mind he pictured the fair-haired Margaret Gunn, twenty years younger than her easy-going, slow moving, slow-thinking, good-natured husband. Her blue eyes seemed to ask Hall to do things which she was frightened to voice. Her trim, petite figure, usually clad in polo-necked sweater and jeans, seemed to demand something more than a middle-aged sheep farmer, tired after a day of heavy work, to share her bed. The challenge was there. The hunter had noticed the spoor, and now all he wanted was the opportunity to follow it, to close in on his prey. He felt a stirring in his loins, but he forced himself to look away, to think of other things. His opportunity would come.

His gaze shifted on to the next farm, a much more ramshackle place than Gunn's, yet evidence again of the hardworking qualities of these hill people who lived with the wind in their teeth. This was Gwynne Owen's place, the wizened seemingly ageless man who had been born and bred on that same ninety acres. He and his wife Blodwyn were happy with their lot, as was their son, Philip. Philip, somehow, had never attended school. The War had been mainly responsible for this omission, when his boyhood days had been spent laying the foundations of a stockman's career for himself. He could neither read nor write, but that was hardly likely to affect his skills on the sheepfields, so nobody bothered much, least of all Philip. He was about 30 years of age, stocky, his complexion tanned to a deep mahogany by the elements, and he always smiled, no matter what, even in the face of catastrophe. A loner, like Hall, but of far inferior intelligence, he was happy to spend his days with the sheep, nights as well during the lambing season. Night and day, he was always smiling.

Gordon Hall decided to call on the Owens. He knew he was always welcome there. It was a temptation to any man who lived on his own; food, warmth, and comfort before the long drive back. It would save him having to prepare something to eat when he got back to the city. He shrugged. He'd much have preferred the warmth of Margaret Gunn's body to that of the Owen's fireside, but the former would be his, eventually. Of that he had no doubt.

The lights were on in the store barn as Gordon Hall and Remus squelched their way through the yard, inches deep in mud and cattle manure from Owen's six cow dairy stock. He decided he'd look in the barn first.

A strange sight greeted his eyes as he pulled the sliding door open wide enough for himself and Remus to squeeze through. The six Friesians masticated steadily in their stalls, eyeing the dog with some disdain, while at the far end, Gwynne Owen and Philip were standing with their backs to him, looking at something in the hay filled corner.

"Im's a good 'un," Philip was saying, "too much money though, fer shipdog. Quarter the price'd've bought 'un at the Arms market."

"Mebbe," his father replied, "but we've got more sheep now, Philip, and with lambing coming on afore Christmas, I've either got to buy a real good ‘un, who'll do the work of a man, almost, or else taken on another hand. And I know which'll be cheaper."

"All the same," Philip pushed his tattered cap on to the back of his head, and scratched his long, greasy hair, "it's a lotta money."

"New dog?" Gordon Hall left Remus sitting by his propped-up gun just inside the doorway, and advanced on the two farmers. Philip's permanent grin was joined by Gwynne's toothless, wry smile.

"Aye," the older man replied, "and all t' way from Germany. Black Forest. Two hundred quid, plus import charges and quarantine fees. Be worth it in the long run, though."

"How'd you get to hear of this one?" Gordon Hall was intrigued.

"One of the nephews went over there on holiday," Gwynne's tone denoted an amazement that anybody should actually want to go so far afield. "He met up with this shepherd feller who owned the dog. It's name's Loup. Funny name. Sounds really loopy to me," he croaked with laughter at his own joke. "This German chap reckoned it'd fought and chased off a wolf which'd attacked his sheep. Seems to ring true, looking at that scar on its shoulder. Just look at it!"

Hall looked closely at the dog for the first time. It didn't look like any sheepdog he'd ever seen before. Maybe it was a cross between a collie and an Alsatian. It looked as though it could be fierce, although it appeared docile at that moment, lying on the stone floor, its head on its paws, never taking its large dark eyes off the three of them. Across its right shoulder blade ran a wicked ten-inch scar, zig-zagging as though massive teeth had closed over the flesh, not content just with biting, but determined to tear the skin away in mouthfuls. The animal's jet-black coat added to its sinister appearance.

Suddenly, Remus whined, and Gordon Hall whirled round to witness his Labrador, tail between its legs, cringing in the furthermost corner, as though trying to put as much distance between itself and Loup as possible.

"Stupid bastard!" The journalist despised fear in any form whatsoever, and he was angry that his own dog was displaying it in front of these peasant farmers. "What the hell's the matter with you?"

He strode across, and grabbed Remus by the scruff of his neck, forcibly dragging him towards the German sheep dog.

"He's even tied up" he snarled, his complexion reddening beneath his beard. Remus struggled and fought to escape but his master was too strong for him. Seconds later, the two dogs were inches apart. Loup regarded the other with what could only be termed as scorn, not moving an inch, his gaze unflinching, and then, as a final insult, he closed his eyes, as if to sleep.

With an oath Gordon Hall flung Remus roughly from him. The gundog lost his balance, rolled over, and then, with a yelp, he ran back to the corner where he had skulked previously.

"Bloody coward!" Hall spat, his pride hurt.

"Mebbe he just don't like foreigners," Gwynne Owen guffawed, but the other was in no mood for humour. Indeed, his composure did not return until they were seated round the blazing log fire, sipping mugs of tea.

Later that evening after Hall's departure, the restless Philip, not sharing his parents' interest in the small television set, yet another acquisition from their much-travelled nephew, who never seemed short of ready cash, went on a tour of the farm buildings. Had it been later in the year, with lambing in full swing, no doubt he would have patrolled the sheepfields, his keen eyesight showing him the way whether the moon was full or not. Nevertheless, tonight, he did have a definite object in mind. He could not resist just one more look at Loup.

The sheepdog had moved out from its corner when Philip switched on the barn light. Apparently it preferred the cold stone floor to the warm hay. Philip decided that it was sorely in need of guidance. Obviously the dog wasn't used to civilisation!

The toe of his working boot prodded the slumbering Loup. The animal never even opened its eyes. He kicked it again, this time a little harder, and, unfortunately, right on that vicious scar, purported to have been made by a wolf's fangs. Then, it seemed as though his calf was seized in a snarling vice, a set of large canine teeth that held, but did not press home their advantage. He grunted in surprise, fell to the floor, and threw up his hands, expecting to have to ward off a vicious onslaught

Yet, when Philip looked up, Loup was lying in exactly the same place as before, stretched out, his eyes closed, almost as though he had never woken. The farmer's son shook his head in amazement. Had he dreamt it all? The pain in his leg told him that he hadn't. He rolled up his trouser leg. Imprinted on his hairy skin were the indentations of Loup's teeth. The blood was seeping slowly through one or two of the abrasions, but it could have been a lot worse. He knew full well that the animal could have crippled, even killed him, if he had wanted to. It was as though it had merely warned him that it was standing no nonsense from him or anybody else.

As Philip bathed and cleaned his wounds in the trough in the yard, he suddenly decided that he would not mention what had happened to either his father or his mother. After all, he had interfered with Loup's sleep, even if he hadn't kicked the sheepdog very hard. The animal was probably touchy after his long journey, and a spell in quarantine.

No, he would say nothing. The bleeding had stopped now, and although his leg was still painful, there appeared to be no permanent damage. He might limp for a day or two, but he could always blame some slight accident about the farm for that - so long as nobody saw his bare leg.

Any animosity which Philip might have felt towards the dog had disappeared by the time he crawled into bed, and put out the light. In fact, he felt as though he had engendered a sort of partnership with Loup, like the sharing of a common secret.

Chapter 2

IT was a week later, one afternoon when low cloud hung over the Black Hill, that Gordon Hall turned his car into Gunn's farmyard. He had noticed as he drove down the lanes that the pick-up wasn't visible by the barns. Vic must be out, he thought His own character would not allow him to drive past the farm and the challenge it offered. As he switched off the engine, his quick brain was already sizing up the situation. Firstly, he must find out where Vic had gone, and when he was expected back. The rest, he would play as it came.

Margaret emerged from the hen-house at that moment, a bucket of eggs in one hand, and an empty meal sack in the other.

"Why hallo, Mr. Hall", she began.

"Gordon please," the journalist offered that smile which he usually reserved for editors and seducible women and added, as a deliberate afterthought, "Margaret."

Margaret blushed slightly at this unexpected familiarity, and her woman's instinct told her to drop the empty sack on the ground, and attempt to brush back those wisps of hair which had fallen over her face. She felt a strange thrill course through her veins. She blushed again, and felt guilty.

"All right ... Gordon," there was a tremor in her voice. "Can I do anything for you?"

'You damn well can' Gordon Hall decided, but that would come later. Right now, he knew that he was winning this simple lovely girl's confidence by leaps and bounds.

"I asked Vic about some barley to throw in the woods for the pheasants" his voice was soft and cultured, and he had had enough experience of women over the past few years to know when he was on to a 'cert'. "I don't suppose he mentioned it to you?"

"He didn't" she was apologetic, half-embarrassed. "He's gone to the sale at The Arms, and I don't expect he'll be back for another two or three hours yet."

Gordon Hall felt his pulse rate quicken, but outwardly he remained calm and suave, the perfect gentleman.

"Too bad," he murmured, "I'll have to see him about it another time. Here, let me carry those eggs into the dairy for you."

"It's quite all right" but Margaret's feeble protests were swamped by the journalists' next move. She followed in his wake to the diary, where he lifted the bucket on to the stone thrawl, and turned on the tap in the large sink.

"We'd better wash these," he said, "I'll give you a hand. I've plenty of time. Without that barley, I'm short of a job today."

There could have been an embarrassed silence as they went about their work, but Gordon Hall was not one to be lost for words. His job saw to that.

"I'm divorced, you know," she dropped her eyes to avoid his as he launched into the story of his ex-wife's misdemeanours. "It gets pretty lonely at times. That's why I spend so much time here."

"You're always welcome to call, anytime," this time her voice did tremble a little; and he was beginning to move in for the kill.

"Well thanks," he replied. "I might do just that. D'you know," he put on his most boyish honest expression in an attempt to flatter rather than to appear to be taking the liberties, which he was, "I wish I'd met you ten years ago. I'd've been twenty three. That'd've been just right."

Margaret went a deep red. Her heart was beating rapidly. She had thought about this strange, handsome, lonely man often, as she went about her chores, and here he was, virtually telling her that if he had known her when they were both single, he would have married her! She must be dreaming. She must have sat down to rest in front of the kitchen fire, and dozed off. But she wasn't asleep! She could feel a strong manly arm about her waist, and that fine bearded face was now only inches from hers. She knew that nothing she could do, even if she had wanted to, would have made her fight against this situation. Even her initial sense of guilt was swamped in her desire for this man.

The first kiss was long and very passionate. She leaned back over the stone thrawl, her arms encircling his waist, and her mouth yielding to the tongue which forced its way between her lips.

"Don't you think it would be more comfortable in the house?" Gordon Hall murmured, nibbling the lobe of Margaret's ear. He knew that she would be unable to resist anything now.

"Vic'll be back in a couple of hours." It was a half-hearted excuse, offered merely as a sop to her own conscience.

"I'll be gone long before then," the hunter promised, "and nobody'll ever know I even called."

"Oh ... all right then," her voice quavered at the thought of what she knew she would do, what she wanted to do, in fact.

They walked back across the muddy yard towards the house, not noticing the squelching mud, but kicking their footwear off in the parlour before going into the oak-beamed living-room. It was warm in there, the welcoming fire with its aroma of wood smoke creating a background which was altogether unfamiliar to Gordon Hall on his previous conquests. Usually it was a sparsely furnished flat, with a single gas-fire, the only warmth being found between the sheets of the single bed and the naked female body which shared it with him.

Margaret Gunn just stood there, perplexed, embarrassed, gazing into the crackling fire, and fidgeting with her wedding ring, slipping it backwards and forwards on her finger, as though, somehow, this slim band of gold was urging her not to go through with it. However, Gordon Hall was not one to allow a woman time to think, to change her mind. His beard brushed against her tousled hair.

"Shall we go upstairs?" It was more of a demand than a question and without waiting for an answer, he slipped an arm around her waist, and led her towards the narrow staircase in the far corner of the room.

The bedroom was low-ceilinged, with a small latticed window, which, in clear weather, offered a marvellous view of the south side of the Black Hill. This afternoon, though, the hill mist was shrouding this border mountain, and thickening with every hour. The double bed was near the window, the only other item of furniture being a hideous Victorian wardrobe, and a chest of drawers which would have been more suitable out in one of the sheds.

Margaret found herself swept along on a tide of passion. There was nothing she could do about it except let herself drift.

Gordon Hall's deft fingers removed her sweater, unfastened her bra-strap, and then she was bare to the waist. She knew she was blushing, trembling, but the man who was so much in command did not appear to notice. She felt his fingers in the waistband of her jeans, and hoisted herself up on her elbows so that he could slide them off easily.

She had never lain naked before any other man than Vic. She had been a virgin until her wedding night, and now, suddenly, she regretted it all. Why, oh why, had she refused the men who had dated her before? She felt as though an electric current was surging through her veins, charging her fully for what lay ahead so that she might not disappoint her lover. She closed her eyes, and stretched herself, parting her thighs, showing this man all he wanted to see. Every inhibition she had ever had was gone now.

She looked at Gordon's body as he flung the last item of his clothing on to the chair by the bed. She was surprised at the physique of this city man. His broad chest was a matt of thick black hair, stretching up almost to join his beard. Funny, she'd never liked beards before. His muscles rippled with every movement, no matter how slight. She dropped her eyes even lower, and could not prevent the slight gasp of expectation escaping from her lips.

He stood there, savouring the situation, the hunter eyeing the hunted, almost gloatingly. Yet, somehow, he felt more deeply for this country girl. Maybe he was mellowing, getting soft. He lay on the bed beside her, kissing her, stroking her, and guiding her hands where he wanted them. Finally, he rolled on top of her, and he knew that she wanted it as much as he did.

It seemed an eternity before they finally disengaged their tangled bodies, and lay there, resting, thinking, about what had happened, and also what the future held.

"I've never been so happy in my life before," Margaret finally spoke, possibly having to bolster up an awful lot of courage in order to get the words out. Gordon Hall was silent. He usually was in these situations, reluctant to commit himself, perhaps, but knowing that he could return to this bed any time he wanted.

"Like I said before," he finally murmured. "I could have done with that ten years ago."

"Was it really that good?" there was surprise and hope in her voice.

"Not bad at all," was the reply, "better than I've known for many a while." He could almost feel her body glowing at these words.

Suddenly, however, a faint noise reached their ears. They held their breath, listening. It came again. The sound of heavy working boots squelching in the muddy yard, then being scraped on gravel.

"Vic!" Margaret leaped up, panicking. "My God! He's back sooner than we thought".

Gordon leaped out of bed after her, yet every move he made was speed without panic. He had been in such predicaments before, and, if the worst came to the worst, he knew he could usually talk his way out of it. Margaret however was trembling to such an extent that it was taking her twice as long to dress as it usually did.

"Calm down!" he snapped, "get your clothes on, and leave this to me!"

A woman discovered in her first act of adultery is not easy to calm. Yet, Gordon's words had a soothing effect on Margaret Gunn. She saw him as a conquering hero, a man capable of dealing with any situation, no matter what the opposition. She managed to finish dressing, and combed her long fair hair to some degree of respectability.

They crossed to the window, and peered out into the gloom and gathering dusk. Gordon's estate car was parked in the yard but there was no sign of the mini pick-up. Surely though, they would have heard the engine as it came down the narrow lane. As it was, the yard was completely deserted.

"That's damned queer !" Hall breathed. "Not a soul in sight, yet we definitely heard someone."

They stood listening, and Margaret felt that her thumping heartbeats would be audible up on the Black Hill itself.

"There's somebody in the dairy!" the journalist's hearing, sharper than most, had picked up a faint sound. "He's going through into the barn," he muttered, "he'll have to come out eventually, though."

They waited, and it seemed like an eternity. Then, finally, they heard the scraping sound of the sliding door of the grainstore being drawn back. A figure stepped out, but backwards, so that he would be able to close the door after him. They held their breath but he seemed to be having difficulty in operating the runners, tugging and straining, using brute force, rather than seeking to clear the obstruction.

"Well it certainly isn't Vic!" there was positive relief in Margaret's voice. "But, who on earth is it? And what's he doing here?"

The intruder turned round, and then they saw his face.

"Philip Owen!" hissed Gordon Hall.

They watched fascinated as he trudged through the mud, coming in the direction of the house.

"He's coming here!" breathed Margaret. "I've never known him even call here before, except with his father at shearing time!"

Philip Owen was standing on the steps leading up to the kitchen and then they heard his knock, heavy resonant thumps which would have awakened the heaviest of sleepers.

"What shall we do?" Margaret asked. "He'll have seen your car. He must know that we can't be far away!''

"We'll just keep quiet and hope he goes away," Gordon breathed. "So long as he doesn't decide to stick around until Vic gets back. If he hasn't gone in half an hour, then we'll have to think of something. If we go downstairs whilst he's at the door, even he'll put two-and-two together. The stairs are plainly visible through the glass in the door."

It seemed that Philip Owen would never go away, so persistent was his knocking. Once he wandered away, possibly to look in one of the outbuildings, and then, back he came again. Thump-thump-thump!

Dusk turned to darkness, and at last they heard the sound which they had waited for, the boots squelching through the mud, and out on to the hard slate of the narrow lane. Slowly his footsteps died away, and they knew that he would not be returning, just yet anyway.

"Phew!" Margaret breathed a sigh of relief as they descended into the kitchen. "That was too close for my liking!"

"Not to worry," Gordon Hall was his debonair old self once more. "It could've been worse. All the same, I'd love to know what he was after. He's a queer cuss at the best of times, even if he is harmless."

They both knew, however, that Philip Owen could only conclude the obvious. They hoped that he would 'forget' to tell his parents what he had seen.

Chapter 3

PHILIP Owen had a very shrewd idea of what had been going on at Gunn's farm. He grinned to himself in the darkness as he slouched his way home.

"Fancy them two havin' it orf together," he muttered. "I could've believed it of Hall, but not of her!"

Then he became angry, as he remembered his own mission to the farm. If it hadn't been for that bearded nuisance, he reflected, he'd have had it with Margaret himself.

He wondered why it was he had never had the urge to go with a woman before. He'd never even given much thought to them. Silly wenches, giggling and whispering together whenever he went to the Arms market with Dad. He knew they were referring to him with their undertone jokes which heralded peals of screeching laughter. Yet, he'd always ignored them before. Never given them so much as a second glance. Now, suddenly, he had an urge to take a woman sexually, have her lying naked beneath him, purely for his pleasure. It was a very, very nice thought, too. He imagined what would have happened if he had found Margaret Gunn at home. She had become something special to him of late. He never once dreamed that she might reject him. Surely she would crave his muscular young body.

He thought again about his burning desire to lie with her. When had it first started? Certainly not very long ago. He had called at Gunn's with his father during harvest time, and Margaret had been wearing a thin blouse and the shortest of shorts. It hadn't even raised him. He laughed at the thought. He dreaded to think what the sight of her dressed like that would do to him now. He seemed to become almost animal-like at the thought He felt almost as though he wanted to savage her!

It was Friday morning, exactly a week since Margaret had given herself to Gordon Hall. She went about her chores, humming to herself, lost in her own thoughts. Her body still trembled at the thought of what had happened that afternoon, but, even more so, at the prospect of what would happen again today. As soon as she had finished her jobs she would take a bath, and perfume her body in readiness for her lover. Vic would not be back until tea-time. He had gone to Knighton with Gwynne Owen on a sheep buying trip. A sudden thought crossed her mind. She hoped that idiot Philip hadn't opened his mouth about last week. She felt slightly uneasy. What if something was said: Suddenly, she knew that she was prepared to leave Vic for Gordon Hall. She never wondered whether or not the latter really wanted her, whether he would be prepared to go through with everything, the divorce, and all the unpleasantness involved.

The morning wore on. Margaret finished all her chores in record time, and then, going upstairs, she took off all her clothes and turned the bath-taps on. Whilst she was waiting for the bath to fill she glanced at her body in the wardrobe mirror. She had never looked at it in that way before, the small firm breasts, the shapely thighs, and the triangle of hair so attractive to men. She felt elated, much more so now than she had done in her courting days.

Testing the bathwater gingerly with her foot, she ran some more in from the cold tap, then, satisfied with the temperature, she lowered the rest of her body in, and lay relaxing. Wild, fantastic thoughts flitted through her mind. She imagined herself in all sorts of different situations with her lover, sexually, socially, and domestically.

Suddenly, she heard the back door open, and then close, quietly. Footsteps padded softly across the kitchen floor, and then she heard them ascending the stairs. Was it Gordon arrived early, or Vic, for some reason, returned from his trip with Gwynne Owen, hours earlier than he was expected? She dared not call out, not knowing which of them it was. Her heart missed a beat. It must be her lover. She stretched herself, and parted her thighs, just below water level, offering him the view which she knew he would love to see on entry.

The door, which was slightly ajar, began opening slowly. It creaked, moved another few inches, and then it was flung open wide. Margaret looked up, trying to affect a seductive smile. It froze on her lips, to be replaced by a strangled gasp of horror. Instinctively she clamped her legs together, clasped her arms across her breasts, and tried to hide her nudity as best she could from the intruder.

Philip Owen leaned on the doorpost, that perpetual inane grin on his face, and just stared.

"You!" Anger welled up inside Margaret as she recovered from her initial shock, somewhat. "How dare you come into this house! Get out, at once!"

"I know what was going on last Friday," there was an unfamiliar glint in the young man's eyes. "Young Phil might be the bumpkin round here, but you can't fool him all the time. You was," he shrugged to find a word other than a four lettered one, "Mating with Mr. Hall, wasn't you now?"

"It's none of your business, Philip. Now get out, and we'll say no more about it. If you don't I shall go up and see your father. "

"I could always have a word in Mr. Vic's ear, and you wouldn't like that, would you ... Margaret?"

His meaning was quite plain. It was stalemate.

"What do you want, Philip?"

"The same as Mr. Hall," he had advanced into the bathroom now. "I want to mate with you."

It took some seconds for the words to sink into Margaret's brain. She knew that he meant it. She saw the tell-tale bulge behind the zip on his trousers. Suddenly she felt very frightened. A strong brown hand suddenly groped at her, and it brushed her thighs as she leaped upwards in the bath, slithered over the side, and made a dive for the door. Two arms encircled her waist, dragging her back towards the bath. It was a grip which could not be broken, and the powerful Philip Owen picked her up like a soaking rag doll and staggered into the bedroom with her.

"Let me go! Put me down!" Then Margaret began to scream. Her fear pleased Philip. He felt superior. Sex would be easy now. Furthermore she would not be able to say a thing about it. He held the whiphand. Her blows, aimed at his face, were futile, and all the time he laughed, deep and throaty. He put her down on the bed, holding her prisoner with one hand whilst he began plucking at the buttons on his working clothes with the other.

Suddenly the bedroom door burst open, flung wide by the second intruder within a space of minutes. Philip whirled round, and his jaw dropped in amazement. He had always been a slow thinker, and now events were moving far too quickly for him. So was the rock hard fist which took him expertly on the point of the jaw, hurling him backwards across the room and into the large chest of drawers where he collapsed in a dazed heap.

"You filthy lecherous bastard!" Gordon Hall's rage was almost getting the better of him, and he had to restrain himself from following up the attack. "I ought to pulverize you, you filthy peasant pig. If you're not down those stairs, and out of this house in two minutes, God help you."

Philip staggered up. His lip was bleeding. His head felt as though it was splitting open where it had made contact with the chest of drawers. His strength seemed to have ebbed from him, along with his desire for sex. Instinct told him to leave, so, hate for the bearded man blazing from his small, sunken eyes, he clutched at the banister and staggered downstairs, stumbled over a chair in the kitchen, and then gulped in lungfuls of fog in the yard outside.

"He didn't manage anything, did he?" Gordon Hall turned his attention to the sobbing Margaret Gunn.

She shook her head. "He didn't have time. Thank God you came when you did. He would have done, otherwise. I can't understand it. He's usually so placid. He was like a sex- maniac!"

"Very strange," Gordon murmured, "very strange, indeed. The damned thing is, we can't do a thing about it. He knows too much. Well just have to hope that he keeps out of our way from now on. Mind you, if he does try his luck again, I shan't let him off that lightly again!"

He looked at the naked girl on the bed, and seeing that she had almost recovered from her assault, he began taking off his clothes.

As the days rolled by, Philip Owen's sex-urge became stronger. The clash with Gordon Hall smouldered deep inside him, and his fantasies led him to imagine situations where he had the journalist at his mercy. He had never wanted to kill anyone before. He did now, but it would not be the quick, pre-meditated attack. He wanted to savage his enemy. To mutilate his body beyond all recognition.

The farmer's son became more restless than ever. He found the company of his parents in the evenings intolerable, and the television incomprehensible. The sheds offered a refuge. There were always farm implements to be serviced and repaired, or Loup to be visited in the barn. The sheepdog showed no more signs of ferocity towards him. Indeed, he seemed just the reverse. He looked forward to the young man's nocturnal comings, and would even lick his hand now. The wound on Philip's leg had almost healed, and once, during a visit, he actually licked the scars when Philip pulled up his trouser leg to remind the animal of his transgression.

From then onwards, a bond seemed to exist between the two of them.

When the moon became full again Philip decided that, with the advent of the lambing season, he would resume his nocturnal patrols of the top fields bordering the Black Hill. He would enjoy that far more than just messing about in the sheds. He contemplated taking Loup with him, but decided against it for the sheepdog would only disturb the animals. In the silvery light they might mistake the dog for a fox, maybe even a wolf, if sheep were ever imaginative.

There was a frost underfoot the first night that Philip set out from the farm. The clock in the kitchen was just striking eleven o'clock as he shut the door behind him. He did not expect to be back much before midnight, perhaps later. It didn't matter, anyway. His parents would be in bed. They were used to his roamings, and never waited up for him.

The Black Hill looked sinister and eerie as he emerged from the Dingle, and clambered over the barbed wire fence into the topmost field. There was a little cirrus cloud, but otherwise the sky was clear, and the bright moonlight glinted on the thickets of frost-covered coniferous trees. Somewhere an owl hooted, and a plover called. He remembered the legend of the Black Dogs which he had once heard his father and Uncle Reuben talking about. He could almost believe in those ghostly dogs out here, and the eighteenth century farmer who had seen one in a similar setting to this, whilst tending his flock. The man had been found wandering the fields insane the following morning, and had died three days later. He shivered involuntarily.

The sheep moved restlessly as he walked round the furthermost boundary of his father's farm. He looked over the hedge, on to Vic Gunn's field. There was a ewe in lamb there, but she wouldn't be ready just yet. He walked on, and then leaned on the rickety five-barred gate, pausing to think, or rather to let his recently sexually incensed mind dwell on the subject of Margaret Gunn. That was the first time he had ever seen between a woman's legs. It had only been a brief glance before she had closed her thighs, but it had given him the biggest thrill of his life. He had never thought of it as being quite like that. He determined that he would have another look soon. Maybe more than just a look. Gordon Hall wouldn't stop him next time. He'd kill the sod if need be.

Suddenly, he began to feel queer. It was rather frightening feeling ill up here, alone, on a moonlight night. He gripped the top bar of the gate until his knuckles showed white. His head began to swim. He felt sick. Maybe he was going to faint. He'd never fainted before. Neither had he seen a woman with her legs open in the bath until recently. He never thought that would happen, but it did. There was a first time for everything, so perhaps he was about to faint, after all. His skin felt peculiar, just as though he was experiencing an attack of pins-and-needles from head to toe, a tingling, not wholly unpleasant sensation. Then he glanced down at his hands on the gate. His first thought was that he was wearing his gloves, but he knew he hadn't brought them with him. Both hands were covered in short, rough hairs, like the piece of coconut matting in the farmhouse kitchen. It must be a mistake, a trick of the moonlight, he thought, but when he examined them closely he experienced a wave of horror surging through him. His hands were coarse and hairy, like those of a wild animal!

He felt a mounting panic. What was happening? His hand brushed against his cheek. God! He had grown a beard, not the stubble of a few days' growth, but sparse, coarse hair, tough and wiry. He stumbled, caught his foot in a tuft of grass, and fell headlong. He struggled to rise. Funny, he found it equally as easy to move on all fours as he did whilst standing upright on two legs. He paused, tried to think. His mind seemed fogged. There was a red haze before his eyes.

No longer was he afraid. The fear had gone now. Other instincts were uppermost in his mind. The sex urge was more predominant than before. He groped in his imagination for Margaret Gunn's naked body. He desired her even more fiercely now, to possess, to ravage. He bared his lips at the very thought, and long fangs glinted evilly in the bright moonlight. He gave vent to his emotions, a long, drawn out, unearthly howl which echoed across the Black Hill, and beyond.

Chapter 4

TWENTY or so sheep had clustered together in the far corner of Vic Gunn's topmost field bleating incessantly. They usually sought communal safety at the barking of the dog-fox or the screeching of the vixen, but never had they heard a sound like that. It vibrated in their eardrums, instilling a rigid terror long after the echo had died away. Even the owl and the plover became silent. The hills were frozen into immobility, every creature of the woods and fields waiting for it knew not what! Long ago, their ancestors would have recognised the cry of the hunting wolf, and taken evasive action. Their modern counterparts did nothing.

Philip found that he could move with greater alacrity on all fours, loping with speed and ease. He felt far, far stronger and fitter than ever before, and his blood coursed rapidly through his veins, impervious to the freezing night air. There was something not quite right, though. He stopped, and tried to make his mind up what it was. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach, an emptiness which suddenly rumbled. Then he knew. He was hungry!

His tongue licked his lips as he thought of food. There was only one meal which would satisfy his hunger - meat, running red with fresh blood. His nostrils flared as he scented the sheep in the adjoining field. Silently, he moved along the hedgerow, keeping to the shadows, his stealth and wolverine cunning far outweighing his limited intelligence. Instinct had replaced the rational powers of the human brain.

The ewe had not joined the other sheep in the stampede for the far corner of the field at the sound of that ear-splitting roar. Her condition did not lend itself to a lot of unnecessary movement, and she was confident that she could satisfactorily repel any attack by a fox. All the same, she felt uneasy.

A few minutes later she caught a scent on the frosty air. It was a fetid smell, far stronger than that of either fox or badger. It was foreign to her, and she was uncertain. She moved further away from the shadows cast by the tall straggling hedges, where she could not be approached by an unseen enemy. Maybe it would be policy to join the rest of the flock. She began edging slowly in that direction, reluctant to break into a run at this stage.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a movement on her left, a massive shape which materialised out of the shadows, a lumbering form which snuffled and grunted as it shambled forwards. Terror rooted her to the spot. Flight was impossible. She was hypnotised as a rabbit is by a stoat. She could not even bleat with fear. Half a dozen bounds and it was upon her. The tremendous blow from the huge forepaw was all that was necessary to dislocate her neck, and then the horrific creature had his much needed meal laid out before him.

In a frenzy of hunger and savagery Philip fell upon the dead ewe. His claw-like hands ripped her throat out in one grasp, and greedily he began stuffing the warm, bloody meat into his cavernous jaws, swallowing it with greed and appreciation. As he devoured so he mutilated, disembowelling the sheep and revelling in the stench of its entrails and unborn lambs. Blood dripped from his lips on to his newly grown hair, congealing, and matting it, making him even more of a horrific spectacle than before.

Then, his hunger satiated, his wild eyes sought the silvery orb high above him, and for the second time that night the Shropshire hills reverberated to the cry of the most fearsome creature ever to tread this earth during the nocturnal hours - the Werewolf !

His hunger diminished, the sex urge became predominant once more. Loping across the fields, a vision appeared before his distorted, blood-soaked mind. He saw Margaret Gunn in the bath, naked, her legs parted in readiness for the arrival of her lover. That was what he wanted next, to take her as Gordon Hall had taken her, and when that desire had been satisfied, he would ravage her body, and revel in her blood, a far more delicious prospect than that of a ewe in lamb!

Gunn's yard was deserted as he shuffled in through the open gate, and paused to listen by the barn. He was silent, his hunting instinct warning him to refrain from giving vent to that loathsome howl. He knew where the girl would be behind the latticed upstairs window, sharing her husband's bed. He would have to kill Vic first, though, but that should be no problem. In fact, it rather appealed to him.

The mud beneath his feet was frozen hard, enabling him to move absolutely silently, and also without leaving a spoor. His hairy forepaw closed over the handle of the backdoor, and slowly he turned it. It was locked. Should he break the glass panel?

Suddenly even as he was contemplating this mode of entry, a terrific barking ensued from within. Pal, the sheepdog, had been awakened by the turning of the handle, and now he caught that fetid scent. Only two inches of wood separated the collie from the horrific beast which was capable of despatching him with a single blow, but Pal had no idea of the ferocity of his foe. His hackles risen, teeth bared, he leaped at the woodwork with a frenzied growling and barking.

Philip drew back, unprepared for this obstacle, and somewhat uncertain of his next move. The bedroom light above him came on. His clouded brain tried to reason, but, in contrast to his physical state, it was slow and cumbersome. Should he attack? He did not fear the dog, but there were such things as guns, and he had no wish to sample a charge of number 4 shot, probably fired from the safety of the bedroom window.

So, with a low growl of frustration and defiance, he turned about and loped back through the gate, and into the lane. He felt tired now. Instinct told him to head for home.

The door was unlocked as he had left it when he arrived back at his father's farm, and he knew that his parents had, in all probability, slept soundly ever since turning in. With luck, they would never know what time he had returned. Even if they did happen to hear him come in, and asked him next day why he had stayed out so late, he could find a variety of explanations. It wouldn't be the first time that he had had to go and search for a sheep which had broken through the fencing, and wandered off into the Black Hill.

He closed the door of his bedroom silently behind him, and switched on the light. His powers of reasoning seemed to have returned during the last half hour or so, and with them came ... fear! Just what had happened to him? What was this transformation which had taken place out there under the full moon? He felt physically sick when he remembered how he had savaged the ewe, heaved, and almost spewed. Then, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Icy fingers clutched at his heart, his limbs felt as though they were made of rubber, and he wished that he was dead! Was that really himself he saw? His features were barely discernible beneath the growth of coarse hair, matted with sheep's blood, and the long, yellow fangs. His clothes, many of the seams tattered and burst by the expansion of his frame, were soaked in blood and dried entrails, and he retched at his own smell.

His first thought was to flee, to seek refuge on the Black Hill, to live like a fox - a wolf, in a hole. Even as he contemplated this, he knew it was impossible. They would hound him out, with dogs and guns, and even if he eluded them, he would live as a fugitive for the remainder of his life. Death would be preferable, indeed merciful. Why not? His father's shotgun was down below in the kitchen. There were cartridges in the cupboard. A reversal of the barrels, a pull on the trigger, and it would all be over. He would feel no pain. Yet, it is a brave man who takes his own life, even painlessly, and Philip Owen was far from brave. Eventually, he stripped off the remnants of his foul clothes, rolled them up into an untidy ball, and stuffed them beneath his bed, a favourite place of his for storing temporarily unwanted items. Tomorrow he would dispose of them.

His mind was in a torment. How would he explain his changed appearance to his parents? His mother might well have a heart-attack at the very sight of him. Would he have to remain hidden for the rest of his life, skulking here in his room, shielded by his father and mother, afraid to step out of doors? Would his parents hide him, or would they have him put in a home? Would he feel the urge to ravage again?

He felt weak now, as though every last drop of energy had been drained from his shaggy frame. He switched out the light, and found that he barely had sufficient strength left to stagger back to his bed, and collapse on it with a crash which threatened to break the springs.. His body, his mind, could not take any more. The first streaks of dawn were already in the eastern sky when sleep finally blotted the night's horror from his fear-crazed mind.

The next thing he knew was when he was awakened by a banging on his bedroom door, and he heard his mother's shrill Welsh accent, "Philip, Philip, time to get up. Your father's already started his breakfast"

"All right." He hoped his response would prevent her from putting her head round the door and seeing him. The previous night's events came flooding dimly back to him. He heard his mother's footsteps going back downstairs. Perhaps he should call her and try and explain through the closed door what had happened. Strangely he did not feel tired now in spite of the loss of several hours sleep. Instead he felt very much refreshed, much more so than usual, in spite of the fact that he had slept later. He clambered out of bed, turning his head in order to avert his reflection in the mirror. He dared not look!

As he scrabbled in an untidy drawer for some clean overalls he suddenly noticed that the skin of his hands was normal again. He held them out in front of him, scarcely able to believe what he saw. The coarse matted hair had completely disappeared. Then he noticed something odd, so prominent in fact, that it could hardly escape him. The third finger of each hand was at least an inch longer than the others. He could not understand it!

Scarcely daring to hope, he whirled to face the mirror. Relief flooded through his whole body. He was normal again! There was not a vestige of hair on his cheeks, his teeth had reverted to their normal size, and that putrefying smell no longer came from his pores. Had it all been one long, delirious nightmare, a figment of his own imagination?

There was only one way to tell. He knelt down, and groped under the bed for that bundle of blood-soaked clothing. His fingers located it, and he pulled it out. It was real enough!

The overalls were tattered and torn, and soaked in sheep's entrails and blood.

It had all happened after all! He hid the clothes again. There was no way of understanding how the change had come about. Still, there was little harm done. Vic Gunn's dead ewe could be blamed on sheep-killing dogs, and, thank God, he had not been able to fulfil his sexual desires. Nobody had seen him, and he was back to normal now. There was no point in even confiding in his mother and father.

"Philip!" his mother's sing-song voice drifted up from the kitchen, along with the smell of frying bacon. "Come on, Philip, your breakfast'll be cold if you don't hurry up."

"Coming!" there was relief, an expectation of pent-up anxiety in his reply, as he hastily began donning his clothes.

Philip heard Vic Gunn's excited, furious voice in the yard below him. The farmer's son was busy forking hay from the loft to the barn below him, and every word spoken between old Gwynne Owen and Vic was plainly audible to him. He leaned on his pitchfork, listening intently.

"You'm never see nothin' like 'un!" Vic's face was flushed as he related to the other how he had found the savaged ewe in his top field. "It's throat was torn right out, and its guts were strewed all over the place. Never seed nothin' like it!"

"Hmm!" Gwynne Owen drew thoughtfully on his stubby briar pipe. "Sounds like a pack o' killer dogs t'me!"

"Dogs be damned!" the other spat out. "There ain't no dog born could've done that to a sheep. Ewe in lamb too. I bin and told P.C Winter at Llanadevy. I suppose he'll drift up here sometime, later on, this week, and write a few notes down. The report'll go in, somebody'll come to some daft conclusion, and that'll be all. I'll tell you this, Gwynne, no dog could've broke that ewe's neck with a blow that almost severed its head, tore its throat and stomach right out, ate all the guts, and then dragged the carcase thirty yards!"

"A pack o' dogs, then," suggested Gwynne Owen.

"O.K., suppose it was a pack, then," Vic was determined there was no simple explanation for the ravaging, "how come they didn't touch the rest o' the flock. Not another sheep was harmed, neither. I'd say it was done out o' sight o' the other sheep. Whatever brute it was, it just wanted a meal to satisfy its hunger, and then it left. What single animal is capable o' doin' that?"

"I dunno", the old farmer shook his head in perplexity, "I never thought I'd live to see the day when the Black Dogs paid us a visit!"

"The Black Dogs!" echoed Vic Gunn.

"Aye," the old farmer lowered his voice, as though afraid that the legendary, spiritual dogs, whose arrival heralded death and disaster to those who set eyes on them, might hear him. "I'm thinkin' it canna' be nothin' else, Vic. Take my tip. If they wants a sheep, you let 'em 'ave 'un!"

Chapter 5

PHILIP Owen was fully convinced that his strange transformation was "just one of those things." As he went about his work, he felt perfectly normal. Indeed, he was fitter and stronger than he could ever remember. It was certainly queer about the third finger on each hand growing so noticeably longer overnight, but, so far, nobody had noticed. He kept his hands clenched as much as possible, and, anyway, his parents weren't particularly observant. He was still awaiting an opportunity to dispose of the condemning pile of overalls, still underneath his bed, but, so far, the opportunity had not arisen. Anyway, he consoled himself, his mother seldom looked under there.

The heavily built, red-faced P.C. Winter, called at their farm towards the end of that week. He was a good-natured individual, but inclined to panic if 'things became too complicated for him. He always settled for the most obvious solution to any problem, and it was all too easy to blame some unknown dog with a taste for mutton for the sheep-killing.

"There's more to it than that," old Gwynne Owen insisted. "Now take these 'ere Black Dogs, last seen in 1773 in the parish of Obley…."

"No, you take 'em," the constable retorted, a flush appearing in his cheeks. "My time's valuable, Mr. Owen, and if it's them who did this killin' then that don't fall within my authority. I can't very well arrest a spook, can I?"

The weeks dragged by uneventfully, and Christmas drew nearer. Philip Owen had not been for a moonlight ramble since that fateful night. Instead, he had reverted to occupying his evenings in the sheds, more intent on the machinery than the livestock, after dark. Loup had settled in well, proved himself to be a good worker, and well worth the money spent on him. He was allowed to sleep in the house now, and had progressed to the status of family pet as well as being the chief sheepdog. Philip Owen's leg had now completely healed, although it ached abominably at times. It was as though some kind of poison was sealed in under the skin, although, this could not be the case, for its effects would have been much more serious by now. Typical of this hardy breed of hill-farmer, he decided to ignore it

The December full moon rose, a deep orange ball shining down on to a countryside which had just had its first light fall of snow. As it climbed higher into the starlit sky, it turned from orange to silver, sparkling on the hard crust of snow. Indeed, it seemed as if darkness had not fallen that night, for, from Gwynne Owen's farm, the Pen-y-Wern Stone Circle, some two miles away, an ancient Druid sacrificial place, could be discerned as plainly as by daylight.

Philip retired to bed early that night, following his parents up the narrow wooden staircase. He had no stomach to risk another patrol of the sheep fields. Indeed, with the full moon everything seemed to come back to him more vividly than on the night when he had taken on the form of a Werewolf. He remembered once more that he really must get rid of that bundle of stained and stinking clothes. As he put out the light, he reminded himself that at least he was going to keep out of mischief tonight! It was sometime after midnight when he awoke. Usually, once he fell asleep, he did not wake until morning. Tonight, though, he suddenly burst from his slumber as though he had been pitched into a patch of prickly gorse bushes. With an oath, he flung the bedclothes from him. He got up, and pushed the window open wide. He had never known claustrophobia before, and thought for a moment that he would suffocate with the stuffiness of the room. Those sheets had seemed sharp to his skin. Then he noticed his hands, huge and hairy, his arms with increased muscles. He looked down. He was naked, for he never slept in pyjamas. His whole body was different. He fought back a cry of horror which he knew would have brought his parents rushing in! The change had come again! He turned to the mirror, and by the light of the moon through the open window, he saw his reflection. Nothing taking on that shape could be human. He was a wild animal, a werewolf, transported through time from the pages of mythology.

This time, though, the change did not affect him so badly. He was aghast at his curse, but did not panic. He knew that he had to go out into the snow covered, moonlit countryside, and kill, to appease his hunger. He had to taste fresh blood on his palate, and to rip his victim apart with those long, razor-sharp claws. The call could not go unanswered, whatever the consequences!

Minutes later, Philip, loping hideously on all fours, had left the house, but this time his destination was not north towards the Black Hill. Instead, he headed west in the direction of the Pen-y-Wern Stone Circle, as though that ancient Druid sacrificial place had some special attraction for him. He snuffled and grunted as he traversed the snow covered fields. His nostrils flared, alert to the faintest scent of food. This time he was much more versatile unhampered by clothing. He was truly a beast of the wild, only far more dangerous.

Soon he came to his father's western boundary fence and cleared the rusty barbed-wire fence with a cumbersome bound. The grass field in which he stood belonged to the ageing Morris Jones, a hardened hill-farmer of his father's generation. Jones, however, ran only a few sheep, and these were sheltering beneath the hedge in the adjoining field. He scented them, and a low growl of satisfaction escaped his bared fangs. His nostrils flared.

However, as he moved forward something jumped up from out of a bed of frozen nettles, and bounded away in front of him. Its brown coat, long black legs, and tremendous speed told him at once that it was a hare. In his human form Philip was very fond of jugged hare, and now, as a werewolf, he saw it as a delicious appetiser to that which would inevitably follow. It had a fifteen yard start on him, and was gaining speed every second. Perhaps it was a challenge as much as anything. He accelerated, using his powerful back legs to add thrust, and, ungainly as it might have looked, the length of his bounds were carrying him sufficient distance to more than equal the hare's superior speed. It is doubtful whether the poor animal was aware that its pursuer was so close. It certainly never looked back, and, indeed, it was less than twenty yards from the hedge, where it would surely have escaped, when a massive claw closed over it, and plucked it into the air. Its squeals of fear, so like those of a human baby, carried clearly through the still night air. A gleam of sheer delight danced in Philip's small red eyes. It was just like a human, and how he delighted to hear it scream in abject terror. He had power at last, something which had always been denied him throughout his life - the power of life and death! He could, simply by releasing his grip, let it fall and spring to freedom or, much better, he could ... he would.... His cavernous mouth opened, his huge fangs parted, and he thrust the hare's head in as far as its neck. It was a unique sensation to have one's victim screaming inside one's mouth! Then his jaws clamped together with a powerful, squelching sound. The squealing died away. The head was almost severed from the body by the single bite. Blood, fresh red blood spurted all over his hairy face in jets, and, crunching and swallowing the portion of the carcase already in his mouth, he put the neck to his lips and drank deeply, thirstily, gulping the warm liquid, hearing it gurgling in his throat. All too soon the flow stopped and taking the carcase between his two hands, he began tearing it apart, cramming raw flesh into his mouth. Minutes later, he cast the skin and bones aside, and that terrible roar reverberated from the Pen-y-Wern circle to the Black Hill. The monster had whetted his appetite. He had tasted his first blood of the night, and now he thirsted for more.

The sheep in the next acreage of pasture had run into the far corners on hearing his killing cry, desperately leaping at the barbed wire, tearing flesh and wool in an attempt to escape from this fearful nocturnal plunderer of flesh, and drinker of blood. Philip watched them for a moment, again savouring the situation. Then, clambering over the fence this time, he advanced slowly. There was no need to rush. He had them completely at his mercy, and could afford to pick his victim with care.

The whole flock was thrown into a blind panic as Philip purposefully loped towards them, licking his lips in anticipation, his eyes glowing, and a low rumbling sound emitting from his throat. They were trapped, still blindly leaping at the barbed-wire, oblivious to injury. One rolled over, and lay still, its heart unable to stand the shock. However, the ravenous monster completely ignored it. He much preferred to catch and mutilate his own victims.

He was less than twenty yards from them, when, blind with fear, they scattered, and tried to rush past him on either side. He had already selected his prey, so it was only a matter of a quick bound and a grab, and he lifted the struggling sheep high above his shoulders. The others had dashed on and, finding a weak link in the rickety fence, they trampled it down and burst through into his father's fields. Subconsciously the terrible beast noted this, and smiled inwardly. There would be some sorting out for him to do tomorrow ... when he reverted to human form. At the moment though, his attention was centred upon the sheep which he had caught.

He regretted that he had slaughtered his first meal so cleanly and painlessly, so devoid of sport. He meant to enjoy this one. He placed it on the ground in front of him on its back, fully aware that a 'cast' sheep cannot regain its balance unaided. It was bleating in fear, as were most of the sheep in the nearby fields which had heard that first bloodchilling cry. Suddenly his sharp claw-like hands dug deep into its exposed belly, tearing and ripping feverishly with incredible force. He was sprayed with a mass of warm entrails and fresh blood, the foul stench merely serving to whet his appetite even further. Then he committed his foulest deed so far. Stooping forward he buried his head deep into the stomach of the sheep, which was still kicking feebly, and satisfied himself from the inside of the living beast. He must have remained in this position for five minutes or more, scarcely noticing the ravaged animal feebly jerk its last gesture of life, and then lie still. At last he emerged, his hairy face dripping with blood and stinking offal, his small eyes irresistibly drawn towards the moon above him, his unearthly cry ringing out once more.

He was not yet ready to make tracks for home. The night was still young. He had half a mind to retrace his steps and head for that neat farmhouse where the woman he sought would be sleeping soundly. But somehow the Stone Circle seemed to beckon him on, almost as though the spirits of the Ancient Druids were calling one of their own generation. As he left Jones' fields, he heard the sound of voices from the farmhouse at the bottom of the steep hillside. Evidently his night's work had not gone unheard, and somebody was coming up to investigate. He heard the yapping of dogs and increased his pace.

Soon he was within a quarter of a mile of the Circle, the age-old stones outlined gauntly in the moonlit snowy countryside. The temperature was well below freezing, yet his own blood coursed hotly through his veins. A short distance in front of him a rushing mountain stream crossed his path, its raging torrent cascading down to provide water for the farms below. It was little more than four feet wide in any one place, and he anticipated little difficulty clearing it with one bound. He could just as easily wade it, but why should he get his feet wet?

He approached it at a shuffling gait, increasing his speed in readiness of the jump. The silvery water sparkled in the moonlight. Just as he was about to become airborne he suddenly came to an abrupt halt. It was as though he had run into an invisible barrier, an electrified wall which sent a painful tingling through his body. He felt frightened, too, as does every animal of the wild when it comes up against something which it cannot understand. What had prevented him from crossing the stream? His lips bared, and he uttered a low snarl of defiance ... and fear!

Something warned him not to make a second attempt. His gaze was drawn again to the rushing, glinting, stream, and suddenly he knew that that was the barrier. He retreated a few steps. Never, since he had undergone his change from human form, had he feared anything. Yet, this running water held unbelievable terrors for him, and he automatically backed away still further. The Pen-y-Wern Stone Circle was so near, yet so inaccessible. It seemed to be mocking him, as though the long dead Druids had summoned him only to repel him, as if to show him that he was not the most powerful of the creatures of darkness. He was only one lost soul wandering in torment. He felt very insignificant, which was to be expected when one believes oneself to be omnipotent one minute, then is humiliated the next. Well he had learned something tonight. He could not cross running water!

He made a wide detour on his way home, in order to avoid crossing Jones's land again. In the distance he could see torches flashing and he heard men shouting, and dogs barking. If they hadn't discovered the savaged sheep already, they soon would. He hurried on.

It was as he descended the slope leading down towards his father's farm that he suddenly saw a shape moving alongside the hedgerow ahead of him. The shadows prevented a clear view, but he knew that, whatever it was, it was far too big for either a hare or a fox. He stood still and watched, waiting for it to emerge into a patch of moonlight. It appeared to be in no hurry, as though it was trying to scent something out. Then, at last, he saw it plainly. It was a dog, a large one, jet black in colour. It was Loup!

Even as he looked, the dog raced on down the hillside ahead of him. It took a direct line for the house, and then was lost to sight. Mystified, he shambled after it, feeling very, very tired after his exertions. He wondered how Loup had got out. Perhaps he had left the backdoor open when he had left to answer that call which had to be obeyed. Anyway to a dog of Loup's intelligence, door handles would not present much of a problem provided they were unlocked.

On arrival home, Philip noticed that the door was shut, and glancing into the kitchen, he saw Loup lying, apparently asleep, in front of the dying embers in the grate. He mounted the stairs on all fours, and went to bed.

Chapter 6

FARMER Jones was banging on the Owen's door before the family were down to breakfast next morning. Philip checked in the mirror to make sure that he had changed back into human form before he went downstairs. He could hear the raised voices in the room below, and he was interested to hear what conclusions the neighbouring farmers would draw from his latest foray.

"Didn't you 'ear nothin' in the night?" Jones was an excitable little man in his early sixties, with a piece of sacking tied around his waist over his overalls.

Gwynne Owen shook his head. "We heard nothing," he stated stoically, "from the time our heads touched the pillow till we got up, about ten minutes ago."

"It was the bloomin' 'owl which woke us," there was still fear visible in the old farmer's eyes. "Nothin" on this earth could make a noise like that. Like a wild beast, like a ... a soul in torment. I can still 'ear it now. Then we found the sheep, or rather, the one which'd bin savaged, all its belly torn out, and 'arf eaten. There was three more dead besides. Not a mark on any 'on 'em. Fear, that's what it wuz. They died o' fright!"

"It's as I told Vic Gunn, and P.C. Winter," Gwynne Owen was perfectly serious, "them Black Dogs've risen again!"

"You reckon'?" Jones was incredulous.

"Aye!" the other replied. "My grandfather warned me about them in his day. He said "son if them there Black Dogs get troublin' you at all, don't interfere with 'em. Let 'em take what they want. Try and stop 'em, and you'll end up in the churchyard! The only thing we can do, is to bring the sheep down as near to the farms as we can. It's time some of 'em were in shelter, anyway."

"Well, we'll 'ave to sort out mine from yours, first," Jones sounded suddenly tired. "They busted the fence, and got through into your field. I suppose I'd better let the constable know the facts, anyway."

"You're wasting your time," Gwynne Owen murmured, "but that's your affair!"

The following day, when the sun shone brightly out of a cloudless blue sky, thawing much of the snow, except that which lay in the shade, Gordon Hall first heard of the savaging on the sheepfields. He had spent the morning putting out a line of fox snares on the Black Hill taking advantage of the fall of snow which showed him Reynard's favourite runs. This job being completed, he had headed towards the farms lower down.

He had made only a cursory call at Gunn's, Victor being present, and likely to be so all that day. Gordon had had only a fleeting couple of minutes alone with Margaret when he went into the dairy to collect a dozen eggs to take home with him. Vic was busy in the barn at the time.

"When can we make it again?" he asked in low tones as he began taking eggs out of a bucket, and placing them in cardboard containers.

"Before long I hope," she replied, responding to his quick kiss and the strong hand which squeezed each of her buttocks in turn. "When he's away for any length of time I'll leave that old yellow plastic bucket by the gate, so you'll know. I wish.... I wish we could make it more permanent." Her eyes were moist.

"There's no reason why we shouldn't" he answered, using every trick he knew to keep their affair going. A woman like this would cling to any straw, and he was quick to provide one.

As he came out of the dairy, Vic hailed him from across the yard.

"I suppose you've heard about the sheep-killer?" he called out,

"The what!" Gordon Hall had not heard.

Vic Gunn briefly related the details of the sheep which had been found mutilated on his and Jones's fields.

"Gwynne Owen reckons it's the work o' the Black Dogs," he concluded. "He's convinced Jones, as well. Winter doesn't want to know. As for me, well, I'm inclined to be realistic. I'd say there's a killer dog on the loose. Maybe an Alsatian or some other big dog gone wild. Maybe it's living in a foxhole on the Black Hill somewhere, deep in one o' them thickets."

"Could be," Gordon Hall murmured, a worried look on his face. It wasn't the sheep he was concerned about, though, but rather his own stock of wild pheasants. A hunting dog could do a lot of damage to game when it turned wild. Already he was making plans to combat the situation.

Gordon Hall called on Gwynne Owen later that afternoon. He was interested to hear the old farmer's views on the matter. Having listened to a detailed history of the Black Dogs, he decided that he had gleaned little from his visit. Just supposing there was something in the legend, he knew that it would make the most profitable story which he had ever written. He had already made plans in his own mind to investigate the matter, but he felt that the least he said to anybody the better. These hill-folk were an odd race. They could be so secretive over trivial matters, yet something really confidential they would not hesitate to broadcast. Each one of course, told his neighbour 'in confidence.'

Gordon Hall did not start for home as soon as darkness began to close in. Normally, he would have remained up by the pool until the last streak of light had disappeared from the western sky, waiting patiently, hoping that some wild duck would flight in to feed and roost. However, the pool being frozen over, he deemed this a complete waste of time that night so, piling his gear and Remus into the back of his estate car, he drove the seven miles into Knighton. Here he wined and dined leisurely in the best hotel, taking his time over his coffee and liqueurs. He had time to spare, for the full moon was not due to rise for another couple of hours or so yet. At last, fully fortified, he felt capable of dealing with any situation which might arise on the Black Hill that night. Indeed, he sincerely hoped that something would happen.

The woods were still and silent when Gordon Hall made his way along the grass covered rides, shortly before eleven o'clock. The full moon hung in a frosty, starlit sky, and it was bitterly cold. Particles of ice had already formed on the barrels of his gun before he had covered more than a quarter of a mile, and, once again, he was grateful for having a thick growth of beard.

Even a man of Gordon Hall's calibre felt the odd twinge of nervousness. Always a practical man, he hoped to encounter some large, semi-wild dog, more scared of him than he was of it and if he was lucky enough, to shoot it. All the same, he had heard the legend of these spiritual canines, of course. Mythology took care of that. If you saw one, you died, nobody actually knew of anybody who had encountered one. It was always way back in the dim past, the victim being 'a farmer' or 'a flockmaster.' No names, naturally.

"Bullshit!" he exclaimed out loud, unconsciously attempting to bolster up his courage. "A load of bloody bullshit!"

Remus looked up at him, an expression of bewilderment on his face. What was his master doing walking these familiar woods at night, and talking to himself as well?

Gordon was glad that he had brought Remus with him. At least nothing would be able to creep up on him, and ... disembowel him! He shivered, and made a conscious effort to pull himself together. He had never been scared of anything in his life before, so he wasn't going to be frightened by an age old yarn invented by a bunch of peasant farmers.

At last he reached his destination. After much deliberation during his dinner he had decided that the best place in which to maintain an all-night vigil, was some thirty yards inside the Black Hill forest where it bordered Gwynne Owen's land. Here four forestry roads met, slate tracks which covered all the main areas of the hill. He would also have an excellent view of the sheepfields which would be illuminated by the full moon. There was a small hillock on these "crossroads" consisting of surplus slate chippings from the road building scheme of some five years ago. Gorse bushes and silver birch saplings had grown up on this, affording ample cover, and the watcher could see without being seen from there. It was sheltered too, and as snug as anywhere on a freezing cold night in these border hills.

Gordon checked that his gun was loaded, and placed it carefully at his side. There was a heavy load, long range BB cartridge in each chamber, a charge with which he had, on occasions, bowled over a fox at 50 yards. He was equally confident that it would do the same to this monstrous dog which he sought He had complete faith in his marksmanship. All he needed was sight of the dog!

Remus lay against his legs for warmth. He felt the dog shivering, but knew that it was as much from die excitement of the hunt as from the cold. As for himself he was glad that he had remembered to refill his pocket-flask before he left the hotel in Knighton. He was wearing two sweaters beneath his camouflaged combat jacket, but the cold was intense. His ears had long since failed to have any feeling in them.

Suddenly, the night air was rent with an ear-piercing shriek, a sound which penetrated to the very depths of his nervous system. Remus was on his feet, his hackles upright, and a low growl in his throat. The sound had come from a clump of dead bracken, less than ten yards from where he stood. The unexpectedness of it caused him to start involuntarily, and his gun was already in his hand, his thumb easing off the safety-catch. The ferns rustled with the advance of some creature. His gun was up to his shoulder, the twin barrels trained on the spot where the creature would have to emerge. His forefinger brushed the front trigger. Something stepped out on to the slate road, half hidden in the shadows cast by the tall Norwegian Spruce trees. His finger tightened on the trigger, and then slackened as he saw the bushy tail which the animal dragged behind it. Of course! He should have recognised the sound the moment he heard it. He probably would have done so, had his senses not been clouded with sheep-killing dogs, and their legendary spectral counterparts. The fox, a vixen, stood there, as though uncertain which way to go. Its screech had been intended for any dog-fox which happened to be within earshot, for December was the start of the mating season. He was tempted to discharge a barrel in to it, there and then, possibly saving himself a few pheasants and the surrounding farmers an awful lot of poultry. Yet the sound of the shot would be heard for miles around in these border hills. The purpose of his lengthy wait might be ruined. He resisted the temptation. Somewhere, possibly half a mile away, a dog-fox barked in answer to that spine-chilling screech. The vixen pricked up her ears, and then seemed to melt into the undergrowth again. At least her nocturnal foray had been successful.

All was silent again. Gordon longed to smoke, but feared lest the aroma of his pipe might warn his quarry. It was going to be a very long night.

The next time he looked at his watch, the luminous hands showed 2.15 a.m. He sighed. His feet were numb now, and he began to wonder whether it wasn't a fool's errand after all. He could think of many more comfortable ways in which to pass the night hours. His mind conjured up thoughts of a warm comfortable bed, a satisfied woman asleep by his side ... maybe even Margaret.

The first hint that he had that something was moving through the trees opposite was when Remus suddenly raised his head, that almost soundless warning growl in his throat again. Yet, instead of straining forward, as he had when the vixen had put in an appearance the Labrador cringed behind him, shaking in every limb, this time with fear! Gordon dropped his left hand over the dog's nose, a warning to him not to make a sound, whilst his right hand picked up his gun. He eased himself into position and for the second time that night the safety catch clicked forward.

He could hear the movements again now. A kind of shuffling noise, like a wild beast might make whilst attempting to stalk its prey through dense undergrowth. He could hear its breathing, more like a snuffling than anything else. Remus pressed harder against his legs, and he feared that the frightened dog might suddenly whine.

He judged the animal to be about thirty yards away, foraging on a steep bank amidst some closely planted Scots' pines. It was coming towards him, and he knew by the sounds it made that it was no fox this time, but something far far larger. A thought flashed across his mind. Suppose a double charge of BB failed to kill it and, wounded and enraged it charged him! Suppose he missed altogether in his nervousness! A beast that could rip out a sheep's belly was not to be trifled with. Remus cringed even harder against him.

The lower, almost ground-level, branches of the firs parted. This was it! All he could see were two luminous eyes reflecting the moonlight. The body was invisible in the blackness beyond.

Gordon's finger tightened on the trigger and he was suddenly as cool and ruthless as ever. He knew that he would not miss as he gently squeezed, and felt the ensuing recoil of the crashing report. There was no need for a second barrel. A heavy body toppled from the fringe of the thicket, rolled over and over down the steep bank, crashing bracken and gorse before it, and flopped lifelessly on to the rough forestry road. It was big and black, and its deep red tongue, protruding from its open jaws, matching the pool of blood which was forming on the hard surface beside its head. The crushed carcase of the rabbit, which had fallen from its jaws, lay by its side.

Gordon Hall stood looking down in amazement at the inert form of the brute which lay dead at his feet. Automatically, he tossed the spent shell into the undergrowth. Remus, however, refused to come any nearer. He had always been terrified of Loup.

Chapter 7

PHILIP OWEN was surprised to find Gordon Hall in the kitchen, sitting at the table with his parents, When he came down to breakfast. "What the devil's he doing here at this hour of the morning?" he thought to himself.

"Philip," his father looked shaken, even shamefaced, like an eminent professor who has just had 'his pet theory disproved. "Philip, Mr. Hall has spent the night on the Black Hill. He's shot the sheep-killer!"

Liar, Philip thought. What's the cunning bastard up to now? More like he's spent the night in some wench's bed. That's about all the shooting he's done. Aloud he said, "Uh?"

"It was Loup!" Philip could not seem to grasp the meaning of the words at first. "He was a sheep-killer Philip. That's why that German shepherd wanted to be rid of him. Couldn't trust him near the sheep. So he found a mug to buy him. Me! We're lucky, though. He could've done a lot more damage before we found him out. Mr. Hall waited for the killer on the Black Hill, and shot Loup!"

A red haze seemed to dance before Philip's eyes. He wanted to scream like he used to when he was a child. He wanted to crash his fist into the face of the smug bearded womaniser who sat drinking tea opposite him.

"Never!" he choked, his eyes welling up with tears of both rage and grief. "Loup wouldn't hurt a lamb. The only thing he'd ever hunt was rabbits!"

Philip and Gordon Hall gazed into each other's eyes. Hate was mutual. Philip wanted to kill this man. To tear out his throat, to rip his belly open. He'd move a bit lower down too. He'd love to rip that off, and show it to Margaret, just before he raped her. She'd have to be grateful for his, then.

Words would not come. He ignored the place set for him at the table, grabbed his overalls, and stalked out to the sheds. He could not imagine life without Loup these days. He had known ever since that night when he saw him out in the fields that the sheepdog loved a nocturnal rabbit foray. Hall was not a man to give him the benefit of the doubt!

Philip spent the majority of the day as far away from the house and his father as he could find work to take him. He didn't want his parents to see him weep, give vent to his grief. God! Why was he a werewolf? Why did he change his form under a full moon, forced to go out and ravage? Was there no way of stopping himself? If only he could stop it now! The farmers would be temporarily convinced that the killer had been accounted for by Gordon Hall killing Loup. The hunt would be called off. If only he could stop now, the truth would never be known. But how? They would know before long that the killer was still at large. Where would it all end?

He pondered again on his curse. He wasn't a very clear thinker. He couldn't even read, but somewhere in his hazy memory he recalled a horror comic his cousin had brought one Christmas. It had all been in pictures and he'd been able to follow the story fairly easily. It was about a werewolf, a fellow who went around savaging other people, and had finally met his end when somebody had shot him with a silver bullet. He tried to remember how the chap had become a werewolf in the first place. Of course, it all came back to him. The bloke had been bitten by another werewolf - a kind of contagious disease. But he, Philip, hadn't been bitten by one. The only animal that had bitten him in recent months was Loup, and Loup had been harmless enough…

Christmas came and went. With the absence of the full moon Philip Owen led a more or less normal life, although his anguish increased daily. He feared the January moon, and the horrors which it might bring. All he could do was hope that it would not happen again.

Peter Pike, a handsome youth with fair, curly hair, had much more pleasant things in life to look forward to than the cursed farmer's son. He came to lodge with the Jones family a few days after Christmas. His home was at Portsmouth but there was little opportunity for him to learn farming down there, so an advertisement in a farming journal, stating that "a strong, willing lad was seeking farmwork in return for lodgings and a small wage" brought him to Llanadevy, a lone rider on a clapped out 500cc motorcycle who roared in in the teeth of a blizzard. "Pikey" had arrived!

Pikey had two interests in life besides farming, his 'machine' and 'birds' (he had only a scanty knowledge of the feathered variety). However his choice of the latter seemed to be somewhat restricted in this remote area of Shropshire. Optimistically he always believed that there were birds everywhere looking for it, and he had only to look for them! His ideals were on similar lines to those of Gordon Hall, although he had not the ruthless streak which ran in the latter. Yet, Fate had ordained that their paths were to cross.

Pikey was a good worker on the farm. In fact, Jones had no complaints in this respect whatsoever. He would slave away from dawn till dusk, never complaining, always looking for the next job, completing each one with ease and efficiency. When tea was over he assumed quite rightly that his time was his own. He would help Mrs. Jones with the dishes, and then he would go up to his room, and change into his "going-out" clothes. These consisted of a black leather jacket, fastened with a wide belt, a pair of dark blue jeans which were tucked into black, knee-length boots. Clad thus, Peter Pike was ready for the hunt. Mrs. Jones would shake her head in bewilderment as she heard his bike start up in the yard, and then, with an ear-splitting roar, disappear into the snowy night. Often they would be in bed when they heard him return, cutting his engine out at the top of 'the Pole' that short steep stretch of lane which ran down to their farm. He would coast in, almost silently, put his machine away, and creep up the stairs to his room.

"It isn't as though we haven't got a television!" Mrs. Jones bleated to her husband one evening after Peter had gone out. "You'd think he'd be only too glad to stop in a nice warm house after working out in the cold all day. Where on earth can he go? He's sure to get into mischief if he goes on like this!"

Mr. Jones grunted, and said nothing. He remembered his own younger days with a certain amount of relish, even if he had had to rely on a rusty old push-bike to search out his conquests. Good luck to the lad, he thought, silently.

However, Peter was finding bird-hunting rather more difficult in these isolated towns than he had done down in Portsmouth, where the rev of an engine, and a couple of wolf-whistles usually succeeded in attracting the attention of one or two young 'fillies'. He had explored the most likely places within easy biking distance, Clun, Knighton and Bishop's Castle, but only once had he had any success. That was in the latter place on a Saturday night, and, thinking it over the next morning, he had decided that he had better not show his face in that town again for a while. She'd been the best he could find after a frustrating search, and he'd been a bit desperate. He felt that one of the nights he was really going to find what he was looking for.

The weather turned much milder with the coming of January, and during the week of the full moon it was almost spring like. The sun shone, and for a brief spell the hill-folk enjoyed a respite from the rigours of winter. Lambing was in full swing, and the losses were slight. Everybody with the exception of Philip Owen gave thanks to the tenacity and marksmanship of Gordon Hall in removing a menace from their midst which could have proved detrimental to their livelihood at this time of the year. One or two of them had noticed that the journalist's car always seemed to be parked in Gunn's yard during the days when Vic was away at Market They saw, but they said nothing, not to Vic, anyway. Gordon Hall was their hero of the hour.

It was at this time that a visitor arrived at the Jones's farm for a belated Christmas holiday. Jennifer Hughes, their niece, was eighteen, dark haired, petite with a vivacious personality. Her parents thought that a week or two in the country would do her good, so, one Friday afternoon she arrived in Llanadevy from Cardiff.

It was during tea on that first evening that Peter Pike changed his plans. Tonight he would stop in! If there were any birds in the outlying townships which he had not located yet, they could wait. Mrs. Jones almost dropped a bowl of stew in surprise, when he casually voiced his intentions. Her husband merely smiled to himself. This could be very interesting!

Peter occupied a place on the sofa, next to Jennifer, after tea, trying to look interested in the hazy television picture which was the best reception they could get in these parts. In fact, he was glad it was so bad, for interest waned, and it gave him a chance to chat up Jennifer.

Eventually the subject of his motorbike cropped up. He described it in detail, exaggerating its capabilities greatly, and he felt some encouragement when he saw a spark of interest in her large dark eyes.

"Ooh! great," she smiled. "I love bikes. I once had a boyfriend who had one. I used to ride on the back sometimes, much more exciting than stuffy old cars."

Half an hour later she was out in the barn with him, watching him tinkering about with the engine, chattering all the time.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you're one of these Hells' Angels," she joked. "We get a lot of them down in South Wales, particularly at weekends in the summer."

"You'd be surprised!" he countered, then, "how about coming out for a spin with me tomorrow night. The weather seems to be holding fine for a few days. We could go to Shrewsbury. There's a horror film on there."

"Ooh, yes! I'd love to!" she giggled in delight at the thought of a variation in what appeared to be routine farmlife for the next couple of weeks. "I like horror films, too. You know, vampires and werewolves, and all that sort of thing. I suppose I enjoy them so much because they aren't real!"

"Right, we'll go to Shrewsbury tomorrow night then," Peter stated with a finality that left no room for a change of mind. He switched off the light, and they returned to the house. Laughing and joking, he smacked Jennifer lightly on the buttocks, allowing his hand to linger there for a second or two. They felt very, very nice. She laughed, and punched him back, playfully. He really could not believe his luck,

"You must be mad!" Mrs. Jones banged the plates angrily down on the table at teatime the next day, and fixed Jennifer with a scowl of disapproval. "Going out on the back of that ,.. that ... contraption. Whatever would your parents say?"

"I expect they'd think it was quite a good idea," Jennifer replied, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I have been on one before, you know, Auntie Evelyn!"

No more was said, and the meal was eaten in an embarrassed silence. Then, the dishes washed, Peter changed into his riding gear, whilst Jennifer put on a thick polo-necked sweater, and a pair of scarlet trousers.

As he changed, Peter peeped through the doorway of his room. The door of Jennifer's room was ajar an inch or two, and he could see the large mirror hanging on the wall in there. His eyes widened lustfully as its reflection afforded him an unrestricted full-length view of the girl changing into her outdoor clothes. He saw the small delightfully shaped breasts, the perfect curves of her hips and buttocks, and when she changed her pants, his eyes bulged in sheer wonderment. Silently he closed his door, and pulled on his own jeans, the fastening of the zip giving him no small amount of difficulty.

The thirty mile ride to Shrewsbury was completed in about three quarters of an hour, through a maze of narrow, winding lanes. She rode pillion with ease and experience, he delighting in the feel of her arms, around his waist, and her face resting on his back.

The film was tolerably good, ending in the usual life or death chase with the werewolf gaining rapidly on the heroine until the hero felled the monster with a single shot from a revolver loaded especially with silver bullets. Jennifer seemed to enjoy it, not resisting when Peter's hand found its way down to her thigh, and remained there for the rest of the performance. She responded warmly to his occasional deep kisses, too. He idly wondered if she was a virgin. He'd know before he went to bed, anyway. If she was now, the odds were that she wouldn't be by the time she got back to Llanadevy! He grinned to himself at this thought as they left the cinema.

Chapter 8

THEY lingered over coffee in a snack bar, not far from the cinema. Peter looked at his watch. It was 11.30. Still, they could lie-in a bit in the morning. He had already thought of a place to pull up on the way back. Jones had an old barn almost at the top of the Pole. It was full of hay to feed the sheep when they had heavy snow and he couldn't get up that steep hill with the tractor and trailer. It would be warm in there. Almost as warm as being in bed.

He did not hurry on the return journey. He was thinking about and savouring what was to be his. Then at last the beam of his headlight picked out the old barn, standing gauntly outlined on the top of the hill, the full moon shining down on it, giving it a ghostly, mysterious appearance. His thoughts flashed back to the film they had just seen, but he forcibly pushed it to the back of his mind. He'd more important things to think about than the fantasies of some film producer's mind. He eased the throttle, slowing down gradually, until they came to a halt beside the stone building. He switched off his engine and lights, and turned to face Jenny. He could see her clearly by the light of the moon, smiling, hair awry, looking at him questioningly.

"Okay to stop off here for a bit?" he tried to keep his voice even. She could take the 'bit' how she liked.

"We'd better not be too late, though. You know what Auntie Evelyn's like."

He wheeled the bike off the road and leaned it against the stone wall, then pushed open the rotting door, which threatened to fall off its hinges. He shone his large rubber-cased torch inside. Bales of straw were stacked around all four walls, leaving a narrow space in the middle, like a corridor. Some bales had been removed from the far end forming a small alcove, and it was there that Peter led Jennifer.

"Ooh!" she was definitely nervous. "I don't care for it much in here."

'I like it anywhere' Peter thought, but aloud he said, "Well, it's better than a damp ditch or a draughty hedgerow."

"Couldn't we just have gone straight home?" It wasn't the type of question he had expected from her.

He did not reply. Instead, he sat down in the hay, and pulled her after him. She seemed much more tense now. Her body was taut, and her kisses were not nearly so responsive. He knew that he would have to work fast if the whole night wasn't to be a flop.

His hand was up inside her sweater, and he cupped it over one of those neat little breasts, easing his forefinger inside the bra, and feeling for the nipple.

"Peter!"

"What?"

"What are you after?"

Well, if she didn't know, he wasn't going to great lengths to explain. He would show her.

His free hand clasped hers, and gently, unhurriedly, he pulled it downwards, till it rested on his thigh. She was trembling. He eased her fingers forward until the tips rested on that hardness beneath his jeans. Suddenly she gasped, and snatched her hand away.

"You ... you've got an erection!" she snapped.

"Of course I bloody well have!" he was beginning to get annoyed now. "Only where I come from we call it a 'hard' and girls usually like to feel it ... to start with, anyway!"

She drew away from him.

"Well... I don't!" there was a finality in her voice.

"You're a virgin aren't you?" he accused, sneeringly. "You've never had it, and you're frightened to try it!"

"So what? Take me home, please, Peter!"

He did not answer. His urge was so great now that he determined that he would have her at any cost. Even if he had to rape her. His pals down in Portsmouth wouldn't take 'no' for an answer! Suddenly, he caught hold of her, and bore her to the floor beneath him, straddling her, and holding her with his thighs whilst he pulled his zip down. Ah, that was better! She screamed. He felt for the fastener on her trousers.

Her hands darted upwards and closed over his moist hardness. Then she twisted, as hard as she could. It was his turn to shout with pain. Taking advantage of the diversion, pulled herself from beneath him, scrambled up, and ran for the door. He writhed in agony for a few seconds before he was capable of stumbling after her. But she had all the start she needed. For a few seconds he caught a glimpse of the moonlit countryside as the door opened, closed, and then she was gone.

"Come back!" he yelled. "Hey, Jenny, I didn't mean.... "

Jennifer Hughes gasped with relief as her feet felt the hard surface of the country lane beneath her. She could see her uncle's farm. It must be straight on down the road. She wished she knew the area better. Yet if she kept to the road Peter would soon overtake her. She might not escape a second time. She hesitated for a moment. There was a gate leading into a field on her left, and it was open. Had the night been pitch dark, no doubt she would have risked the road, but with the surrounding countryside bathed in the silvery light cast by the full moon she decided to cut across the fields. Once she topped the summit of the next hill, she would be afforded a view of all the farms lying in the valley below, and would easily be able to identify her uncle's spread. She was angry as well as frightened. She promised herself one thing. Peter Pike would be on his way back to Portsmouth with all his belongings, by this time tomorrow!

On and on she ran, pausing sometimes for breath and to check on her bearings. Once, she caught her foot, and sprawled headlong in a bed of heather. The summit of that hill was further away than she had at first thought. There was no pursuit. She had not heard Peter start up his motorbike, either. She wondered why, not knowing that he was accustomed to freewheeling down the Pole. The moon was sufficiently bright to enable him to dispense with his powerful headlight also, so his return to the farm went unnoticed.

Jennifer felt that she was making progress at last. The top of the hill in front of her loomed closer now. Once she was past the small spinney she was virtually there. She gulped in lungfuls of night air, and slowed her pace to a walk. Everywhere was still, without a breath of wind, and not even an owl hooted. It was as though the whole world was dead, and she was the last survivor in a strange, sinister planet of silence.

The spinney looked dark and eerie. She was almost inclined to make a detour in order to give it a very wide berth. Yet, she was exhausted, angry, and dishevelled, and she did not feel inclined to prolong her walk any further. What was there to be frightened of, anyway, foxes, badgers? She forced a laugh from her lips as she approached the spinney.

This small cluster of larch and pine trees, fringed with rhododendrons was certainly no more than an acre in size. Originally it had been planted as a sheltering place for sheep. Yet, the sheep were clustered in the far corner, preferring the non-existent shelter of a few strands of barbed-wire. Jennifer supposed this was because it was a warm night.

A twig cheaked. She jumped. Probably a rabbit which was more scared of her than she was of it. Nevertheless, she stopped and listened. She thought she could hear a train. That was silly though, because the railway didn't run this far. She heard it again. More like deep, laboured breathing. But it couldn't be. No human being, nor a sheep, was capable of stentorian breaths like that. There was something in those trees! It was moving now, a heavy, shuffling gait which crushed the undergrowth beneath it. She tried to run, but her feet seemed glued to the ground beneath her, and she could not draw her eyes away from the darkness of that wood. Whatever was it?"

Low branches snapped off before the advancing creature. She could see a movement now, then a shambling, shapeless indistinguishable mass which blended with the shadows. A pair of eyes glowed redly. It stepped into the light of the moon and her sanity deserted her as her eyes beheld the most awful monstrosity which mankind had ever been forced to look upon. It was a werewolf, no doubt about that. It was like the one she had seen at the cinema in Shrewsbury, a couple of hours earlier, only that had been a nice tame one in comparison with this. She was laughing now. It was Peter, only his good looks had deserted him. She had never realised he was so ugly, so fearsome. She wouldn't have gone out with him if she'd thought he looked as awful as this. God, why hadn't she noticed before. She was laughing, babbling away to herself. She might as well let him have what he wanted now. She began pulling off her clothing, frenziedly, the beast standing there watching her, lusting, but too amazed to make any further movements.

Then she was naked, her clothes littering the moonlit ground around her. She lay down on the grass, her knees drawn up, her thighs apart, babbling all the time.

"All right, Peter," she yelled. "I won't run any more. It's all yours. I won't tell Uncle and Auntie either. What are you waiting for?"

Philip Owen was waiting because his fogged mind was incapable of understanding just what was happening. Why did this girl not run from him screaming? Why did she strip naked and offer him that which he had unsuccessfully sought for so long? Was it a trap of some kind? He could not understand that her reason had deserted her, leaving her as mindless as a small child, capable of remembering events only up to a few hours ago.

A shaft of moonlight penetrated between her open thighs, discerning the dark patch from the fair skin. Trap or not, there was no going back. He advanced cautiously. Her knees flopped to one side, and her head lolled backwards. The Mercy which had robbed her of her mental powers in this her last terrible hour, had now claimed her physical ones also, in order to spare her the inevitable pain.

The werewolf's stinking breath was emitted in clouds from his flared nostrils as he bent over her, but there was no response. He fingered her breasts in wonderment, and then hoisted her up so that he could examine her elsewhere. Satisfied, he laid her back on the ground, and then proceeded to take J her in such a fashion that no mortal woman had ever been taken before. At last, one urge satisfied, he gave vent to another.

It was his first taste of human flesh, and he wondered why he had ever bothered with hares and sheep before. The same could be said for the blood, it was like vintage wine. Then, thoroughly satisfied in every way, he turned his back on the gory, mutilated body of Jennifer Hughes, and found his eyes again drawn up towards the moon. He paid homage to his silvery yellow god in the only way he knew how, a long drawn out cry echoing across the hills and vales, chilling the blood of any man or beast who chanced to hear it. Yet, it was different this time. It was complete. Nothing was lacking. It was a cry of fulfilment from a beast who lacked nothing on this night. His every urge had been catered for.

The realisation of what he had done dawned on Philip Owen the moment he set foot back in the safety of his bedroom, before the change back to human form had even begun. He did not need to be told that he was a murderer! He had committed the vilest of crimes, one from which there could be no turning back. His mind was on fire, crazed not only for blood and sex, but with fear of what the future held for him. He had tasted human flesh and blood, and he knew that he could not be denied it again. He lay on his bed, fuming and cursing the silvery orb in the sky outside which held his very destiny in its rays.

However, Philip Owen was not the only one who writhed in mental anguish that night. Only a matter of a quarter of a mile or so away, Peter Pike sat on the edge of his bed, still fully dressed in his biking clothes, his head sunk in his hands, frustration and despair having already conquered his usual carefree nature. Where the hell had that stupid little bitch got to? She should have been back hours ago. Why hadn't he followed her across the fields, instead of taking the easy route home? He knew full well why he had let her go. His rage had been such that he had thought it would teach her a lesson when she discovered that he wasn't going to chase after her like a little puppy. Maybe, she would apologise to him when she got back. She was nothing but a snooty stuck-up little sex-teaser.

Rather than face the wrath of Mr. and Mrs. Jones next morning though, and have to provide some explanation for the absence of their niece, Peter decided that it would be better to go out and try to find her. He would bring her to her senses. Perhaps, with a little more subtlety, he might even seduce her. Wearily he rose to his feet, crept back downstairs and let himself out into the yard.

Dawn was just breaking, that first faint light appearing in the eastern sky, as Peter retraced his steps along the road towards Jones's barn. It was an effort to move one foot in front of the other as he ascended the Pole, and entered the field where he had last seen Jennifer fleeing from him in the moonlight.

It was getting light fast now, and the bright moonlight was being replaced by a dull, overcast morning. He felt in his pockets, found a crushed packet of cigarettes and a box of matches and lit one. His hands shook, and he realised that he was very, very frightened. He wished that he had never left the security of the hustle and bustle of Portsmouth.

He saw the spinney in front of him, and, like Jennifer had done a few hours earlier, he decided to ascend the hill and survey the surrounding countryside from its summit. A buzzard wheeled high in the sky above him, gliding effortlessly, scarcely moving its ragged, moth-like wings, mewing all the time as if to summon others of its species to a sumptuous feast. Ahead of him a pair of carrion crows croaked their dissent as they flapped up out of the long grass where they had been feeding on something. Probably a dead sheep, Peter thought. He saw a fox disappearing over the brow of the hill. God, he thought, half the predators of the Black Hill are out for an early breakfast on Jones's field this morning.

He did not see the heap of mutilated flesh until he was almost upon it. Indeed, he might have stepped right on it. At first he did not recognise it for what it was. The buzzard had removed the eyes, at first light, so the crows had had to content themselves with a nipple apiece. The fox had tried to take a length of entrails with him, but they had become entangled in a gorse-bush en route so, hearing Man approaching, it had decided prudently to forego its breakfast.

As realisation began to dawn upon him, Peter felt his stomach heaving and he vomited involuntarily. His knees started to buckle and the world seemed to be going black in front of his eyes. He was unconscious as he pitched forward to fall headlong, with a sucking squelching sound, amid the remains of Jennifer Hughes.

Chapter 9

GORDON HALL was on the Black Hill at first light that fateful Sunday morning. Due to pressure of work he had been unable to check his line of fox-snares for almost a week, so he decided upon an early start. During the first hour he took two dead foxes out of his wires, each was caught around the neck, and had died swiftly. He did not like leaving his snares longer than necessary without inspecting them, for, despite his ruthlessness he was reluctant to cause unnecessary suffering of any kind, no matter how high the species of vermin were on his 'wanted list'.

As he emerged from the woods, he noticed three buzzards circling and mewing incessantly over Jones's top field. It was unusual to see more than one of these large hawks working any one particular field, and he guessed there must be a very good reason for their presence there. It might be a ewe having difficulty lambing, and the predators were biding their time waiting until she was virtually helpless before they attacked her defenceless offspring. Gordon had no right to carry a gun on Joneses land, but he decided that he had better investigate. It was probably only just a dead sheep, offering an easy breakfast to birds of prey, but one never knew…

With Remus at his heels he opened the gate, and walked into the field. A raven glided out of a solitary Scot's pine, croaking angry disapproval at the approach of Man. There was a puzzled look on Gordon Hall's face. The buzzards had been circling high in the sky. The raven had contented himself with a distant vigil. Why had they not dropped down to feed on whatever it was they had their eyes on?

Then he saw a movement, something black, stirring in the long grass, twenty yards or so ahead of him. Memories of the killer sheepdog, Loup, came flooding back to him, and he automatically flicked the safety catch forward on his gun. Remus, however, neither cringed nor growled, and remembering that Loup was dead, Gordon decided that there must be a logical explanation for whatever it was that lay ahead of him.

Another ten yards and he halted abruptly, aghast at what he saw before him. Peter Pike, Jones's student farmer, was struggling to his feet. There was a wild, terrified look on his face, his biking clothes and his hands plastered with half-congealed blood. His long hair flopped over his face, and he was making some attempt to speak, babbling incoherently.

"I... dead ... Jennifer ... help me...!"

Gordon Hall then saw the mutilated, pulped up mass of what had once been a human being, lying in a bloody heap at the youth's feet, entrails strewn all around.

"Christ!" the journalist stopped in his tracks, just staring unbelievingly. His mouth dropped open, and for one of the few times in his life he was completely lost for words.

Peter staggered towards him, and Gordon drew back, not wishing to be touched by those bloody, filthy, stinking hands.

"Help me," the youth sobbed. "For Christ's sake "

Gordon's hand darted forward, catching the other a back-hander across the face, with a noise like a pistol shot, sending him staggering back so that he almost fell.

"Pull yourself together!" he snapped, revulsion building up inside him, and almost causing him to vomit. However he knew that shock-treatment was best for the youth at this moment.

Pikey looked at him, unbelievingly, his blood-stained hand holding the side of his face where the blow had landed. He seemed to be trying to reason with himself.

"You did this?" Gordon could only conclude that Peter was responsible for the foul murder. The body, or rather what was left of it, was totally unrecognisable. Anyway he had never seen Jennifer Hughes.

"No ... No!" the youth screamed. "I didn't do it! You've got to believe me, Mr. Hall, I never touched her!"

Gordon Hall didn't believe him. It was most unlikely that someone of Pikey's calibre, finding a mutilated corpse in the fields would examine it so closely that his hands and clothes became covered in blood. He decided that he had surprised the other just after he had committed a vile sexual attack, when his mind was not his own. He kept a tight grip on his gun and was careful to keep Peter at arm's length. He did not like the idea of getting too close to a maniacal sex-murderer, a rural Jack the Ripper. Automatically, the twin barrels of his gun became trained on the stomach of the wild-eyed farmworker in front of him.

"I think we'd better go and get some help," Gordon's voice was shaking slightly, and as the stench from the foul mutilation drifted his way, he had to fight to prevent himself from retching again. "We'll go down to Gunn's farm. There's a 'phone there. Now walk in front of me, and no tricks. Public opinion'll be right behind me if I were to cut you in half with a charge o' buckshot!"

Horror, a different kind of fear, incorporating amazement, flooded over Peter Pike's face.

"God! You ... you dont think I did it, d'you, Mr. Hall? I swear to you I never touched her. I..."

"Never mind what I think," Hall's confidence was returning now, shrugging off the awfulness of what he had seen. A sudden thought crossed his mind. After he'd telephoned the police, he would make a call to one of the big London 'dailies'. This was the best scoop he'd ever had. It would make his name. He even laughed silently to himself. Fate had certainly looked after him this morning.

"Get moving!" he snapped. "I haven't all day."

Vic Gunn looked out of the kitchen window in surprise as he saw Peter Pike staggering into the yard, followed by Gordon Hall, the barrels of his gun trained unerringly on the small of the other's back.

"What in the name of fortune...!" he pulled the door open.

Margaret, who was half way down the stairs, felt her heart miss a beat. It always did when she saw the bearded writer, whether she was expecting him or not. Unconsciously she began straightening her fair hair, concerned at her appearance at this time of the morning.

"It's Gordon ... Mr. Hall...!" she gasped, but Vic was already half way across the yard, out of earshot.

'There's been a murder!" Gordon snapped, revelling in the shocked expression which instantly appeared on the hill-farmer's face. He was not prepared to go into lengthy explanations and details at this stage. "I want to use your 'phone. Police first, then a call to London."

"Peter?" the stunned Vic Gunn was incapable of coherent speech.

"He did it!" Hall snarled. He passed his loaded gun to the farmer. "Don't let him out of your sight, and watch him like a hawk. If you'd seen what I've just seen in Jones's top field, you'd have no hesitation in shooting him here and now!"

"I didn't do it!" Peter screamed hysterically after the retreating figure of Gordon Hall. "I tell you I never even touched her!"

Gordon pushed Margaret firmly back in the house as she came to the door.

"What's going on?" she breathed, her face flushed.

"You'd better keep out of this," he kissed her quickly, "that youth's murdered a girl up by the Black Hill. I came upon him after he'd done it. Don't know who she was. It doesn't bear talking about it!"

Margaret felt her legs weakening and sat down on the nearest chair. Her lover had picked up the receiver and was already dialling a number.

P.C. Winter was not accustomed to rising before nine o'clock on Sunday, irrespective of whether he was on duty or not. Consequently it was a bad-tempered, pyjama-clad constable who got up from his warm comfortable bed, and trudged downstairs, cursing fluently in his broad border accent.

"Police Station, Llanadevy!" his voice was authoritative, prepared to remonstrate with the caller over the unnecessary disturbance at this ungodly hour. Maybe somebody had discovered another case of sheep-rustling, on going to tend his flock that morning. Well, it could have waited. The thieves would be miles away by now, anyway.

"A murder?" his voice rose in surprise, shocked, trembled, "did you say a murder sir?"

He was already shedding his night attire with his free hand, as he listened. It would have to happen on a Sunday!

There was quite a crowd of people at Gunn's farm when P.C. Winter arrived in the green mini-van, bearing the luminous 'POLICE' on its doors. Everybody was congregated in the main living room, amid a hub-bub of voices. Seated in a chair in the corner was Peter Pike, his head sunk in his hands, still clad in his filthy, blood-stained clothes. There was no sign of Gordon Hall's gun.

"Mornin' all," the burly constable adjusted his tunic and removed his helmet as he stepped over the threshold Suddenly he felt the most important man in the world. He couldn't ever remember a murder in Llanadevy before, and they might not have another one during his time of office, so he felt that he'd better make an extra special job of this one. He looked around him, sizing up the crowd of people, seeing just who was present.

There were the Gunns, of course, Gordon Hall, a very distressed Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Gwynne Owen, but not Philip, and the boy, Pike."

"It's our Jennifer, officer!" Mrs. Jones wasn't very far away from hysteria. "She hasn't arrived home. She's been out all night with him!" Her accusing finger was pointing at the silent, slumped figure of Pikey, "the dirty murderin' pig!"

"Now, now, let's have a few facts, without jumping to conclusions," P.C. Winter could not help noticing, with satisfaction, the blood which was congealed all over Peter Pike's clothing. This should be very straightforward. "Now I believe it was you who found the body, Mr. Hall, so if I could take a statement off you now, I'd like you to come with me, and show me the scene of the crime. Perhaps Mr. Jones you would be good enough to accompany us. The body will have to be identified!"

Amid the stifled sobs of Mrs. Jones, and the whispered words of comfort from her husband, Gordon Hall slowly, painfully, gave his story, frustrated, as the officer of the law wrote it all down, his ball-point pen gripped firmly in his meaty fingers, forming each word with deliberation.

Half an hour later, Gordon Hall stood back whilst Winter and Mr. Jones surveyed the remnants of Jennifer Hughes. The policeman lost the majority of his ruddy complexion in a matter of seconds. Jones vomited, and almost collapsed. Gordon turned his back and looked the other way. He saw no point in revolting himself unnecessarily. In fact, he wanted to get away as quickly as possible for no other reason than to hammer out the thousand words on his typewriter which he had already promised one of the editors of a leading daily paper. The sooner he was on his way back to the industrial Midlands the better. The paper were sending someone to collect his manuscript and interview him at the same time. This horrific killing now held a distinct financial interest for him.

Back at Gunn's farm, P.C. Winter decided to take Peter Pike back to Llanadevy police station once he had taken a short statement from him. The farming community had already tried and convicted the lad of a ghastly sexual murder, and the policeman thought the youth would be better off under police supervision. The meeting broke up. Farmer Jones used Vic Gunn's telephone to convey the terrible news to Jennifer Hughes's parents. P.C. Winter took Peter Pike away in the mini-van, and Gordon Hall drove away as fast as he could through the narrow country lanes, intent only on completing his article on the vilest murder of the decade by six o'clock that night.

The only person in Llanadevy who appeared to show not the slightest interest in the horror was Philip Owen. He went about his chores as usual after his father came back from Gunn's and told him the news. Yet his mind was in a terrible torment. It was bad enough knowing that he had committed the murder, and mutilated the girl's body, but it seemed as though Peter Pike was going to get the blame for it. Philip wept bitterly, giving vent completely to his feelings once he was out of his father's sight. Just how could one go and surrender oneself to the law as a werewolf?

Chapter 10

SCOTLAND YARD had taken a distinct interest in Llanadevy by lunchtime on that fateful Sunday. The dapper, sarcastic Chief Detective-Inspector Ford, accompanied by his inseparable assistant Detective-Sergeant Bayley, arrived post-haste to lead the murder investigation. Having established their murder-headquarters at the Llanadevy Police Station, Ford instructed P.C. Winter to lead them to the scene of the crime, which, in the meantime, was being guarded by P.C Wain from Craven Arms.

"We've either got to charge this boy Pike very shortly or let him go," Ford told Winter as they ascended the steep hill on foot, followed by a team of six men, whose job it was to do everything from photographing the murder to arranging a post-mortem. "From what you tell me" constable, I think we shall be charging him before tea-time!"

The Inspector was obviously used to giving orders and having them obeyed instantly. Winter noticed this fact from the manner in which Sergeant Bayley rushed to his bidding at the slightest command. Yet, rumour had it throughout the Force that it was through Bayley's perseverance and attention to detail that most of the cases with which his superior had been credited, had been solved. P.C. Winter meant to tread very carefully where Ford was concerned.

"That's the place over there by that spinney, sir," he informed Ford as they reached the top of the first hill. "That's Wain standing over by those gorse bushes, sir."

"I've got eyes thank you, constable," Chief Detective-Inspector Ford retorted icily, and the Llanadevy Policeman lapsed into sullen silence. Bayley, the keen wind blowing into his lean hawk-like face with its receding brow and bushy eyebrows, chuckled silently to himself. The chief was always the same when he was on a high profile case. Liked to take it out on somebody. Didn't really mean it. More of a way of expressing his own pent-up feelings. Letting off steam. The country copper had set himself up for it by remarking on the obvious. Ford never liked the obvious. It was a case of two opposite poles meeting. Bayley chuckled again. Maybe he was going to have an easier time of it on this case, now that his boss had found a new whipping boy.

"Nasty! Decidedly nasty!" It was now (the Chief Inspector's turn to comment on that which was obvious to all and sundry. His men were hard at work, taking photographs, and cordoning the area off with bamboo sticks and twine. P.C. Winter felt conspicuous by his inability to help. He just stood there, lamenting the fact that somebody had taken it into his head to commit this crime in his area. A quarter of a mile further north, and the man in blue at Clun could have shouldered the full responsibility. Still, that was life.

Ford was paying particular attention to a strip of flesh which had been ripped, but not torn away completely from the girl's abdomen.

"P.C. Winter!" there was a trace of excitement in the Yard man's voice. "Do you by any chance have a safari park anywhere in the locality?"

"No sir!"

"A zoo, a private menagerie?"

"Nothing at all like that, sir."

"Strange," Ford stood up, and surveyed the countryside around him, the valleys below with the smoke drifting up from the crofters' cottages, and the sheep peacefully grazing the hillsides above. "Sergeant Bayley," the big man stepped forward, "this girl was killed by a wild animal!"

Bayley knew better than to offer some ludicrous comment. He knelt, and scrutinised that part of the dead girl's body which he had seen Ford examining so minutely.

"My God!" His face was ashen as he turned back to his chief. "I've never seen anything like this in the whole of my career, sir. These slashes have been made by gigantic claws!" He joined Ford in a further examination of the rest of the mutilated flesh. "Just look at the throat sir! It's been torn apart by teeth, ruddy great two-inch fangs!"

He saw that one of the other men was investigating between the girl's thighs.

"Has … has …?" he seemed unable to ask the question, knowing that it was no ordinary man who had attacked Jennifer Hughes.

"Yes sir," the other replied, not meeting the sergeant's gaze. "I'm afraid he has. I only hope to God, sir, that she was dead before he did that!"

Peter Pike was already envisaging what the inside of a top security prison would be like. Of course, he would be kept in 'solitary'. Sex-killers always were. They had to be, otherwise the other convicts would soon give them a taste of their justice. What else was there for him to say? He had told his story, correct in every detail, including the attempted seduction. There was nothing more he could add. He didn't know who could have done that to Jennifer, but whoever it was, he Peter Pike was going to carry the can! He looked across at the young constable who was sitting at the desk, busily writing out some reports. He envied the man. He was free to go home to his family when his day's work was done. Peter sobbed silently. He might never see his home again. He wished that he'd never left Portsmouth, and come to this accursed place. Accursed! He remembered hearing old Gwynne Owen rambling on about the Black Dogs once. That must be it! The ghostly dogs had mutilated Jennifer as she fled from them in the moonlight. He must tell the policeman at once. He opened his mouth to speak, and then, with a groan, he closed it again. They would never believe him. These top detectives from London wouldn't swallow that one! Another thought crossed his mind. Maybe the ghosts of the Ancient Druids of the Pen-y-Wern Stone Circle had returned to offer a sacrifice to their god as the first rays of the rising sun fell on the Black Hill. It couldn't be that, though, for there had been no sun that morning. It had been cloudy and dull. Therefore, it must have been the Black Dogs.

Then he heard the others returning, Ford's voice audible above those of his subordinates. Of course, they would be charging him now, charging him with murder! He heard them enter the other room, and then someone began dialling a telephone number. After a pause, the Chief Detective-Inspector's voice came drifting, somewhat muffled, through the closed door.

"The strangest business I've come across in many a year," the Yard man was obviously reporting back to London. "Yes, yes, quite. The body shows all the signs of having been savaged by a wild animal!" There was a pause. Obviously the person on the other end of the line was taking some convincing. "No, no, not a dog. No chance. Something much bigger. There are some tracks on the ground nearby. Mallinson seems to think it could be a wolf. No, I can't check the zoos and safari parks. There aren't any in the area. Chester's the nearest. All right, I'll ring in again tomorrow."

There was a click as the receiver was replaced on the hook, and then the door opened. Chief Detective-Inspector Ford and Detective-Sergeant Bayley entered. Peter Pike looked up at them, bewilderment on his face.

"All right, m'lad," Ford seldom smiled. "You might as well get off home. Don't go too far away though. We shall probably be wanting to talk to you again before this business is cleared up."

"Home?" Pikey could hardly get the word out, gulping his reply, "you ... you mean, I can go... home, sir?"

'That's what I said," snapped the other, thinking this country boy to be excessively stupid. "Why, don't you want to? Would you sooner be locked up here?"

"Oh no sir," Peter's relief caused his eyes to well up with tears. "It's just ... just that I ... didn't think there was any way out"

"You're in the clear," the policeman replied, "but the problem is ours. If you happen to see a big grey wolf trotting round the lanes, give us a ring, won't you?"

"You'm not comin' back here to stay, m'lad!" Evelyn Jones made her intentions clear the moment Peter walked into the house. He had taken the precaution of dumping his filthy, blood-stained jacket over a hedge on the walk back from Llanadevy. He was prepared for a hostile reception, but, after all, he had nowhere else to go. He would willingly have walked the eight miles to the station and taken the first train back to Portsmouth, but the police had warned him not to leave the locality.

"You don't think you're going to stay under this roof again, do you?" Mrs. Jones was beside herself with bitterness and grief. "Not after what you done to our Jennifer."

"But I didn't kill Jennifer," Peter almost screamed.

"Maybe, maybe not. Those policemen'll find that out. But if you 'adn't tried to mess about with 'er, she'd be 'ere 'avin' 'er tea now. You killed 'er, Peter Pike, as surely as if you ripped 'er to pieces with them two filthy 'ands o' yours. So, you're not comin' back 'ere. Jennifer's mother and father will be 'ere in a couple of hours or so, and I'm sure they don't want to set eyes on you. I've packed your suitcase. Your bike's out there in the barn. So you can get off right now. We don't ever want to see you again!"

"Aye," Gwynne Owen stood in the doorway, surveying the dishevelled youth who stood on the step, looking past him to where the motorbike stood, the single suitcase roped on to it. "Aye, I heard they'd set you free. I didn't think for a minute you'd killed her, Peter, however much you might have been responsible. These policemen keep ignoring the Black Dogs. That's why they're gettin' nowhere. I didn't think the whole thing would be cleared up when Gordon Hall shot Loup. So the Jones's have kicked you out, have they? I suppose I'd've done the same in their position."

"I wondered if you'd any room for an extra hand," Peter ventured. "Just for a week or so. The police want me to hang around for a bit."

"Well," Gwynne Owen scratched his unruly mop of grey hair, and thought hard. "Now that I've lost Loup, we are goin' to be a bit pushed. Guess I'll be mighty unpopular with the folks hereabouts if I take you in, but, damn it! I'll chance that. You'd better put your bike in the barn, and bring your suitcase in. You'll have to share a room with Philip though!"

Gordon Hall's story made the headlines in one of the leading daily newspapers the next morning: "GIRL'S MUTILATED BODY FOUND AFTER MOONLIGHT STROLL." The grim and gruesome details were given, ending with the familiar announcement that "a man is, at present, helping the police with their enquiries." However, the next edition reported that "the man helping the police with their enquiries has now been allowed to leave. A police spokesman told reporters that the killing is believed to be the work of a wild animal, possibly a wolf escaped from captivity. No such escape has been reported, and people living in the Clun area have been advised to remain indoors after darkness."

Chief Detective-Inspector Ford looked up from his temporary desk at the murder headquarters in the Llanadevy Police Station, and glanced quizzically at Detective-Sergeant Bayley. Both men were haggard due to lack of sleep and the frustration of not coming up with the results for which they had hoped. It was now Tuesday evening, dusk was falling and the weather seemed to be turning colder again.

"Well," Ford sighed, pushing a pile of statements and reports to one side leaning back in his chair and methodically filling his pipe. 'Two and a half days of extensive enquiries, sheets of statements and reports, and what have we got to show for it? Nothing. Nothing at all!"

"Yet," Bayley was always a source of encouragement to his chief, "we've established that the girl was definitely killed by an animal. More than likely a wolf. If that's the case, the wolf must be hiding somewhere in the locality. More than likely in these Black Hill woodlands. Now, he's got to show himself before long. He's got to come out for food. It's only a matter of days before we get him."

"Like the Sussex Puma," retorted the despondent Ford. "Just think how long he remained at large for?"

"That's all very well," the Detective-Sergeant replied. "But I was thinking that maybe if we can't get him to come to us, we could go to him. If we could muster every farmer, shepherd and - anyone who has a gun, surround these woods, and let the local Hunt drive through it with a pack of hounds. We could flush him out that way. Suppose we try and get something organised for the end of the week, Friday or Saturday?"

"Well, it's worth a try," Ford appeared to cast off his despondency at the prospect of action. "It's better than sitting around here on our arses coming up with theories which all amount to nothing."

Philip Owen did not like the idea of sharing his room with Pikey. Apart from the fact he had always disliked the boy from Portsmouth, he began to wonder what would happen when the full moon arrived. He was relieved that Peter was not going to prison for a crime which he, as a werewolf, had committed. Yet, it was going to be extremely inconvenient to have someone sleeping in the same room when he automatically underwent the change. Still, perhaps Peter was a heavy sleeper. Indeed, he hoped so. As he thought about everything which he had undergone these past few weeks, he became panic-stricken. He wanted to shout, to scream, to run and hide, and, above all, he wanted to die, the only sure way in which he could free himself from his affliction and safeguard the people who lived in the area of the Black Hill. Yet, he knew that was impossible. He wondered if werewolves ever died, or if they just ravaged on for all time. He thought again about Peter. The boy could not have been in graver danger. He would only have to look upon the face of the werewolf once, and he would meet the same fate as Jennifer Hughes. And there was nothing Philip Owen could do about it.

Chapter 11

FRIDAY morning dawned bright and clear. The sun climbed its way into a clear blue sky, melting the thick hoar frost as its rays increased in warmth. The air was crisp and exhilarating, encouraging those whose business took them out of doors, to keep on the move.

Gordon Hall parked his car in Gwynne Owen's farmyard, and walked over to a band of twenty or so men who were talking excitedly in the barn. Coming down the Pole he could see the seven or eight mounted huntsmen, clad in scarlet jackets and white riding breeches. A pack of twenty or so foxhounds yapped excitedly in their wake, constantly being reprimanded by the whipper-in, a small, ferret-faced man who obviously enjoyed exerting his authority, even if it was only over these dogs. The Master of Foxhounds, a tall man who sat bolt upright in his saddle, had a military bearing and one had the opinion that he was not to be trifled with. He wore a look of forbearance on his face, the expression of a man who is doing something to please others, at the same time realising how foolish they are. He had ridden to hounds for the last forty years, but never had he hunted any other quarry than the fox. Wolves indeed! However, he was confident that the day would end in a fox-hunt after all, as soon as the hounds picked up scent. Not even the might of Scotland Yard would be able to stop them then!

Gordon Hall greeted the others in the barn. It amused him to see the two detectives Ford and Bayley, dressed in thick sweaters and Wellington boots. Gwynne Owen and Jones were leaning on their long ash-sticks, surveying each new arrival with a keen interest. Almost the whole male population of Llanadevy was there, plus a few more recruited from the outlying farms, each bringing a gun of some description. The weapons ranged from modern hammerless 'bests' to rusty old hammer-guns, the stocks bound up with wire and binder-twine. Each man had a couple of "heavies", large shot cartridges usually kept for use against marauding foxes which ventured too close to the farms in hard weather. Each and every one of these hill-folk was convinced that he was going to be the one to shoot the wolf, having enacted the scene m his own mind ever since this large scale hunt had been arranged the previous day. The hounds would be in full cry, baying hard on the savage beast's heels. The brute would crash from cover in full flight. The first shot would be sufficient, taking it full in its bloody, fearsome jaws, yet he would give it the second barrel as it rolled over, just for good measure. Then, he would stand back, and watch the hounds rip it to pieces, adopting a pose, gun cradled beneath his arm, that would find its way into the national newspapers. It was a step towards fame - The Shropshire Wolf-killer!

Gordon Hall had no time for daydreams. He was only concerned with realities. He was annoyed that there was supposedly a wolf at large on his shoot, obliterating all the goodwill he had earned himself by shooting Loup. There was something very, very strange about the whole business.

The only two members of the male community who would not be joining the wolf-hunt were Philip Owen and Peter Pike. The former was staying behind to look after the farm, whilst the latter, after his recent experiences, was in no shape to tread that same ground again.

Soon everybody was present, and, under the leadership of Gordon Hall and the Scotland Yard officials, they all set off on foot up the steep hill, the journalist's task being to place guns at strategic points around the woodlands. Then, in approximately an hour's time, the hounds would enter the furthermost part of the forest, followed by the scarlet-clad riders.

"If there's a wolf in there," Chief Detective-Inspector Ford stated, drawing deeply on his pipe, "we'll soon know about it!"

Meanwhile Philip and Peter were going about their jobs systematically. Gwynne Owen rarely set Philip any specific tasks, for his son knew exactly what had to be done to enable the farm to run smoothly. Whatever he lacked in the way of education or brains was more than compensated for in this way. Philip now had Pikey under his control, so it was necessary to find him enough work to keep him busy for the day. He thought about it as they watched the party of hunters depart. He didn't particularly want the boy's company all day long, and he would prefer to tend the sheep himself. What could he find Peter Pike to do? The sight of their dwindling pile of logs outside the kitchen door suddenly gave him an idea.

"You'm better saw some logs," he sullenly told the youth. "There's a circular saw behind the long barn at the end of the yard. There's plenty of wood there that we dragged down from the hills a few weeks ago. I'll come and start you off."

Pikey looked at the ancient circular saw with a certain amount of horror.

"You'm supposed to have guards on those things," he pointed out, not liking what he saw. "Why, you could cut yer blasted 'ead off if you didn't watch what you was doin'!"

"Ah, you'm only need a guard if you employ somebody, so Dad says," Philip retorted, his dislike of the other evident in his tone of voice.

"You'm employin' me!"

"Not us. You'm just doin' a few jobs to earn your keep!"

Peter's knuckles showed white on his clenched fists as he fought to restrain himself from pushing his fist into the other's face. However, he realised that he needed the shelter and food here for the next week or two, until the police were agreeable to his return to Portsmouth. With an oath, he turned his back on his tormentor, and started up the saw, its whine making further conversation impossible. Philip returned to the house to collect his sandwiches. He always took sandwiches when he worked on the top fields, for it was not worth the time and effort involved in coming home for his lunch. As he stuffed the packet into his pocket, a sudden thought struck his usually dim brain. There was a way to remove the danger of Peter Pike. He wondered why he had not thought of it before.

He walked back round the barns. There was no need to tread quietly, for the saw was making sufficient noise to drown the sound of his approach, even had he been wearing steel-soled shoes. He peered cautiously round the corner of the end shed. Pikey had his back to him, busily operating the antiquated saw, less than six feet away. Philip knew that there was no going back from his new plan.

Peter finished the branch he was cutting. The blade was spinning freely, viciously, for a moment. Philip tensed himself, then he sprang. His outstretched palms took Pikey in the small of the back. He pitched forward. Whether he screamed or not Philip never knew, for the whine of the blade obliterated all other sounds.

The sharp rusty blade bit deep into the youth's neck, cutting far deeper and more easily than it did any log of wood. Blood spurted in a rapid scarlet jet as the jugular vein was severed. Then, head and body parted company, the circular blade spattering blood everywhere, and increasing speed as it was freed of its obstruction once more.

Philip stood and watched, fascinated, as Pikey's head rolled over and over down the short slope, finally coming to rest against the side of the barn. The blood covered face still wore the expression of pain and horror which had flashed across it as Peter found himself falling under the blade. The body collapsed beneath the saw, blood pumping and welling up into a pool, soaking through the tattered clothing.

Still Philip stood there, looking with a kind of dazed satisfaction at the result of his handiwork. Perfect, he mused, couldn't be better. The ground was rock hard, so there was no question of any footmarks, although he would soon have explained them away if there had been. Of course he would have shown Pikey how to work the saw. The fact that he'd gone and put his head in the way wasn't anybody else's fault s except Peter's. An accident, just one of those things!

He turned away, and plodded steadily up the hill. He felt much more at ease now. The menace of Peter Pike had been expertly removed, with no hint of foul play. He listened to, the noise of the circular saw, still monotonously whining away as he had left it. It was like music in his ears.

Gordon Hall leaned up against the stunted oak tree, some twenty yards or so outside the Black Hill boundary, and looked at his watch. All the guns were in position. It was five minutes to zero hour. Already he could hear the hounds baying in eagerness on the far side of the hill, for there was virtually no wind. The scent would be good in those dense dry thickets today. Not that he expected to see a wolf, anyway.

Fifty yards to his left he could see Chief Inspector Ford, crouching amid a cluster of gorse bushes, a borrowed shotgun in his hands. The journalist laughed softly to himself as a sudden thought crossed his mind. Just suppose they did flush a wolf and it was missed by the guns, better still if it was botched up by the two yard men who were unfamiliar with the handling of shotguns! Gordon's ego liked the thought, and then he heard the hounds moving off.

The still air was shattered by the cries of the eager fox-hounds. Gordon could judge their progress by the sound of the baying. They were in the quarry, then moved up to draw the open nine acres of treeless heather.

Suddenly their tone changed. They were in full cry now. Nearer and nearer they came. He moved his gun into a more comfortable position, just in case, judging that it would be fully a quarter of an hour before anything emerged from the trees. Then silence. The hounds had lost the scent, and were circling round, trying to pick it up again. The baying restarted a few minutes later. They were much nearer now.

There is no more picturesque sight than a fully-grown dog-fox in full flight, his brush streaming behind him, with a pack of hounds in full, but futile pursuit. The red-coated riders, vainly bringing up the rear, completed the scene. Gordon wished that he had had his camera with him as all three factions streamed from the wood, loaded with colour film. Such a picture would make a perfect Christmas card.

The fox, hounds, and riders were well clear of the wood now, passing the line of guns with gay abandon, and heading down towards the valley. Gordon blew his whistle to signal to the others that the drive was over. He was quite confident that any wolf skulking in any of the plantations would not have been overlooked by the dogs. Nevertheless, as regards a wolf-hunt, the day was a failure. Disappointment was evident on the faces of all those who had volunteered their services. At least they had hoped to see something.

As the party trudged dejectedly in the direction of Gwynne Owen's farm, they passed Philip in the top field, seated under the hedge, eating his sandwiches.

"Where's Peter?" Gwynne paused to ask him as they trooped by.

"I left 'im cuttin' logs," Philip grinned back, "listen, you can hear the saw going. Musta cut a stack. Bin at it over two hours."

"Good idea o' yourn," his father praised him, turning away to catch up with the others. "Keep 'im outta mischief!"

"Well, we still haven't seen that wolf of yours," Gordon Hall tried to needle the two detectives, speaking loud enough for all to hear, as they trudged wearily back down the hillside. Ford looked at him, scowled, but said nothing. Bayley tried to make out that he hadn't heard.

"You'm not likely to," it was Gwynne Owen, bringing up the rear who answered him. "Wolves, be damned! I told you all before, and I'm tellin' you again. There ain't a wolf between here and Chester Zoo. The sooner you realise it's the Black Dogs you'm up against the better!" He paused for breath, leaned on his long ash-stick and regarded them all with an expression such as the Ancient Mariner must have used when he scrutinised the wedding guests, holding them spellbound.

"We've had trouble here already," he croaked, "but, believe you me, there's more to come. Them Black Dogs have got it in fer us. If I could sell up, and leave, tomorrow, you wouldn't catch me within ten miles o' the Black Hill agin. Yep, there's trouble brewin'. I never bin so certain of anythin' in my life before!"

As they entered the farmyard, Gwynne Owen suddenly realised that the circular saw had not changed its tone during the whole time it had taken them to walk down from the Black Hill.

"That boy's left the saw runnin'," he grunted, breaking away from the party. "That's the trouble with the youth o' today, can't be trusted to do a job properly."

They saw him disappear towards the sheds at the end of the yard. Suddenly, he reappeared, his face ashen, his whole frame trembling as he leaned on the wall for support.

"My God!" his hoarse whisper was more horrible than any terrified scream, depicting some terrible horror which could not be spoken of aloud. "It's the boy! He's, e's ... cut his blasted'ead off!"

Then his knees gave way, and Gordon Hall was just in time to catch him as he slumped forward. While the journalist gently laid the old man on the ground, Ford and Bayley darted round the corner to the place where the saw was whining out its message of death. The others crowded quickly on the heels of the two detectives, eager not to miss some horrific spectacle. All stood and stared silently. There was nothing to say. Nothing anybody could do, either. The severed head of Peter Pike fixed them with an unblinking stare. Even the hardened Yard men paled at this, their second mind-searing sight of death, in its most horrible form, within five days.

Chapter 12

LLANADEVY had not held a coroner's court for five years, the last one being when old Walter Parson had hanged himself after years of loneliness following his wife's death. Now they were faced with two, both being held on the same day in order to avoid the coroner having to make the journey twice out to this remote village. The school was packed for the occasion, but if any of the people who flocked there on the following Monday morning hoped for a sensational outcome, they were sorely disappointed.

The verdict of "accidental death" was brought in on Peter Pike after only ten minutes. Gwynne Owen was severely reprimanded for allowing the boy access to a circular saw that was not fitted with a guard. There was no hint of legal action being taken against the farmer, for, as the boy was not on his payroll there could be no question of him having been in his employ. Pikey was merely being allowed to reside at the farm for as long as the police required him to remain in the vicinity.

However, the case of Jennifer Hughes presented something far more complex. Chief Detective-Inspector Ford, and Detective-Sergeant Bayley had sufficient evidence to convince the court that the girl had, in fact, met her death at the claws and fangs of a savage wild animal, presumed to be a wolf. Where was the wolf? Nobody knew. How had it come to be in the vicinity of the Black Hill? No such animal had been reported missing from either a zoo or a private menagerie, and it had not been heard of since the killing. Eventually a verdict of 'death by misadventure' was reluctantly brought in. Nobody was satisfied, neither the coroner, the court, nor the inhabitants of Llanadevy. Yet, they could do no more.

The end of that week saw the departure of the Scotland Yard men and their assistants. There was little point in their remaining in Shropshire for, if there was a wild beast at large, then the local constabulary were equally as competent at plotting its capture as the two top men of the Force whose services would be better employed elsewhere. Another fortnight, and life around the Black Hill returned more or less to normal. Yet, people still locked their doors and windows and feared to go out after dark. Some were convinced that the age-old Black Dogs had at last returned to their domain. Others feared the Ancient Druids. The remainder were just afraid.

Philip Owen was glad when the policemen left. In a way he felt omnipotent, He had killed twice, and, in so doing had fooled the two best detectives in the country. That wasn't bad for an illiterate sheep-farmer, who had spent all his life on the Black Hill!

Naturally, his mind was still tormented by the knowledge that his curse was still with him. He became even more apprehensive as the week of the February full moon drew near. He knew there was no question of him not answering the call.

He returned from the fields one evening, about two days before the moon was due, and went straight up to his room to wash and change. He had not noticed, on entering the house, the whispered conversation which was being held between his mother and father, nor the gravity of their expressions. So engrossed was he in his own thoughts that he ate his meal in silence, oblivious to the expressions on the faces of his parents. Under normal circumstances the atmosphere would have been tense. Indeed, it was now, only he just did not notice, setting about his plate of mashed potato and swede with the relish known only to those who work outdoors.

Finally the table was cleared, the dishes washed. Blodwyn Owen came back into the room, holding something behind her back, and closed the door.

"Philip!" her voice carried both consternation and a reprimand. "We'd like an explanation off you. What've you bin up to?"

"Eh?" the young man looked up from the hazy television screen, "what're you on about, Mum?"

"These!" Mrs. Owen virtually shrieked the word, and flung a bundle of clothing at him which landed in his lap. Gwynne Owen leaning against the door as though barring a possible escape from his son, had a grim look on his face, and his complexion was ashen beneath his two day growth of stubble.

"Come on Philip," he snapped. "What's bin goin' on?"

Philip looked down at the tattered, bloodstained material which his mother had flung at him. He suddenly felt very sick, and thought for a moment that his heart was going to stop. These were the relics of his first foray as a werewolf! He had been going to dispose of them for weeks now, but, like everything else he did, tomorrow was always time enough. He went pale, then reddened with anger.

"What you'm bin doin' furking about in my room, Mum?" he snarled.

"Answer my question?" his mother rapped. "There's blood on them stinking rags. Blood, and ... well, somethin' as 'adn't ought to be on 'em. Let's 'ave it then! "

Philip hesitated, lost for words. He was cornered, there was no doubt about that. He wished that he had a slick brain, like Gordon Hall, for thinking up plausible yarns when he got into a tight corner. Should he tell them. He covered his face with his hands. Maybe they would be able to help him. He didn't know how, but he did know that he was tormented almost to insanity by his lonely, gruesome secret. He came to a decision.

"All right," he sighed, weary, defeated. "You might as well know. I cannot keep the secret any longer. I'm ... a ... a … werewolf!"

"This is no time for foolin'" Blodwyn Owen was becoming furious. "Talk sense. You …"

"Wait!" Gwynne Owen snapped. "What did you say, boy?"

"I said …" Philip looked down at his feet. "I said ... I'm a werewolf. God! ... It's awful! Please help me!"

"What rubbish!" his mother was more furious than ever. "I don't want a lot of fairy stories. I want to know how these clothes got in this state."

"Just a minute!" Gwynne Owen silenced her with an uplifted finger. "Don't pooh-pooh such things Blodwyn, I know more about these matters than you. Let the boy tell his story"

Slowly, falteringly, Philip Owen related how he had undergone the first change into a half-man, half-wolf being. He told them how he had ravaged sheep, and then experienced his first taste of human flesh and blood.

"Oh my God!" Gwynne leapt to his wife's side as she flopped down into an easy chair. It appeared that she was about to faint, but somehow she fought it off. "You killed Jennifer Hughes. My own son - a murderer!"

"Yes," somehow Philip felt easier now that he was sharing the load which had burdened him over the past months. "A double murderer. I... I... pushed Peter Pike under the saw. I had to ... he'd have discovered me at the next full moon if I hadn't..."

There was silence. Philip looked at his parents, and then back into the blazing log fire, wondering if that was what Hell looked like. Eternal flames with no respite.

"Hold out your hands!" Gwynne Owen suddenly snapped, leaning forward.

Philip did as he was bid. The old farmer gazed at them for some time, and when he spoke his voice shook.

"The boy's telling the truth, Blodwyn," he said. "Just look at his hands. Note the third finger on each. They're longer than any of the others. There can be no possible doubt, whatsoever. He's a werewolf, all right!"

"My boy. My poor boy!" Mrs. Owen buried her face in her apron, and sobbed, wailed, and then was silent They all sat gazing into the fire, each thinking the same thoughts, looking for a way of escape.

"Isn't ... isn't there any … cure?" she hardly dared voice the suggestion.

Gwynne Owen shook his head, slowly, reluctant to tell what he knew. Yet, at the same time, he realised that they were not going to get anywhere by raising false hopes.

"No," he murmured, "none that I know of, anyway."

Silence again. The three of them just sat there, alternately looking at each other, and then back into the leaping flames, crackling and spitting, as though portraying the only future which a werewolf could expect.

"Hand me over to the police!" Philip had reached a decision in his own mind. "Let them lock me away. At least I shan't be able to harm anyone, then!"

"No!" the old hill-farmer suddenly seemed to have aged another ten years. "That's not the answer. They'll never believe us, anyway, unless they see Philip in his actual transformation. Now, let's look at it logically. The change only comes with the full moon, lasting at the most a few hours. If the werewolf thoroughly satisfies his desires on the first outing, he may not experience the call again until the next month. So, except for a few hours during the month he can live a perfectly normal life. Now, if we were to lock Philip securely in his room, with a couple of bars over the window as well, the chances are that he would rant and rave for a few hours, and then change back again. That being so, nobody need ever know."

They all breathed a sigh of relief, and, showing remarkable composure, Blodwyn Owen filled the kettle, and placed it on the blackened hob.

"But why?" Gwynne Owen filled his stubby pipe out of a packet of dark shag, and leaned forward to light it from the fire with a spill "Why are you a werewolf, Philip? You haven't been attacked by a werewolf have you? The curse is normally passed on this way. There must be a reason."

"I dunno," Philip felt limp now that the crisis was past. "The only thing to bite me in recent months was old Loup." He rolled up his trouser leg. "See, it's almost healed now."

His father's eyes glinted, and his mouth dropped open.

"Loup!" he gasped. "Why ever didn't I think of it before. Of course! It all ties up. The dog came from the Black Forest. That's supposed to be the place where all the werewolves are. Remember, Loup had been bitten by a wolf. So that shepherd said. Well, animals can carry the curse without actually becoming werewolves themselves. They can pass it on, though. Loup did. He passed it on to you, Philip!"

"How come you know so much about all this?" Philip asked.

"Your Grandad had a big book on the subject," Gwynne answered. "Told you everything you wanted to know about them. All about these Black Dogs too. I read it once, during the time when I was laid up with a broken leg. Did a lot o' readin' then. Wished I could find the blasted book now. Might learn some more. See if there's a cure. It just disappeared. Probably got thrown out with some more old books. Well, we're agreed what we're going to do then, Philip. Come the full moon we'll lock and bar you in your room until it's waned ... Those detectives have virtually abandoned the case, and gone back to London. Nobody but us three know the truth. If we go about it the right way, we can keep it like that!"

The sun Shone brightly on a mild February day. Gordon Hall, his gun under his arm, and Remus at his heels, sauntered casually through the rides of the Black Hill woodlands. A small woodland pool shimmered and sparkled through the tall reeds which surrounded it. It was as though the whole world was at peace today, the horrors of the past few months seeming as a nightmare which had melted away with the coming of morning.

Remus lifted his head, and sniffed, his ears forward. He had caught a familiar scent. He moved stealthily towards the reeds. Seconds later the rushes erupted into life, sunlight flashing on blue and green feathers as three mallard struck upwards, quacking in alarm. They would have been easy shots for a man of the bearded journalist's calibre. He had all the time in the world to pick a "right and left". Yet, he never moved. His double-barrelled 12-bore remained cradled under his arm as he watched the three wild ducks disappear over the tops of the firs. He smiled. Good luck to them. Maybe they were the surviving members of that party of five which he had surprised here last October. Who knows? They had earned the security of their "close season" which had been in force since February 1st.

Remus splashed playfully in the shallows and whilst he was waiting for his dog to return to heel, Gordon's sharp eyes noticed some footprints along the bank. Undoubtedly they had been made by foxes, coming here to enjoy a nocturnal drink and perhaps surprise an unwary mallard at the same time. Evidently the fifty or so fox-snares which he kept permanently set in various strategic places around the hill were not proving as effective as he had hoped.

Suddenly he remembered that the moon would be full that night. What a glorious place this would be to shoot a fox. How different from that freezing cold night when he had shot Loup. His mind was soon made up. He would return here after dark and settle down to wait

His thoughts turned to Margaret. It was early in the day yet. He wondered if, by any chance, that plastic bucket might be placed by the gateway to Gunn's farm, advising him that "all was clear". He whistled Remus, and as the dog emerged from the pool, shook himself, and trotted to heel, he retraced his steps to his car, parked at the edge of the woods. He felt at peace with the world today. Maybe, even though spring had not arrived, he had the feeling about him that that time of year engenders in a man. He wanted a woman. Above all, he wanted Margaret. For the first time in his life he experienced jealousy towards another man ... Vic Gunn.

As he drove down the lanes from the hills, he caught a flash of bright yellow in the distance, the sunlight reflecting on something shiny - a yellow plastic bucket placed by a farm gateway.

Chapter 13

MARGARET GUNN felt as though she could have lain beneath this strong, handsome man for ever, his matted chest pressing down on her breasts, his muscular thighs inside her own. The bed was warm and comfortable, and now that their initial passion had exploded, she wanted to doze, to sleep. She had never been so contented in her life before.

Gordon Hall glanced at his watch, the only thing he was wearing. It was five o'clock. Another hour and it would be dark.

"What time d'you reckon Vic'll be back?" he murmured in her ear.

"Late, very late," she replied, plucking up courage to tell him what she had got to tell him. She wanted to test his reactions and then to ask him something. "He's gone to Hereford to buy some new stock. Gwynne Owen's gone with him. They're calling on one of Gwynne's relations on the way back, so it could be any time. Midnight, two, three."

They lapsed into another period of silence, fully content with each other's bodies.

"Gordon," it was little more than a whisper. "I've got ... something to tell you … I'm … I'm going to have a baby!"

He felt as though an electric current had entered his veins. His head swam. Was this her way of telling him that it was all over between them, that she had reconciled herself to a hum-drum rural marriage, content to cook and clean, and feed poultry. Whatever his feelings, his face remained impassive. He dared not reply.

"It's yours!" she found the courage at last to deliver her bombshell.

"Mine!" he could not restrain a gasp of amazement. "How can you be so certain? You sleep with a man seven nights a week, yet we only get the opportunity once in a blue moon! How on earth can you know?"

"I know" and she gave a wry smile, "because Vic and I haven't done anything for a long time. He's usually too tired anyway, and as for me ... well, since we first had it that afternoon ... I... I haven't wanted it with anyone else!"

He was stunned. Lost for words, and in order to cover up his uncertainty he pressed his lips close to hers, engaging in a hot, full-blooded kiss which would give him time to think.

"Gordon," she dragged her mouth away in order to speak. "Gordon would you ... would you take me away from here? Take me with you, where there aren't such things as wolves, Black Dogs and people cutting their heads off with saws."

He looked at her for a long time, suddenly finding himself cast into a whirlpool in which the currents threatened to suck him down, and smother him, perhaps saving him the trouble of trying to swim in tempestuous waters.

"All right," he was never one to hesitate over vital decisions. "We'd both better talk to Vic. I'll come back tomorrow evening, and we can have it out, then."

Relief flooded through her body. He really did want her then.

"I'm going back up to the hill to see if I can get a shot at a fox under the moon, later tonight," Gordon said, swinging his feet to the floor, and groping for his clothes. "Maybe if you'd like to fix something to eat I'll have no need to hurry."

She smiled, proud of her nakedness. "Sure," she nodded. "I suppose we'd better get dressed."

Blodwyn Owen insisted on Philip retiring to bed early that night. Gwynne had gone to Hereford with Vic Gunn, and she did not expect to see him much before the early hours of the morning. She wished that he had not gone, particularly as this was the first night of the full moon, but he had assured her that a grizzly bear couldn't break out of Philip's room now that he had fitted those steel bolts on the door, and some bars across the small window. There was nothing whatever for her to worry about, he had assured her as Vic's mini pickup had drawn up in the yard, and he had shrugged himself into his best overcoat More than likely nothing would happen tonight at all. If it did, then on no account was she to open the door. Everything would be all right. She had misgivings though, as she stood in the window, and watched the two farmers drive away. It was as though she was being left alone with some fearsome monster - her own son!

Blodwyn followed Philip up the stairs, and to the doorway of his room. He turned and gave her one of his rare smiles. The tears welled up in her eyes. She had never locked her boy in his room before. She felt almost like a gaoler.

"You've got everything you want, haven't you?" her voice was far from steady.

He nodded. "Yes, you can lock me in now. I'll see you at breakfast."

She pulled the heavy oak door shut, and shot the powerful steel bolts home. Her sigh of relief surprised and shocked her at the same time. She would never have admitted, even to herself, that for the first time since her husband had left she felt safe. Slowly, she went back downstairs. The television reception was especially poor tonight, but still she sat and gazed at the screen, incapable of following the intricate story behind the hackneyed American comedy. It made a noise, and that was all that mattered. She wanted to shut out everything else, especially any sounds which might come from the bedroom directly above.

The evening wore on. The grandfather clock in the corner, handed down through three generations of Gwynne's side of the family struck the half hours - 10.00 - 10.30 - 11.00....

Philip undressed, switched off the light, and lay naked on his bed. For some reason he did not get in between the sheets. They gave him a feeling of claustrophobia, signs he knew only too well. Neither did he draw the curtains. It seemed a pity to shut out such a lovely night. Several times he felt himself, but his skin was still smooth and human. Maybe nothing would happen tonight, after all. He wished that he could sleep, but never had he felt more wide awake.

Slowly the moon appeared over the brow of the Black Hill, a giant orange ball resembling a dying sun. As it climbed it became brighter, yellow turning to silver, flooding the countryside with an ethereal glow, making a mockery of the earlier hours of darkness, so much more gentle and beautiful than daylight itself.

Somewhere, up in the dense forestry thickets, a vixen screeched. Silence. A dog-fox barked twice. Silence again. Then, foreign to the nocturnal wilderness, a flat booming report, a muffled explosion which, once it had broken through the dense woods, echoed and re-echoed, a disturbance which carried from the Black Hill to Llanadevy, and beyond, slowly dying away. Then silence again.

Philip sat up with a start, a fever of hate encompassing his whole body, causing him to grip the iron bedstead tightly. There could be only one man who had fired that shot, only one man who was crazy enough to be abroad at night with a gun in his hand, who would ruthlessly shoot anything which moved, and ask questions afterwards. Gordon Hall, the man he hated more than anyone else in the world! The murderer of Loup!

A terrible rage began to build up inside the farmer's son. His body was tingling all over, as if a million pin-heads were scratching the surface of his skin. He beat his clenched fists upon his chest in the manner of a gorilla which has scented a deadly rival entering its domain in the deep jungle. The moonlight was flooding into the room now, and suddenly Philip caught sight of his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. It came as no shock, though for his brain was no longer capable of reasoning. His body was that of a wolf once more, covered in coarse grey hair, eyes that glowed redly in the darkness, fangs which, when bared, were sharp and yellow, and breath that stank of everything that was evil and decaying. His long drawn-out howl was deafening in the confined space of the bedroom. Normally instinct warned him to move silently until he was clear of the house, but tonight he was more of the beast he resembled than he had ever been before. He was not aware that his mother trembled in the room below, petrified by that fearsome cry. He did not recognise any liaison between himself and the human race. His mother was Shaakan, the giant grey she-wolf who prowled the Black Forest, her family widespread throughout the continent and further, conceived by her own poisonous fangs. He knew not that the door was bolted on the outside, although He recognised it as a means of exit, some instinct guiding his claws to the handle. He pulled. The stout oak door and frame shuddered, but would have withstood a whole pack of his kind. He lifted a foot to act as a lever, pulling backwards, his rasping breath louder than a dog's growlings. With a snap the handle broke off, catapulting him backwards, his gigantic frame crushing the bedside chair to matchwood. With a snarl of rage he renewed his assault, only to stop short with a deep-throated roar of frustration. The handle itself was broken, but the lock was holding firm, as were the steel bolts on the outside. His paws scraped the woodwork in the manner of a badger sharpening his claws on the bark of a tree.

For some minutes he rested on his haunches, his animal brain thwarted by the unknown. The moonlight flooded in on him through the window, glinting tantalisingly on the recently fitted bars, as though taunting him with yet another obstacle. This time his roar was even louder, causing a china ornament to fall from the mantelshelf, and smash into a hundred pieces on the hearth below.

Powerful claws gripped the bars, as once again he used his front legs for leverage. The steel struts moved slightly, but, bend as they might, they refused to snap. His wolverine rage was greater than ever before, a series of fearsome snarls accompanying his desperate attempts to answer the call of the February full moon.

Those bars would never have yielded in a decade of continuous assaults. But the structure in which they were set had not the same powers of resilience. Woodworm had long since eaten into the solid window-frame and now the fruits of their destructive nature were about to be harvested. There was a rending crack, a splintering of wood and for the second time that night Philip Owen was flung backwards across the room, smashing the wardrobe mirror with a mighty crash, and showering the whole room with slivers of glass.

There was no frustration, though, as he picked himself up, and paid homage to that silent silvery orb through the gaping hole where seconds before, had been a barred window. The way was open to him. The night was his.

He clambered into the gap. There was a drop below him of perhaps fifteen feet. He never hesitated, launching himself into space with a single bound. His judgement was not at fault, and he landed softly in a dense patch of long grass and stinging nettles adjoining one of the sheds below. Picking himself up he cast one last look at the home where he had been born and bred, and then loped off up the hillside into the night.

Blodwyn Owen had sat petrified since that first terrible howl in the room above her. She knew what was happening, and realised that there was nothing whatsoever that she could do about it. She heard the door handle wrenched from its socket, and the crash as the chair was wrecked. But Philip was still a prisoner!

When the splintering sound of the wrenched off window frame came to her ears, and seconds later the breaking of the mirror, her heart pounded wildly. She had followed her son's progress by his movements as surely as if she were overlooking him. She knew now that he was free. Their plan to hold him prisoner during the change had failed! Then, everything became quiet, the ticking of the grandmother clock being the loudest noise in the room, denoting the passing of time with impartiality. She wished that Gwynne would return soon. Still there was no sign of him. She got up from her chair, crossed to the window, pulling wide the curtains so that she would be able to see the headlights of the pick-up as it came down the Pole. Her heart thumped even faster, and she experienced a short, sharp stabbing pain in her chest. She hadn't had indigestion for years, she thought to herself as she stood there, feeling I the most helpless individual in the world.

The pain came again, fiercer and more prolonged this time. She winced, and gripped the window-sill in front of her for support. Everything seemed to be going black and her chest felt as though a double pronged pitchfork was being driven into it. She decided that it might be better if she sat down again, and turned in the direction of the chair which she had vacated only a few minutes before. Every vein in her body pulsated with a violent throbbing, as though the blood coursing through them sought to burst her very life lines. Suddenly her chest seemed to explode, she stumbled forward, crying out with excruciating pain, and then pitched headlong on to the red stone quarried floor. Yet another victim had been claimed by the werewolf of the Black Hill, although he was totally unaware of it at the time.

Philip loped on steadily, heading up the Dingle in the direction of the Black Hill. His powers of scent and hearing were more acute tonight than ever they had been before. He scented the rabbit, fifty yards away at the top of the slope, long before he heard scampering to the safety of the burrow. He skirted the top field, scarcely giving the thirty or so sheep a second glance. He had no time to waste on the slaughter of farm stock tonight, no craving for the blood of innocent animals.

Although his mind was beyond reasoning now his instinct had taken over to lead him unerringly to his goal. He knew full well that there was only one thing which would satisfy him now. He conjured up a distorted bestial vision of the suave, bearded man who was his sworn enemy, the one who had shot his brother Loup. This man he must find, and exact the most terrible vengeance upon him. Then, and only then, would he allow himself the pleasure of visiting the slim fair-haired girl who lived in the valley below.

Chapter 14

THERE were many thoughts running through Gordon Hall's mind as he settled himself on top of a grassy bank overlooking the woodland pool, his gun fully loaded across his knees, and Remus lying by his side. The night was mild and still, and as the gigantic orange moon climbed steadily to clear the treetops, he knew that in less than an hour that part of the clearing now in shadow would be light enough for him to be able to discern even the movement of a field-mouse. He carefully filled and lit his pipe, risking the fact that an approaching fox might catch a whiff of tobacco smoke. He had a great deal to think about at present, and now, unlike earlier that afternoon, the question of whether or not he shot a fox was immaterial to him.

He knew that he was fully prepared to take Margaret back to his flat in the city to live with him. That was no problem. Neither was the coming of their child. He was not even worried about the inevitable quarrel which would arise between himself and Vic Gunn the following day. No, there was nothing in any of these forthcoming events to cause him undue concern. In fact, he was looking forward to them. He had been alone far too long. Yet, there was something on his mind. Something which he could not quite determine and which made his conscience uneasy. Then, as if receiving inspiration from the rising moon, the realisation of what was worrying him suddenly dawned on his troubled mind. It was the unsolved mystery of the ravagings. He thought that he had pushed it to one side with the return to London of Ford and Bayley. Yet the fact remained, it had not been solved. Loup, the German sheepdog had initially taken the blame for the mutilated sheep, yet Loup was already dead when Jennifer Hughes was murdered. The experts claimed that the girl had been killed by a wolf. If so, where was the wolf? It couldn't hide indefinitely. Even the Sussex Puma was seen from time to time. And there was another thing. He grimaced at the thought. Peter Pike was not the sort of boy to stick his head under a circular saw. He was mechanically minded, and the amputation of a finger or a hand would have been understandable, but to actually behead himself ... Gordon could not understand it. There was something wrong, somewhere. Something which they had all missed ….

The vixen's scream from the other side of the clearing made Gordon start. Instantly he recognised it for what it was. His thumb found the safety catch on his gun, and eased it forward. He felt Remus stiffen, but the Labrador made no sound. He, too, evidently recognised the cry of the fox. Gordon caught a movement in the far shadows, but the outline of the animal was not clear, so he held his fire. He knew his chance would come.

Then the vixen emerged from the underground into his line of vision. Somewhere, back in the thickets, a dog-fox barked. Gordon was undecided. If he held his fire there was a chance that he might get the two. On the other hand, the vixen might disappear into the woods, and that would be the last he would see of either of them. He came to a decision, and the stock of the gun nestled into his shoulder. The crash was deafening in that small clearing, and as his finger moved on to the rear trigger in anticipation of having to fire the second barrel, he saw that there was no need. The fox was lying stretched out, half in, half out of the shadows.

Gordon Hall never moved except to push another long-range BB cartridge into his gun. The dead fox would remain where it was. He had used the ploy before. Another fox chancing to pass by would be unable to resist a sniff at it, a type of morbid curiosity.

Silence returned. The dog-fox, obviously alarmed by the shot, had wandered off elsewhere. Gordon relaxed again, his mind turning to thoughts of Margaret, the forthcoming baby, and the unsolved killings of the Black Hill.

The cracking of a dead twig somewhere in front of him broke into his thoughts. Perhaps the cunning old dog-fox was returning, thinking that all was clear now. Maybe it was a rival. He heard the sound again, a stealthy tread. He tried to determine its position by ear. At a rough guess it was fifty yards back in the plantation, slightly to his left, on the opposite bank of the pool.

It was nearer now. There was a loud crack. It had trodden on a dead branch. Gordon had a puzzled look on his face. It would have to be a mighty big branch to make a crack like that, and it would have to be a very large fox to be able to crack it at all! He felt slightly uneasy.

Then he heard the rasping, snorting breathing. This was certainly no fox! Remus was growling, his hackles well risen. He had not growled when the vixen put in an appearance, was Gordon Hall's discomforting thought.

The tops of the half-grown spruce trees were swaying now, almost as though some gigantic creature was moving amongst them, using the trunks as an aid to his progress. The sounds were magnified by the silence throughout the rest of the woods. Gordon knew that, whatever it was it was making a direct line for the pool... and himself! He was mystified but not too alarmed. He had yet to meet a creature which a couple of barrels of BB couldn't take care of.

It was at the very end of the trees now, on the edge of the clearing, and still in shadow. It had stopped, as though to regain its breath, or maybe to observe. Gordon crouched even lower behind the gorse bushes. There was a peculiar tingling sensation running up and down his spine, and he wanted to see before he was seen.

The creature moved forward, trampling silver-birch saplings and small rhododendron bushes as it moved. Then it passed from dark shadow to bright moonlight, and for the first time in his life Gordon Hall looked upon a werewolf. It was big and shaggy, choosing to lope on all-fours when it would have seemed easier for it to support itself on two legs. It's nostrils were flared, its fangs gleamed, and its eyes glowed red. In no way did it resemble Philip Owen. Indeed, the journalist would have seen no similarity between the two, even had he known. Horrified, he watched as the beast threw back, its head, and let forth a terrifying howl, summing up its rage,  its frustration, and, above all, its defiance of mankind.

"Christ Almighty!" Gordon Hall breathed, unable to take his eyes off this terrible monster. "It's a bloody werewolf. That explains everything!"

The curtain of mystery immediately fell from the recent unexplained happenings. It was all clear now. The sheep. Jennifer Hughes....

It had not seen him yet, but it knew he was there. He could tell from the way its huge nostrils twitched that it had found his scent. Remus cringed, but, miraculously, did not growl.

The werewolf took another step forward. It had placed him now. It was confident that it had him at its mercy. Gordon slowly rose to his feet, the barrels of his gun coming up until they were centred directly on the head of this ghoulish, nightmarish monstrosity. His finger was on the trigger, and he was about to exert the necessary pressure, when a sudden thought halted him. Suppose that his shots did not kill the beast, and only infuriated it! In horror stories and films the hero always fired silver bullets! Bullshit! That was in fairy-stories. This was real. Real! He did not believe it. He must be dreaming. Maybe he had dozed off up here by the pool and this was the product of his uneasy mind! Yet... that laboured, bronchial-like breathing was no product of the subconscious. It was only too real, and happening right here in the heart of these border hills, and if he didn't move fast he'd never live to tell about it!

"Run boy!" he kicked Remus to make sure that his command was heard and understood. "We're leaving ... fast!"

A roar of rage, coupled with triumph, followed him down the ride. The chase was on! Gordon Hall had always prided himself in his physical fitness. He would need every bit of it now. He had a start of approximately 25 yards, but against a creature that was reputed to be able to out-run a deer, they might as well have started even.

It was clear of the pool, and on the ride now. He allowed himself one glance back, and then decided that he would rather not know what distance his pursuer was gaining on him. Remus bounded at his side, his hackles risen, but refusing to run on ahead of his master.

Gordon could hear the laboured breathing of the beast as it loped along, easily, not exerting itself, as though savouring and enjoying every second of this moonlit chase. The ride forked ahead. Gordon did not suppose it mattered whether he chose the right or left - the outcome would be the same in the end!

As he reached the fork, he allowed himself a quick look behind. The werewolf had stopped, pausing as though not wanting to end it all too soon, giving its quarry a choice of route.

"You devilish bastard!" Gordon pulled both triggers almost as one, and felt the double recoil. He did not wait to see the effects of his shots, but bounded off down the left hand path. Then he heard the heavy, padding footsteps behind him, the rasping breathings, and could almost feel the fetid breath on the back of his neck.

Ahead of him, crossing the narrow path, something sparkling, gurgling, bubbling, reflected the light of the moon. Gordon did not slacken his speed. He knew the stream which fed the pool from which he had just fled was not deep. A foot, maybe eighteen inches at the most. It was just too wide to jump comfortably, but the bed was shale, and easily waded.

A roar of frustration, sudden realisation, came from the pursuing beast. It was not less than fifteen feet behind him now. He was but six feet away from the ice-cold mountain water. Remus plunged in with a splash. Gordon felt something brush the back of his jacket. The claw which had made a wild, despairing slash at him had been about one eighth of an inch too short!

Gordon leaped into the rushing water with a mighty splash. The water came over the tops of his Wellington boots, I but he was oblivious of the fact. All that concerned him was his pursuer. He knew the stream would slow him up. God! What a way to go!

As he scrambled up the opposite bank, he wondered why the werewolf did not close in on him. He was at its mercy now, out-run and out-witted! He heard the roar, the sound he had dreaded these last two or three minutes (or was it hours?), and resigned himself to death. He hoped it would be quick, painless. He knew how Jennifer Hughes must have I felt.

Another howl. Greater frustration this time. He had decided not to look behind him again. He preferred not to see the attack when it came, hoping that perhaps the first swing with one of those paws would either crush his skull or break his neck. Nothing happened. He was still alive, and, miraculously, unharmed.

He risked a glance behind him. His mouth dropped open in amazement. It just was not possible! The monstrous creature was still there of course. It was too much to pray, hope, that it had just vanished. It was crouched at the top of the bank, its front paws raised above its head as if to ward off an unseen. Its fangs were bared, its expression was not of this earth ... yet it was defeat, not victory, which was mirrored in its small red eyes.

"He's stopped!" Gordon Hall shouted at the top of his voice, to Remus, to the rest of the world, anyone. He was almost hysterical with relief. "The bastard's stopped. We've made it!" A sudden thought crossed his mind. "Of course!" he shook his gun at his thwarted foe, too relieved at his escape to think of reloading, and trying another shot. "Of course! The story books were right, after all! He can't cross running water!"

Philip was well aware that he could not cross the stream. That was why he had pulled up short at the top of the bank, rather than rush headlong into that invisible, painful, impassable barrier. Instead, he just squatted there on his hind quarters, howling his defeat to the god who controlled him and provided him with that silvery light by which to savage his victims. The man he desired most to kill had thwarted him, purely by chance, because he had taken the left fork instead of the right. If he had chosen the latter, his mangled remains would now be scattered in the gorse and heather, for the crows and buzzards to clean up when daylight came.

Gordon had recovered his composure somewhat by the time he reached his car. Only when Remus was in the back, and I the tyres were moving along the narrow lanes, heading towards the Pole, and Gunn's farm, did he feel really safe.

"Remus," he felt some sort of relief in the sound of his own voice. "There is light in the darkness. We might've had a near squeak tonight, but we've learned a lot. There's been a werewolf on the rampage for months, and nobody has tumbled to it. The Black Dogs and the Ancient Druids have taken most of the blame. The Inspector came the nearest when he suggested there was a wolf at large. I'd like to see his face when he knows what he's up against now. He'll probably take a bit of convincing. There's just one mystery still to be solved, though... just who is the werewolf?

Chapter 15

THERE was still no sign of Vic Gunn's pick-up when Gordon Hall drove in to the farmyard. The two farmers really were making a night out of it! He blew his horn as the car came to a halt, and a minute or two later the bedroom light came on and Margaret, clad in a pale green, transparent nightdress, appeared at the window.

"Gordon!" there was alarm in her face, "Is everything all right?"

"Open up," he replied.

Once inside the kitchen, seated by the dying fire in the grate, Gordon briefly related his experiences of the last half hour.

"It's horrible," Margaret breathed, poking the embers, and placing the kettle back on the hob. "It's unbelievable." Her voice was trembling, half-sobbing. "Oh how I hate this place, miles from anywhere, murders in the night, and all these goings-on … Gordon, take me away, please. Take me away. Don't let me spend another night in this God-forsaken hole!"

She buried her face in his chest, finding all the comfort she sought in the feel of her tender cheeks against the wool of his polo-neck sweater, and the roughness of his camouflaged jacket.

"I will," he promised her, "but we'd better wait till Vic gets back. You'd better pack a few things for now."

"I already have," she murmured. "I started packing after you left this afternoon."

Their lips met, and they were oblivious to everything else, the singing of the boiling kettle, and the pair of small red eyes which glowed with malevolence and lust at them through the window.

Vic Gunn's foot pressed the accelerator right down to the floor of the mini after he had dropped Gwynne Owen off at the bottom of the Pole. Normally, he would have driven no faster than 25 mph through these treacherous winding lanes.

The speedometer now registered 50 mph, as he screeched round the bends. His hands gripped the steering wheel with a force which threatened to rip it from the column, and his lips were pressed together in a bloodless narrow line.

"The bastard!" he gave vent to his feelings aloud in the cab.

"The sneaking bastard! Well, he's got it coming to him!"

His mind flashed back to that which Gwynne Owen had told him on the way back from the latter's relatives' house in Hereford. Of course, the whiskey had loosened the old man's tongue. It usually did when a man was teetotal from Boxing Day until the following Christmas Eve. He was damned certain the old chap wouldn't have told him that which apparently everybody else knew, except him, without he was partially drunk.

So his wife was having an affair with Gordon Hall! He never had liked the bloke. Always suave and superior in his ways. Well he'd see how good he really was when it came to a showdown!

Vic could see Gordon Hall's estate car in the yard before he turned in through the gates. The cheeky bastard was evidently stopping the night! He doused his lights, and switched off his engine. The moon was bright enough for him to see to coast silently in, and park behind the main barn. He was beside himself with fury and he had made up his mind exactly what he was going to do.

The runners on the barn door slid back silently for once, and Vic stepped inside. It was pitch black, but he did not even need the light of a match. He knew only too well where the rusty old hammer-gun stood, propped against a pile of empty hessian sacks. His gnarled, calloused hand closed over it, forcing the lever across in order to open the breech. There were some cartridges in a carton on the shelf above. His fingers withdrew two. They were slightly swollen with the damp, and he had to force them into the chambers, jamming them down so that he could close the breech. Then he went back outside again, and, keeping to the shadows, moved stealthily towards the lighted kitchen window. So intent was he on his mission that he failed to notice the huge hairy shape which pressed itself back into the shadows on the opposite side of the yard, only two pinpoints of smouldering red, like dying embers, denoting its presence there.

Vic wondered just what the hell was going on inside that room. The watching werewolf was puzzled also.

Vic Gunn peered in through the window. He could see the journalist, his back to him, Margaret clasped in his arms. So Gwynne Owen had been right. There could be no doubt, whatsoever. He only wished he could hear what they were saying. He felt the rage mounting up inside him, taking control of him. He wanted to kill this man, and as for Margaret... well, he'd see about her afterwards. Slowly, noiseless, he began edging the kitchen door open with his left hand. His right hand slowly pulled back the hammers on his gun, until both were fully cocked.

Philip Owen moved forward, still keeping to the shadows, until he was less than five yards behind Vic Gunn. He could have accounted for the farmer in a single bound, but he was more interested in what he saw going on in the kitchen through the open door. Hall had escaped him in the woods, cunningly using that mountain stream to his full advantage, but now there could be no escape. The woman he desired was here also. It couldn't have been more convenient. Yet, all the same, he was mystified at the stealthy approach of the farmer. There was something strange going on, and his instinct warned him to bide his time for a few seconds.

"I'll tell Vic when he gets back," Gordon Hall was saying. "Your bags are already packed, so we can be on our way before daylight. I..." He suddenly sensed that they were not alone in the room. Perhaps it was the draught from the open door, or some sixth sense which warned the journalist. He pivoted round, and found himself looking into the barrels of Vic Gunn's 12-bore.

"Oh, yes," Vic fought to control his fury, "and just what were you goin' to tell me when I got back, Mr. Hall? Come on. Let's have it !"

"There's no need to point that gun at me," Gordon Hall snapped. "We can talk this over in a civil manner, without threats..."

"I'll be the judge o' that!" Vic snarled. "Come on, let's have it. What have you got to tell me. Speak up, one of you!"

"All right," the journalist appeared to relax, trying to relieve the tension. "I might as well tell you now, rather than later. Margaret is leaving here ... with me!"

"Oh, she is, is she?" Vic laughed, a horrible, empty sound which sent a shiver down Margaret's back. She had never seen her husband in such a fury.

"Well, let me tell you something mister," his voice was like a whiplash. "You won't be going from here ... not alive, anyway!"

Gordon read death in the eyes of the man with the gun in his hands. For the second time that night he thought his number was up. At least with the werewolf he had had a chance to make a run for it. There was no way out of here. A double charge of buckshot would cut him in half before he had time to move an inch.

"Let's talk this over like reasonable men," he played his last desperate card, trying to calm the irate farmer. Suddenly, Margaret flung her arms around his waist, bringing herself into the line of fire.

"Get away from him, Marg!" Vic thundered, "or by God, I'll blast the pair of you!"

"No, Vic, please, no!" Margaret sought to stay his hand, but already his forefinger was putting the initial pressure on the front trigger.

Suddenly, a fearsome howl filled the kitchen, and the door was flung back on its hinges, revealing a hideous monstrosity, crouched on all-fours, ready to spring, its fangs ready to mutilate human flesh once more.

Margaret screamed as Gordon Hall pulled her roughly behind him. Vic whirled round, beside himself with fury, wondering who it was who had dared to intrude upon a scene such as this. His finger still rested on the trigger.

The farmer was not prepared for the sight which greeted him. He was not aware that such a nightmarish creature as this existed outside the imagination of comic-book artists. The shock of being suddenly faced with such an apparition caused him to start violently, every muscle of his body contracting. His forefinger jerked instinctively, the hammer of the gun snapped down on the striker, and a deafening explosion filled the room. Fortunately, the barrels had swung upwards, away from Gordon and Margaret, and the charge of shot buried itself in the ceiling. Everybody's vision was obscured by the choking cloud of plaster which mingled with the acrid gun-smoke. The gun fell from Vic's hands to the floor, clattering on the stone quarries. The impact caused the second trigger spring to be released, and yet another boom added to the chaos.

This time the barrels were pointing towards the doorway, and the werewolf, momentarily surprised by the first shot, received the second at ground level, spattering all four feet. His unearthly shriek this time was of pain, mingled once again with frustration. His eyes smarted from the smoke and dust, and his feet felt as though he had stepped on to a bed of nails.

The strongest animal instinct of all is that of self-preservation. It will put safety before both hunger and sex. So it was with Philip, whose relationships with the human-race were becoming more remote every hour now. He was a beast of the wild, and his one thought was refuge, somewhere to hide away from these men who brought about explosions, and caused him acute pain.

When the smoke and dust had cleared, there was no sign of the werewolf. Margaret was slumped in the armchair, her body shuddering with sobs as she gave way to her feelings. Vic was on his hands and knees, blood seeping from a cut on his cheek where a lump of flying plaster had caught him. His hand groped for his fallen gun, but before his fingers could close over it, Gordon's boot sent it spinning away into the far corner of the room.

"I think we can talk better without that!" the bearded man snapped.

"What... what was it?" Vic Gunn stammered, clinging to the table to help him to his feet.

"It was a werewolf," the journalist snapped, crossing the room, slamming and bolting the door. 'That's the second time I've escaped out of its clutches in as many hours!"

"But... it can't be," the farmer protested, his hate for the other temporarily forgotten. "They only exist in books..."

"Well, you saw it for yourself. That was the beast that savaged your sheep, and killed the Hughes girl."

They lapsed into an uneasy silence, not wishing to talk. Margaret put the kettle back on the hob. They could all use a drink. Maybe it would help to cool things off a bit.

Suddenly, their thoughts were interrupted by a frantic hammering on the door. Fists were pummelling the outside of the woodwork, causing the glass panel to vibrate.

"Let me in! Let me in! Help me!" a voice wailed in the night air.

"That thing's back again!" Vic was on his feet, making as though to grab his gun again, but Gordon Hall barred his way.

"You won't need that," he growled. "That's Gwynne Owen banging on the door. You'd better let him in."

It was certainly not the Gwynne Owen they knew who staggered into the room, and virtually collapsed in a heap on the sofa. Vic thought at first that perhaps it was the after-effects of his unaccustomed night's drinking which was responsible for his condition but one look at his ashen face told them that the old farmer had never been more sober in his life.

"It's Blodwyn," he wailed in his high-pitched border accent. "She's dead ... dead on the floor... and Philip's escaped!"

"Blodwyn dead!" Vic Gunn exclaimed. "And what's all this you're rambling about Philip escaping. What's he escaped from? He wasn't a prisoner in the house, was he?"

The old man nodded. At first he could only mouth the words until his speech returned. Then, amid the stammers, tears rolling down his sunken cheeks, he managed to get the story out.

"We just found out... our Philip's a werewolf," he concluded, "on account of ... Loup's bite. I barred his room ... for the full moon ... it wasn't strong enough to hold him. Blodwyn musta died of a heart-attack. No mark on her. If only I'd stopped at home instead o' goin' to Hereford!"

"If you had," Gordon Hall put in, "most likely you'd've been dead as well now. I've escaped the werewolf twice tonight. Now he's wounded, and on the run. No doubt he's headed for the Black Hill forest."

They drank tea, and sat round the heavy wooden table until long after the moonlight had been replaced by a cold grey dawn. Not another word was spoken, neither about the werewolf nor about Gordon's affair with Margaret. It was as though a cloud had been cast over their lives. Each one of them felt acute depression and weariness.

Finally, Gordon rose to his feet.

"I'd better get someone to see to Blodwyn for you, Gwynne," his voice summed up how he felt. "Then I'd better advise the authorities that there's a werewolf at large. This dangerous beast has got to be hunted down before the moon rises again!"

Chapter 16

P.C. WINTER was tired of being called from his bed by the jangling of the telephone. It had happened on only a handful of occasions during his term of office at Llanadevy, but now it seemed to be getting a habit.

"Llanadevy Police Station," his voice was ill-tempered, looking for the slightest opportunity to tell the person at the other end just what he thought of them. He listened, and as he did so, his face became flushed and his mouth dropped open.

"If this is some kind of a joke," he snarled, "It won't be regarded in that light by my superiors."

"I'm not in the mood for joking," Gordon Hall's voice crackled over the wire, "I've got enough witnesses to prove everything I've said."

The agonies of Philip Owen, as he stumbled away from Gunn's farm, were both mental and physical. His mind was that of a crazed beast. His vengeance had been thwarted, his sexual desires frustrated. He had been within inches of sinking his fangs and claws into the human being he hated most in the world. Then, the woman would have been his. He had sampled it only once before, when he had ravaged Jennifer Hughes's naked body. He still remembered the way his body had been on fire, to the exclusion of everything else. Now, just as he had that same sensation building up inside him again, it had been snatched away from him. The pain in his feet made him forget it for the moment however. They felt as though they were on fire, blood oozing out, leaving a trail down the centre of the lane, until finally he turned off into a nearby field. As he did so, he heard footsteps. The sound of the feet on the hard surface was erratic, running, walking, stumbling, running again. The man's breath was coming in short sobs, as though  he would burst his lungs.

Philip peered through the straggling hawthorn hedge. He had a clear view of Gwynne Owen in the bright moonlight, yet he only partially recognised him. The werewolf's human traits were becoming less and less as the night wore on. The man was familiar to him, yet not as his father. He had seen him about, that was all. Under normal circumstances, he would have pounced upon him, an easy victim, and savaged him, but not tonight. His instincts hammered at his crazed brain, telling him to find refuge before the dawn broke.

He passed within a hundred yards of his own home, yet he gave it a wide berth. He remembered it only as a prison, where he had been held by humans, until his very strength had brought about his escape. He saw the jagged hole where the window frame had once been, and snarled in defiance. He knew nothing about the body of the elderly woman, stiffening by the hour, on the living-room carpet. Even had he done so, it would have meant nothing to him. All the same, he longed for a mother's comfort, in this, his darkest hour. He would have welcomed the presence of the great grey she-wolf whom he knew was roaming the all too familiar Black Forest at this very moment. Shaakan was the mother of all werewolves.

He tipped the rise behind the farm, and saw the gaunt out-line of the Pen-y-Wern Stone Circle in the distance. It seemed to beckon him, but he fought against it. He did not want to undertake the trip across open ground in his present condition. He was weak from loss of blood, and would be at the mercy of Man If he failed to make thick cover before daylight. The Black Hill seemed to beckon him with warmth, friendliness and shelter. He loped towards it. It was similar to the Black Forest. He couldn't remember when he had last been there, but he seemed to recall it sometime in his life. The trees were much bigger, too, hundreds of miles of them. Yet, the Black Hill was his own domain, his very own.

He passed the small woodland pool where, a few hours earlier Gordon Hall had fled from him. He paused here to slake his thirst in the brown brackish water. It seemed to cool his feverish body. There was a faint streak of light in the eastern sky. This was the "false dawn", the faint glimmer which heralds the approach of daylight He knew he would have to hurry if he was to reach his destination before ... before what? He didn't know but, at any rate, he would have to hurry. He knew he would have to go the long way round, following the banks of the stream, past where the bearded man had forded it, for he knew he was unable to cross running water. Then, eventually, he would come to that mossy cave beneath the slate cliff face. There he would be safe at last.

Chief Detective-Inspector Ford and Detective-Sergeant Bayley arrived back at Llanadevy shortly after mid-day on the following day. Gordon Hall was in the small office discussing the recent events with P.C. Winter when they walked into the Police Station.

"Well," Ford snapped, throwing himself into the swivel-chair. "If this turns out to be a hoax, we'll be the laughing stock of Scotland Yard. You can imagine what the Commissioner said when I told him I was coming back here to clap the bracelets on a werewolf !"

"It's no hoax," Gordon told him. "You can rest assured of that"

"Well," the Detective-Inspector replied. "You seem to know more about this business than anyone else, Mr. Hall, any suggestions?"

"A few," the journalist replied. "Firstly, if we can locate him by daylight, our task will be that much easier. He won't have his supernatural powers to fight us with. If we meet him in the moonlight - well, I've no wish to, I can tell you! By day he is a peasant farmer. You remember Philip Owen, the boy we passed in the top fields that day when we called in the local Hunt to draw the Black Hill? He's the werewolf. Old Gwynne Owen is stopping at Gunn's farm for the time being, following his wife's death last night. So Hollow Farm is empty. There's just a chance that we might find Philip wandering about his home, or the farm. I suggest we look there first."

"Good idea," praise from Chief Detective-Inspector Ford was praise indeed. The two men gratefully accepted the sandwiches and coffee which the robust, middle-aged, Mrs. Winter brought in to them on a tray.

Then, their brief respite over, they began pulling on Wellington boots and heavy overcoats. Both men produced revolvers, which they carefully checked, and dropped into their pockets. Gordon Hall's shotgun was in the back of his estate car, but he knew that he would not need it - by daylight, anyway!

They drove down to Hollow Farm in Gordon's car, parking in the deserted yard, and then began a systematic search of the outhouses first. There was no sign of human life.

"Let's try the house next!" Detective-Inspector Ford's suggestion was an order, and as they pushed open the unlocked back door, stepping over the threshold into the kitchen, Gordon noted that both the Yard men were gripping their revolvers in their pockets.

The downstairs yielded nothing, so, with Ford in the lead, closely followed by Bayley and Winter, and Gordon Hall in the rear, they ascended the narrow wooden staircase. The heavy door of Philip Owen's bedroom was open, the bolts withdrawn, no doubt by old Gwynne Owen on his return from Hereford when he made his horrific discoveries.

All four of them stepped into the room. The wind was whistling in through the yawning hole which had once been a barred window.

"This room smells like the Augean Stables before Hercules set to work," Ford commented, wrinkling his nose at the foul lingering odour which even the fresh air seemed incapable of removing. "God! What a place! It's worse than those sheds in the yard."

The floor was littered with splinters of wood and glass, evidence of the werewolf's efforts which eventually resulted in his escape.

"Well!" Bayley mused. "He's certainly not around the farm. What now, Mr. Hall?"

"It's an even bet he's on the Black Hill somewhere," the journalist replied, "probably skulking in some fox-earth, waiting for the moon to rise again tonight. We've got to get him before then. Remember he's wounded, and twice as dangerous now. There's no turning back for him. As soon as the moon comes up he'll be kill-crazy. Neither man nor beast in this area will be safe whilst he's still at large. I'll see if we can pick up his scent with Remus. We'll walk back down the lane to where that trail of blood leads off into the field."

A few minutes later the four men were following in the wake of the yellow Labrador, as, with nose to the ground, Remus picked up the werewolf's scent. There was still evidence of blood from the shotgun wound every few yards. The strong scent of such a beast would linger for some time, and Gordon felt confident that his faithful dog would lead them to their quarry.

It was a long pull up to Gwynne Owen's top field, and then on into the thick coverts of the Black Hill. Woodpigeons were already flighting in to roost from the fields, their crops bulging with clover and kale, hastening to settle in the thickets of spruce and pine until the following dawn.

Remus led them to the pool, and to the place where the beast had paused to slake its raging thirst. Here they saw its footmarks imprinted clearly in the soft mud. Chief Inspector Ford let out a low whistle.

"Phew!" he murmured. "This is certainly some creature!"

On they went, following the route which Gordon Hall had taken when he had fled the previous night. The journalist was surprised, however, when Remus unhesitatingly, at the fork, took the path which led to that rushing mountain stream.

"He's heading for the stream!" he exclaimed, "yet he certainly can't cross running water! I wonder what his idea is!"

A hundred yards further on they emerged on to the banks of the stream. The water, pure and clear, rushed its way over the rocks and boulders, taking a winding course down to Llanadevy. Gordon pointed out to them the scene of his narrow escape, and then, noting that Remus was forging ahead, along the bank to their left, they hurried on after him.

The Labrador was keen on the scent now, and, in spite of Gordon Hall's persistent whistles, he insisted on racing on ahead, some fifty yards or more in front of the four men.

Suddenly they saw Remus stop, his hackles rising, and a low growl in his throat. He was looking down the bank at something hidden from their line of vision. Then, he backed away, barking fiercely, obviously afraid of what he had seen.

"He's spotted something!'' Ford snapped. "Come on!"

Seconds later they caught up with the dog, crowding and jostling one another in order to obtain a view of whatever it was he had seen. At this point the sides of the bank were almost sheer, it being necessary to advance, and peer over the edge, in order to see the water below.

On the grassy path in front of them, parallel to the stream a heavy wooden stake had been driven deeply into the ground. To this was fastened a length of stainless steel wire now held taught, and running across, and over the bank.

"It's one of my fox-snares," Gordon muttered, giving it a cursory glance. "I've been setting them along the banks of this stream lately. Sometimes an old fox will creep along here in the hope of catching an unwary mallard or moorhen. But the wire's taut. There's something caught in the noose! Whatever it is, it's gone over the bank, and into the water!"

They stood on the very edge of the steep bank, gazing down into the clear water cascading down below. At this point it was about three feet deep. The snare-wire, taut as a bowstring, ran down to the edge of the stream, where they saw the noose, fastened cruelly around the ankle of a naked man. Only the man's left foot remained above water-level, the rest of his body being completely submerged, face downwards, and it was obvious to them that he was dead. Remus still barked and growled until a slap from Gordon Hall quietened him.

"It's Philip Owen all right," Gordon stated, breaking the silence. "I guess we'd better pull him on to dry land, and have a look at him!"

With some difficulty the four men managed to pull the corpse on to the grassy path. He was not a pleasant sight. His feet and hands were a mass of minute wounds, obviously caused by the charge of shot from Vic Gunn's 12-bore. The wire noose had cut through the skin of his ankle until it came into contact with the bone.

Gordon gazed at the face, and it was hard to believe that this was the roaring, savage beast which had almost caught him such a short time ago. The features were relaxed now. They did not even register pain or sorrow. Only peace.

"Are you sure...?" it was Ford who spoke.

"I'm sure," Gordon replied, feeling for, and examining the hands of the dead man. He paid particular attention to the third finger on each hand. They were more or less the same length as the forefingers. He breathed a long sigh of relief, and stood up, allowing the Yard men an opportunity to carry out their own examination. The curse of the Black Hill werewolf had been removed for ever. A combination of running water and a snare set for a fox had dealt the final blow.

Chapter 17

DUSK was falling when they drove back into Gunn's farmyard. The detectives wanted to take a statement from Old Gwynne Owen, and Gordon watched them enter the lighted kitchen, followed by the uniformed P.C. Winter.

The journalist could see them all through the window. Gwynne Owen slumped in the armchair, the Yard men obviously breaking the news to him, and Margaret pouring out mugs of tea. She was smiling. Vic's hand rested on her waist as he leaned across the table to reach for something. He whispered something to her, and she smiled up at him.

Gordon did not get out of the car. He slowly filled and lighted his pipe, allowing the blue haze of tobacco smoke to drift out through the open window. He was sick of this place. He had been for a long time if only he'd realised it. He thought about Philip Owen and the werewolf. That's what came of burying yourself in a God-forsaken place like this for the whole of your life. But the boy hadn't wanted anything else. He wouldn't have wanted to leave if he'd had the chance. Margaret Gunn was the same. She'd thought about something, almost done it, and then changed her mind. Maybe, if the werewolf hadn't shown up at the farm, she would have gone away with him. On the other hand, if he hadn't come barging in like he did, Vic Gunn would have blasted the journalist into eternity ... or would he? In a round-about sort of way, the werewolf had saved his life.

Looking back on everything, some good had come out of it all. Vic Gunn would be told, in due course, that he was to be a father. Probably he would prefer to go on thinking that way, and their marriage would right itself.

Gordon got round to thinking about himself. Maybe he was as much a werewolf as Philip Owen had been. He had preyed on others in a different sort of way. He'd killed game for sport, and regarded the seduction of a host of women in the same light. Basically, his ideals were the same as that of the werewolf - killing and sex.

He glanced up at the Black Hill, gauntly silhouetted against the fading light of the western sky. A dangerous enemy had been removed from its face today. Perhaps it would be that little bit better off without him, also.

The engine responded to the first touch of the starter, his headlights picked out the open gateway, and beyond it the dark lanes, leading back whence he had come originally. There was a pile of rubbish dumped by the side of the road, awaiting the council's fortnightly collection. Something yellow amongst it reflected in his beam. It was a battered old plastic bucket, of no further use to anybody!

The End

Thank you for purchasing this ebook.
We hope you enjoyed the read!.
Guy.

This ebook is the first book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the end of 2011.

The list of books so far published is :

1. Werewolf by Moonlight.

The next book will be :

2. The Sucking Pit.

"Tom 'Romany' Lawson, aged woodman, is discovered dead. His virginal niece Jenny mixes up a potion described in his diary and is immediately transformed into a murderous sex maniac. She ends up helping a giant gypsy leader named Cornelius to regain the local ancient Romany burial site, the Sucking Pit, by blackmailing the owner of the land with sexual favours. But her ex-boyfriend, a reporter, is astounded by the changes within her and won't give up the search for the truth.".

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