The Son of the Werewolf
Author: Guy N. Smith
Date: 1978-08-01 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: Margaret Gunn, raped by a psycho in a wolf's costume in Return of the Werewolf, gives birth to an unusually ugly child. He grows up to become a loner, a bully and finally a murderer, as he slices up his headteacher at the age of fifteen. While in gaol he discovers he is a werewolf and on his release the murders start again.
Publisher: Black Hill Books

The Son of the Werewolf - Kindle Version 1.0

(c) Guy N Smith 1978 - 2010

Published by Black Hill Books, December 2010

ISBN : 978-1-907846-106

First Published by New English Library (NEL) August 1978.

Converted to Ebook from original paperback by Scan2Ebook.com

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Contents

Title

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

The End

PROLOGUE

The girl had been in the small labour ward for almost twelve hours. Through the single latticed window she saw the coming of dawn, and her faint sigh of relief was swamped by yet another contraction. They were happening more frequently now, approximately every five minutes. She writhed for maybe half a minute, then lay trembling, glancing once again at her wristwatch. 6.15 am.

The thunderstorm seemed to have passed on, and she watched the broken clouds scurrying by, the sky beyond them a faint greyish blue.

Her body was damp with sweat, her long fair hair awry, her eyes noting the other four empty beds, the off-white walls which were clean enough but long overdue for a coat of paint. It was always the same in these remote rural hospitals, she reflected. So basic.

It had been an awful night and had seemed a thousand times worse after midnight when the contractions had subsided.

‘Ring the bell if you want us,’ the nurse had said. That had been at eleven. Nobody had looked in since. Margaret Gunn had asked for the drip, but the elderly midwife had shaken her head and told her that there was no rush. ‘We like 'em to come naturally, when they're ready.’

Naturally! She tensed, and clenched her fists at the thought. If only this was a natural birth. But she wouldn't know until the baby was born, until she examined it and ...

She groaned and convulsed again. When the pain had subsided she consulted her watch once more. Three minutes. The contractions were closer now. Her time was almost here.

The storm had been the most terrible feature of the nocturnal hours. Up here in the border hills of Shropshire and Wales electric storms were a regular occurrence. Under normal circumstances she would probably have noted the storm's intensity and thought no more about it. Yet, it was as though this one was an omen, the forces of evil proclaiming their malevolent jubilation that yet another of their kind was about to enter the world - a werewolf!

Margaret could not get her terrible ordeal out of her mind. It had been nine months ago, almost to the night, when that youth had taken her. His strength had been unbelievable. She remembered the foul wolf-skin which he had worn in order to terrorize the people of these hills. Its stench still lingered in her nostrils.

Yet, as they proved afterwards, he was simply a psychopath, and there was nothing supernatural about him. He had merely emulated the werewolf tendencies of his brother, Philip Owen, for his own revenge. A trail of death and mutilation followed, which in the end had led to Tom Owen falling into his own trap, the covered pit with the sharpened stake which had been intended for Gordon Hall. Detective-Inspector Ford had been convinced that it had all ended there. But Gordon Hall wasn't satisfied. And neither was Margaret Gunn.

‘Look at the skin,’ Hall had muttered as they had gazed down on the speared, lifeless body in the pit. ‘His own, I mean. It's like stubble. Hairy.’

That was the moment when her fears had begun; nine months of terror which she had kept to herself. She had not even confided in her husband, Vic. There was nothing he could have done, and there was no point in causing anxiety in his mind as well.

‘I want a baby.’ she had told him a couple of nights later, ‘Please, Vic. I need one.’

Her pregnancy was confirmed ten weeks later. She felt relief ... and fear. It was simply a question of who was the father of her unborn child. Her husband or ... even if the werewolf strain had died with Tom Owen then she might bear the son of a murderer, a sex-crazed killer. She would know when she saw the baby. There would be no doubt in her own mind.

Suddenly the pain came back again with shuddering force. She cried out aloud, gripping the sides of the bed. Almost time …

She remembered the bell, stretched out a hand, and pressed it. She heard it ringing somewhere far away.

The contractions eased slightly, but only temporarily. They returned almost immediately, and she knew that the baby was coming. Man or werewolf, it was about to be born. It was a boy, her intuition told her. She had never even considered the prospect of a daughter.

Footsteps. The door was thrown open, and through blurred vision she saw the nurse and the midwife. They were pulling muslin masks over their faces as they advanced on the bed.

‘All right, take it easy,’ the midwife said kindly as she threw back the single bedcover, leaning forward to examine Margaret.

Margaret nodded, her attractive features twisted with pain, gasping. The nurse was busying herself with a bowl of water, placing a polythene sheet under Margaret's thighs.

‘That's it. Push again. I can see the baby now. And again, as hard as you can. That's the way. Now, one last big effort …’

And then it was all over.

The nurse was washing the baby, using water from the bowl. Margaret could hear it crying. It was a kind of whimper, almost animal-like. She tensed again as though with another contraction, turned her head towards the nurse, but the question died in her throat.

‘It's a boy.’ The voice was strangely muffled behind the mask. Margaret thought she detected a note of revulsion, but she could have been mistaken. ‘There, see for yourself.’

She turned on to her side. The tiny face was screwed up for yet another whimper, but even that could not disguise the sheer ugliness of it. A broad, squat head, ears that seemed abnormally large and came to a sharp point, wide, flared nostrils.

The mother reached for the hands and feet of her offspring, a natural reaction in the case of almost every birth, fearful of some deformity, anxious to see for herself.

‘Nothing wrong there, love,’ The midwife's tone was reassuring. ‘A fine pair of hands and feet.’

But Margaret Gunn was not listening. The fingers holding up the tiny hands trembled.

Oh, God! Her worst fears were realized. It was true. Those infantile hands ... the third finger of each was longer than the rest, a sure indication.

She fell back onto the pillows, her eyes closed, trying to shut out the vision of the baby, her hands covering her ears in an attempt to spare herself from its unnatural whimperings.

There could be no doubt whatsoever. She had given birth to the son of the werewolf!

CHAPTER ONE

The boy stood to one side in the playground of the Llanadevy School, watching the other children play. It was always the same, day after day, week after week. Seldom did he join in their games. Occasionally the other pupils would look in his direction, but their glances were cursory, eyes averted quickly as though they were afraid of holding his gaze, but nevertheless wanted to check his whereabouts. Their expressions denoted fear.

Hugh Gunn was almost fifteen years old, yet his stature was one of greater maturity. His frame was squat and powerful, the hunched shoulders belying his five feet eight inches. The buttons of his shirt were strained by his torso, the waistband of his trousers stretched by his girth. His eyebrows were not as thick as they appeared at first sight, but his eyes were small and sunken, making the brows appear bushy. His nose was flat, a bulge on the bridge evidence that at some time it had been broken and never set. Yet it was his mouth most of all that was out of proportion; a mouth with long, thin lips which perpetually curled back over yellowed and uneven teeth, transforming his rare smiles into grimaces. His shock of unruly dark hair fell below his shoulders, giving the impression of never having been brushed or combed, greasy and matted in places.

He stared at the other children, his eyes following their every move. He was sullen, arrogant, a bully by nature. His lips moved and he spat on the ground, a gesture of contempt for any who might be looking in his direction. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced back towards the two-storeyed black and white timbered building that had been the schoolhouse since 1875. There was no sign of the ruddy-faced Mr Williams, the village schoolmaster.

Hugh Gunn grunted. Mr Williams always seemed to be watching him. Almost as though he did not trust him. Just because several of the parents had complained.

A football came rolling towards him, a well-used grubby white ball with black spots on it. His foot stretched out and trapped it deftly, killing its movement instantly, but he did not kick it back towards the group. Instead he stood with his shoe resting on it, lips curled back, daring any of them to come and take it from him.

‘Aw, come on, Hugh,’ a tall red-haired boy said. ‘If you ain't gonna play kick it back.’

Hugh Gunn said nothing. The ball remained at his feet and he continued to watch them intently. Three of the older boys were walking towards him, moving nervously, then halting a yard or two in front of him.

‘Give us our ball back, Hugh, please.’

A low noise in Hugh Gunn's throat signified that he was in an ugly mood. But they had pleaded, shown humility, and that meant that they were going to get their ball back - in his own way. He rolled it forward an inch or two, then his foot went back and shot forward, hitting it squarely, powerfully, propelling it faster than the eye could follow.

David Jones, the youth with the red hair, gave an agonized grunt of pain as the ball caught him full in the groin. He doubled up and fell to the ground, groaning and clutching at himself. The ball bounced, and rolled back to Hugh Gunn. He trapped it and stood over it with the same arrogance which he had shown before.

‘Don't be a pratt, Hugh,’ the other two said backing away a couple of paces. ‘There's no need for that. We -’

A smaller, fair-haired boy moved to try and avoid the speeding ball, but he was too late. It thudded into his solar plexus with the speed of a cannonball. He staggered back, retched, and then vomited his school dinner onto the uneven tarmac.

This time the football rolled away towards the group of onlookers. Several of them began to run towards it, but checked when they saw Hugh Gunn shambling, crab-like but with amazing swiftness, after it.

Only when he caught up with it did the onlookers appreciate the agility of which that misshapen form was capable. Hugh glanced up once, saw them, noted the angle and the range, and let drive with his left foot. A ten-year-old girl screamed hysterically as the ball hit her full in the face. The rest of them scattered in all directions. The old football, which for the past quarter of an hour had been a source of enjoyment, was now an object of fear. The school and village bully was chasing after it again, controlling it, turning with the ease of a professional, and again searching out a victim. He ran with the ball, dribbling, feinting, dummying, laughter coming in throaty grunts as he saw how they all fled from him. Then he paused. One of the infant girls was no more than five yards from him, pressing herself back against the iron railings, abject terror on her face.

‘Stop this!’ the deep, authorative voice of the schoolmaster bellowed from the open door of the building. ‘I will not have this! Gunn, come here at once!’

Dissidently, the youth toed the ball into the air, caught it on the volley and sent it soaring out into the road beyond the tall privet hedge. He had watched similar acts of dissent on televised football at home. He had studied the actions, the expressions. Slowly he turned to face the schoolmaster, but he made no move to answer the summons. Once again Hugh gave his ‘come here if you want me’ look. Pupils or teacher, it made no difference to Hugh Gunn.

‘Come here at once, boy!’ Williams's complexion was deep red. His huge body trembled, the veins corded on his wide forehead as he struggled to control his mounting rage.

Gunn did not reply. He stood there, unmoved. The only sounds were the crying of the girl with the bleeding nose, and the groaning of the two boys who still clutched their testicles through the material of their trousers.

Williams strode forward, his outstretched hand seizing Hugh Gunn by the collar of his shirt

‘Charles,’ he glanced in the direction of a lanky boy who only recently had had the status of prefect bestowed upon him. ‘Look after Emma. Bathe her face. Some of you others see to Jones and Davies. And you,’ he said, drawing the bully towards him until only a few inches separated their faces. ‘I'm going to have a long chat with you. You have been warned about this bullying countless times.’

The headmaster's study was, in fact, the living room of the schoolhouse. There were several shelves of books, a desk and a chair. Williams marched Hugh Gunn into the room, stood him in front of the desk, then went round and seated himself. This, the schoolmaster decided, was a show of authority. And never more in his career had he needed to display his authority than now. Things were getting out of hand lately, and this had to be the crunch. It annoyed him the way the bully met his gaze. It would have been far easier had Hugh Gunn shuffled his feet and looked down at them. But he didn't.

‘Now,’ Clive Williams's voice was low, trembling with anger. ‘Just what d'you think you were doing out there?’

‘I was playin' football.’ Hugh Gunn's tone was flat, emotionless, like a robot answering questions. ‘We always play football at lunchtime.’

‘You don't,’ Williams hissed. ‘In fact, I've never ever seen you kick a ball before. Usually you pick on someone for a fight.’

‘I was playin' football,’ Hugh insisted.

‘You kicked a ball,’ the schoolmaster corrected him. ‘With unbelievable accuracy. Three times. You hurt three people -’

‘They got in the way.’

‘No, they didn't. You aimed at them, and I just stopped you from doing the same to a five-year-old girl.’

‘Somebody always gets hit when you play football.’

‘No, they don't. And stop trying to make out it was an accident. You are a bully of the worst kind. Your behaviour is equal only to your school work. You are lazy, arrogant, and a cowardly bully!’

Hugh Gunn's small eyes narrowed. There was defiance and hate in them. He did not reply. He drew himself up and stared unwaveringly into the face of the man opposite to him.

‘You are due to leave this school in two weeks' time,’ Clive Williams continued. ‘For myself, and for the rest of the pupils here, that will be a profound relief. Nevertheless, I cannot help but feel that I have failed in your case. Your record, going right back to playgroup, is deplorable. You have shown a constant resentment towards authority, you have made no effort at all with your work. Boy, you can barely read or write, yet I am convinced that your intelligence is not as low as you would have us believe. I am convinced that you have deliberately denied yourself the opportunity to learn. Yet it is you who must be the loser.’ His voice lowered until it was scarcely more than a whisper. ‘But if I catch you bullying anyone else again in the remaining two weeks, I shall not hesitate to mete out the same treatment to you. Do I make myself clear?’

‘The law'll have you,’ Hugh replied with a hint of mockery in his tone. ‘Touch me, and I'll see you ain't got a job when next term starts.’

‘In which case you won't get off lightly if I have cause to take you to task.’ Williams rose slowly to his feet and leaned across the desk. ‘You wouldn't remember the days when PC Winter was the local policeman. He meted out his own brand of justice to the local louts. A good kick up the backside or a clip across the ear for scrumping. No fuss. It was easier for everybody. Now the law is scared to manhandle a yobbo like you. But I'm not. God, if I ever get the chance again you'll know what it's like to get hurt. That I promise you!’

Margaret Gunn had spent an exhausting day in the library at Shrewsbury. The faint lines on her face seemed more pronounced than ever and as she prepared the evening meal her head was bowed over the sink in despair. Mythology, it seemed, dismissed lycanthropy with cursory references. Vampirism was dealt with in detail. That was of far greater interest to the followers of the powers of darkness, it appeared.

She wondered at what time in his life a boy inflicted with the curse became a werewolf. At first she had presumed it would happen when Hugh reached puberty. She had watched his sheets carefully for signs of masturbation. They now appeared regularly, yet it was a delayed process. The soft hair on his face was only just beginning to harden. They had even bought him a safety razor in readiness. It would not be long now before he started shaving. It was then that she would have to watch the moon phases carefully. She remembered how Gwynne and Blodwyn Owen had attempted to confine their werewolf son in his room during the nights of the full moon, and the terrible events which had followed.

She made up her mind to speak to Vic about it that night. For fifteen years she had borne her secret, her lovely fair hair greying with the strain. She had wanted to keep it from him as long as possible. He had not guessed anything; even their son's apparent hostility towards his father, the fawning on his mother during times of trouble, bouts of sadistic cruelty, had failed to arouse his suspicions. She shuddered as she recalled that time when her son had caught rodents alive in the barn and dissected them with a sharp knife whilst they still lived, rats and mice squealing in agony, their blood draining from terrible amputations. He had been doing it for weeks before they caught him at it.

Now, tonight, she knew that she must tell her husband that their son was not his, that she had conceived as a result of the forced mating with a werewolf - the rape of terror that had almost snapped her mind.

Hugh shambled towards the table, and sat down as Margaret entered with the steaming plates. Almost before she had set his meal down in front of him he was devouring it ravenously, tearing at a lamb chop with his fingers, heedless of knife and fork. Margaret only laid him cutlery as a formality. It was always the same. He would use a spoon to slurp the gravy into his cavernous mouth, grunting his enjoyment, then tearing at chunks of bread in an attempt to satisfy his hunger. It was apparent, though, that only meat was capable of satiating him. Once he had raided the larder and devoured a whole joint of raw beef.

It revolted her to watch him eating, but it was something which she and Vic had both come to accept. He did not stay at school for lunch. Clive Williams had suggested, diplomatically, that it might be better if he returned home to eat instead. Usually he finished his meal in a matter of minutes and was back at school, long before the other pupils emerged from the dining hall.

Margaret saw him go out into the yard, walking quickly, heading in the direction of Llanadevy. She began to wash the dishes, a puzzled expression on her face.

‘Hugh's gone out,’ Vic called from the adjoining room where he was watching from the window. ‘Heading towards Llanadevy by the looks of it. That's strange. Never known him to go to the village in the evening. Usually he goes up to the fields with a catapult, or goes and sets some rabbit snares.’

‘Always killing.’ Margaret appeared in the doorway, her face white, her whole body trembling. ‘Kill, kill, kill, and is it any wonder?’

‘Now whatever makes you say that?’ Vic turned towards her, the typical hill farmer, complexion tanned by the elements, rugged, powerful; a man who asked no more than to be allowed to pursue this way of life. He was turned sixty-five now, but he would never retire. A wife so much younger than himself allowed him to forget his age most of the time.

‘I should have told you this fifteen years ago.’ She walked into the room, and supported herself with her hands on the table, dropping her gaze. This is going to come as an awful shock to you, Vic. Hugh is not your son!’

‘What!’ His jaw dropped. ‘You know damned well he's my son. We tried for a baby and got one almost right away.’

‘No.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I was already pregnant by then. I conceived when Tom Owen raped me. I've given birth to a werewolf, Vic!’

‘But …’ He sat down in the chair which he had recently vacated. ‘But, even if Tom Owen did get you pregnant, he wasn't a werewolf. He was just a crazy killer. He dressed up in that skin to throw everybody off the scent and to create an atmosphere of terror whilst he went about murdering those who had anything to do with his brother's death. Everybody knows that.’

‘I'll never forget the sight of his body after he'd fallen on that sharpened stake at the pit,’ Margaret said, and began to sob. ‘It was all kind of … hairy. And the hairs disappeared almost immediately after his death! He was a werewolf all right.’

‘Oh, God!’ Vic Gunn buried his face in his hands. ‘Why didn't you tell me this before!’

‘I was just hoping.’ She was crying openly now. ‘Hoping that the werewolf strain wouldn't be strong enough. But it is. His cruelty is becoming worse. He's no longer an adolescent. Physically he's a man, and that means that any time now, when the moon is full ...’ Her voice tailed off.

They sat there for a long time in silence. Neither glanced up. The evening sun sank behind the hills, and the shadows lengthened over the gorse and bracken. The only sound in that farmhouse kitchen was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the distant bleating of the sheep in the fields which rose steeply at the rear.

Suddenly the telephone rang on the window ledge, a harsh sound which jarred them both with the force of a physical blow.

Vic stretched out a hand and lifted the receiver.

‘Oh, my God! No!’ A pause, and his knuckles showed white on the mouthpiece, threatening to crush it. ‘All right I'll be down right away.’

‘What is it?’ Margaret was at his side.

‘PC Price.’ Vic Gunn scarcely recognized his own voice, the tears already beginning to stream unashamedly down his face. ‘It's … there's been a murder. Clive Williams, the schoolmaster. They've picked up Hugh with blood all over him. He did it. Our own son. He's a murderer!’

CHAPTER TWO

Hugh Gunn was seated in the only cell at the Llanadevy police station, his sweater and jeans saturated with blood which was only just beginning to dry. His attitude was negative, neither angry nor remorseful. He simply sat there staring straight ahead of him at the blank wall, his features impassive.

Vic Gunn looked in horror at the sight of his bloodstained son, an expression of disbelief on his face.

‘Hugh,’ he whispered hoarsely, gripping the grille, shaking it. ‘It's me. Your father.’

But Hugh Gunn did not look at him.

‘Why did you do it, Hugh?’ Vic groaned, but PC Price tapped him on the shoulder, nodding towards an adjoining room.

The hill farmer followed him, the policeman closing the door of the small interview room behind them and leaning his back against it.

‘I'm sorry about this, Mr Gunn.’ The Llanadevy constable was tall and thin, every movement geared to alertness and efficiency. ‘He hasn't said a word since he was picked up about an hour ago. My superiors are coming down from Ludlow. They will interview him more thoroughly, and doubtless charge him.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘I was on my way back from Craven Arms, and just as I was passing the school your son came out, all covered in blood, just like he is now. He made no attempt to escape. In fact, he accompanied me back into the house. My God, you should have seen it, the constable added, blanching at the memory, it was like they'd been slaughtering pigs in Williams's study. Thank God the fellow was a bachelor. It would have snapped the mind of any woman. Williams … what was left of him … was clutching a paperknife in his hand. Obviously he had tried to defend himself with it. Your son used this.’ Price picked up a penknife from the desk, a cheap one with a plastic handle, the three-inch blade coated with congealed blood. ‘D'you recognize it?’

Vic nodded dumbly. He was only too familiar with the small knife. It was of foreign make and had cost thirty pence in the village general stores. His son had bought it less than a week ago.

‘You ... you don't mean to tell me that ... that ... my son … mutilated a man with that?’ Vic Gunn stammered. ‘Why ... I had difficulty in cutting a piece of string with it the other day. There's no edge to the blade. You'd have a job to cut your finger with it.’

‘Well, he ripped Williams about with it until he was virtually unrecognizable.’ Price's voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The bluntness of the knife didn't make any difference. It was the strength with which it was used. Look, see how the blade's all twisted. He hacked his man to ribbons with it. Of course, most of the blood came from the jugular vein. Spurted right up, all over the place. D'you want to hang on until my supervisors arrive?’

‘I'd better stay.’ Vic lowered himself down on to the only chair in the room, shaking his head miserably as he added, ‘Whatever made him do it?’

‘Could be a host of things. Some kind of revenge. Rebellion.’

‘Crazy. He leaves school in a matter of a couple of weeks.’

‘I take it he didn't get on very well at school?’

‘No.’ Vic shook his head again slowly. ‘A great disappointment to us all. He can barely read or write. But he's good on the farm. A first class stockman. We thought that maybe he could make out that way and it wouldn't matter …’

They were interrupted by the sound of a car drawing up outside.

‘Here's Chief Inspector McLoughlin now.’ Price moved towards the door. ‘D'you want to be present whilst they question your son?’

‘I think I'll wait here,’ Vic Gunn sighed.

The door closed behind the policeman. The farmer heard voices outside in the corridor, and then he began to sob quietly to himself.

Hugh Gunn regarded the three police officers emotionlessly. McLoughlin was well-built, clean-shaven, and his dark eyes seemed to bore into one, searching out innermost thoughts, the kind of man one couldn't hide anything from. The detective-sergeant had little to say, but scribbled copiously in his notebook the whole time, glancing at his chief every few seconds as though paying homage to authority.

‘Did you or did you not kill Clive Williams?’ McLoughlin asked Hugh Gunn for the third time, impatient at having received no response on the two previous occasions.

Hugh nodded, and raised his eyes.

‘I killed him,’ he growled, ‘because he tried to kill me.’

‘Tried to kill you?’

‘Yeah. He had it in for me. You ask any o' the kids at school. Gave me hell, he did. I've been in trouble because I played football at lunchtime and some o' the others got hit with the ball. Proper little twits, they were. Williams gave me a bollockin', and ordered me to report back for detention tonight. Well, it wasn't detention he'd got in mind. When I got there he'd got his cane all ready for me. It's still on the desk if you go and look. Told me to bend over, and I was going to have the larruping of my life. Imagine me, at my age, bending over so that he could lam my arse.’

‘Go on,’ McLoughlin said quietly.

‘I told 'im to go fuck himself,’ Hugh Gunn's small eyes flickered. ‘He got into a rage then. Said he oughta have sorted me out years ago. When I wouldn't do as he ordered he grabbed that paperknife off his desk, and started raving at me. Said he'd be doin' everybody a favour if he did away with me. Then he struck at me with the knife. See …’ the youth held up his arm. The sleeve of his jacket was ripped from wrist to elbow, and beneath it was a deep cut, the blood still oozing from it. ‘I got scared then. He stood between me and the door, still wavin' that knife. The bugger had gone crazy. Hated me for years, and now it was all comin' out. The only thing I'd got to defend meself with was that penknife. I suppose I went too far, but when you're scared and mad at someone you kinda forget yourself. I hated the bastard, but I didn't mean to kill him. Honest.’

McLoughlin sighed. He had already inspected the murder room. It was as the youth had said; a bloody paperknife clutched in the dead man's hand, the cane on the desk, signs of a tremendous struggle.

‘And nobody saw or heard you?’

‘Naw.’ Hugh Gunn grimaced. ‘Christ, I wish they had. We'd get it all straight then. I was just comin' out to go and report what had happened to the police, when he came by.’ He nodded towards PC Price.

The plain clothes sergeant finished writing, and looked up.

‘I'm going to have to charge you and hold you in custody,’ Chief-Inspector McLoughlin said. He glanced through the statement, then held the pad and ballpoint, pen out towards the prisoner. ‘Now, if you'd like to read this through and sign it ...’

Hugh Gunn reached out, took the notebook in his huge bloodstained hands, and with considerable difficulty printed his name at the foot of the page.

‘Aren't you going to read it?’ McLoughlin snapped.

‘Naw.’ Hugh Gunn looked up, a blank expression on his face. ‘Can't read. Can't write, either, except me name.’

The hearing at the special magistrates' court the following day lasted less than five minutes. Hugh Gunn pleaded not guilty to murder and was sent for trial to the County Court.

Margaret Gunn was allowed to see her son for a few minutes afterwards before he was transported to Shrewsbury prison.

‘Why did you do it, Hugh?’ She fought bravely to stem the flood of tears which threatened to deluge at any moment.

‘It was his fault,’ he told her, refusing to meet her gaze. ‘What else can you do when somebody attacks you? I killed him, and that's all there is to it. A bloke's entitled to defend himself, ain't he?’

The period before the trial was, surprisingly, one of relief for Margaret Gunn. It was as though a fifteen- year-old threat had been removed from her life. No longer did she lie and listen on moonlit nights, wondering if the curse with which her son was afflicted was about to materialize. Nevertheless, the fact remained that she had given birth to a murderer, the son of a depraved, bestial killer.

‘I guess it's all over bar the shouting,’ she said one night as she and Vic sat in front of a blank television screen. ‘It had to happen sometime. It's Williams I feel most for. A dedicated man, liked by everybody, a fine schoolmaster, and it had to be him whom Hugh -’

‘Look, stop blaming yourself.’ Vic dropped his hand on to hers. ‘There isn't a damned thing anybody could have done about it. Hell, you couldn't have him locked away just because the third fingers of each hand were longer than the rest. O.K., we've had a werewolf rampaging around here, but only a few of us actually acknowledge that the creature existed. In the eyes of the law both Philip and Tom Owen were psychopaths. Nothing more. If we'd tried to convince anybody that Hugh was a werewolf it would've been us they'd have locked away. We couldn't keep him chained up, either. So we can't blame ourselves, can we?’

‘Looking at it like that, no.’ She smiled weakly. ‘But it doesn't bring Williams back, does it? And …’ it was a question she had avoided all along, ever since Hugh had been committed for trial, ‘what … what d'you think they'll do with him, Vic?’

‘They'll put him away, naturally,’ her husband replied.

‘But for how long?’

‘Who knows?’

‘They won't let him out again, will they?’ There was a note of fear in Margaret Gunn's voice now.

‘Well, it depends.’ Vic rose and crossed to the window, staring up at the skyline, the coniferous forest that was the Black Hill silhouetted starkly against the sunset beyond, a dark, mysterious forest where once a werewolf had roamed.

‘On what?’ she asked.

‘On a whole lot of things. I was talking to Price today. He dropped in for a bag of potatoes. They're considering altering the charge from murder to manslaughter in the light of evidence which seems to support Hugh's story.’

‘Oh, no!’ she cried, clasping her hand to her mouth.

‘Whatever's the matter with you?’ he snapped angrily. ‘You don't want to be known as the mother of a convicted murderer, do you?’

‘Better that than have him loose again,’ she groaned. ‘You don't think this is the end of his werewolf tendencies, do you? It's only the beginning. It can only be ended in one way. And you know it. And only then will the boy be at peace.’

Vic Gunn returned to his seat. His head was bowed, his eyes closed. He knew only too well that his wife spoke the truth. Only death, in any one of a certain number of ways, would release Hugh from the curse of the werewolf.

Shrewsbury was crowded on the day of the trial. People thronged the streets, muttering excitedly. There was jeering and catcalls when the black van conveying the prisoner drew up, and Hugh Gunn, a blanket thrown over his head, was escorted into the court building.

‘Murderer! Fiend!’

Vic and Margaret Gunn, who had been in the public gallery for the past hour, winced as they heard the shouting outside. Margaret began to weep quietly, and Vic slipped an arm around her. He prayed that the trial would not be a long one.

Little did he realize, though, that his prayer would be answered so quickly. Hugh pleaded guilty to manslaughter. The jury were dismissed. It was merely a question of the cases for the prosecution and defence being heard, and then the judge would sum-up and pass sentence.

By mid-afternoon the judge had begun his summing- up, his quiet voice audible in every corner of the large room. Hugh Gunn stood in the dock, looking neither to right nor left. His eyes were fixed unwaveringly on the stern-faced, bespectacled man who would shortly pass sentence. There was no hint of fear on the ugly features of the youth, nor any trace of arrogance. Simply hate. Hate for the judge, and for all those responsible for bringing about this trial.

‘You are, without a doubt, a wicked and violent boy,’ the circuit judge pronounced, reminding Hugh Gunn of Clive Williams, which only served to make him hate the man with the wig and gown even more, ‘but we must bear in mind that your terrible deed was partly due to provocation on the part of your victim. Nevertheless, we cannot let you go unpunished for this crime. You are going to be detained in a prison for no more than two years, and it is hoped that when the time comes for your release, you will have learned that such terrible violence will not be tolerated even under extreme provocation.’

Shortly afterwards there were jeers from the crowds outside when the news of the sentence reached them.

‘Two years for bloody murder!’

‘Murder?’ an elderly woman shrieked. ‘T'weren't murder. It was worse than bloody Jack the Ripper! 'Acked the poor old bugger up, 'e did, and they got the gall to call it manslaughter. 'Angin's the only answer to the likes'o' 'im!’

Cheering broke out at her words, and a line of uniformed policemen began to push the crowd back.

‘And 'im over to us, then,’ the woman yelled, and there was another burst of cheering.

An hour later the streets were almost deserted. The reports of the trial in the evening paper, and in the dailies on the morrow, would raise a storm of protest, but within a week it would all have died down. The public would soon forget Hugh Gunn. The only ones who would remember were Vic and Margaret Gunn, and the people of Llanadevy.

For two years they would be able to sleep soundly in their beds. After that, the werewolf would again be roaming in their midst.

CHAPTER THREE

Hugh Gunn settled down to prison life with surprising ease. Probably his negative personality was instrumental in bringing this about, a lack of sensitivity breeding adaptability. From the very first day on which he arrived at the prison in Staffordshire, he showed not the slightest sign of emotion, neither remorse nor frustration at the curtailment of his freedom.

The prison had once been a stately hall. Now only little of its former magnificence remained. The long banqueting hall served less delicious food, whilst many of the bedrooms had had their fine oak doors replaced by steel grilles. There were a number of classrooms for those who chose to pursue studies, and more menial tasks available for those who did not. Hugh Gunn decided upon the latter. His coarse fingers seemed untiring where the stitching of mailbags was concerned, working monotonously throughout the day, hour after hour without so much as a pause other than to re-thread a needle.

‘A strange boy,’ the prison governor muttered to the warder in charge on a weekly tour of inspection. ‘I've been watching him for ten minutes now, and he's not even looked up. One could say he has the makings of a model prisoner, except …’

‘Aye,’ the warder said, ‘except that there's something decidedly odd about him. All the other prisoners keep clear of him. They don't talk to him and he doesn't talk to them, even at mealtimes. He has all the signs of being mentally subnormal, can hardly read or write, but you can take it from me there's an astute brain in that head. It's just a question of application. And that's what worries me, as though he's deep in thought, planning, plotting.’

‘Keep a close watch on him,’ the governor said ‘Anyone who can kill in the manner he did can't be normal, even if the psychiatrists say he is. Quite honestly, he gives me the creeps. More like an animal than a human being.’

The nights were the worst time for Hugh Gunn. The moment the key turned in the door of his cell the claustrophobic tendencies began. In the early days it took the form of a ceaseless pacing to and fro, circling the perimeter of his ten-by-six enclosure a thousand times until dawn. Only when the sky became lighter did he lie down on the mattress, his only item of furniture, and fall into a deep sleep. Within a couple of hours he was being woken, ordered to wash, dress, and report for breakfast.

Those prisoners sitting close to him at the long table experienced a disinclination to talk, even amongst themselves. They cast sidelong glances at their misshapen colleague who ate with his fingers in preference to a spoon, and broke wind constantly and unashamedly.

‘Bloody 'ell, mate,’ a bald-headed convict serving a seven-year sentence for armed robbery remarked once, ‘ain't nobody ever taught you table manners?’

The hoots of laughter from those around died down as suddenly as they had begun. Powerful fingers grasped the wrist of the bank robber. The latter cried out in agony as pressure was exerted, almost dragging him across the table.

‘Hey, pack it in!’ a uniformed warder came towards them. ‘What's going on?’

‘Nothin',’ Hugh Gunn said without looking up, ‘Just a test of strength. I won!’

‘Well, keep your bloody schoolboy games for the recreation period.’ The warder returned to his unfinished meal, grateful that he had not been called upon to break up a fight. A test of strength it certainly was, and there was nobody around capable of handling the boy killer single-handed. That much was evident to both prisoners and warders alike.

November came, and with it Hugh Gunn was aware of a change taking place within himself. It was gradual at first. The nights were colder now, and yet he did not need the extra blanket with which he had been provided. He was more restless than ever, his nocturnal pacing around his cell purposeful as though he was embarking upon a long journey, hurrying towards an unknown destination in answer to sortie mysterious calling.

The moon grew fuller, an orange orb rising slowly above the trees beyond the large lake, turning to silver as it neared its zenith, its soft, gentle light flooding the countryside. Hugh's restlessness increased, but instead of pacing to and fro he stood by the tiny barred window, staring at the night sky. The moonlight fell on his head and shoulders as he watched, and the sensation it gave him was one akin to bathing in warm sunlight, the rays pleasant and soothing to his skin.

His whole body longed for freedom. Clothes were an encumbrance. Almost in a frenzy he tore them from him, allowing the ethereal light to dance on his nakedness. He felt strong, powerful, and there was an urge in him which he could not understand. He experienced a desire to roam the fields and woods, shambling in search of … yes, food! He was hungry, but not for the artificial, over-cooked tiny portions which were served up in the dining hall. He needed meat. Raw meat, red with blood, a whole beast which he could tear at, freshly killed so that the flesh was still warm.

He tested the bars on both windows and doors, flexing his muscles, using his feet as a leverage, but they did not yield. He grunted in annoyance, and was surprised at the deep, animal sound which came from his own vocal chords.

Then he happened to glance down at his own body. It was unbelievable! His skin had always been coarse, and from the time he had reached puberty he had been aware of an excessive growth of hair. But this was incredible. His whole body was matted with it, like the fur of the mangy collie back home ... only thicker. He tugged at the hair. It was no illusion. It grew out of the skin. His skin.

He grunted again when he saw his hands. They were totally unrecognizable, no longer bearing thick, grimy fingers, broken, dirty nails ... they were the claws of a wild animal!

Hugh Gunn rushed to the window, examining himself as best he could in the patch of moonlight which flooded in through the window, holding up arms, legs, feeling them, noting the coarseness of the hair and the sharpness of those claws.

Possibly it was the first time in his life that he had ever known fear. His first reaction was one of panic. He opened his mouth, gazing up towards that compelling orb in the night sky, and screamed in anguish. Yet it was no human cry of terror which came from his throat. The sound was frightening, causing him to cringe in fear as that terrible howl filled the cell, echoing out through the open window and across the grounds beyond.

Almost immediately it was taken up, the answering howls coming from the kennel block down below which housed the Alsatian tracker dogs. Yet their canine baying had a very different ring to it than Hugh Gunn's. It was filled with terror, the cries of animals in absolute fear.

Hugh Gunn lay down on his mattress. He whimpered. Again it was the noise of an animal. He did not know of which species, but he was very much afraid. He was trembling violently. He could hear men moving about down below, warders going across to the kennels to investigate. Someone shouted. But the dogs did not bay again.

He felt himself all over. The thick, hairy coat covered every inch of his body. His face was different, too. The ears were larger, far more pointed than they normally were, the nose longer, the teeth ... he gasped as his fingers traced the size and shape of those fangs. Long and sharp, several times the size of his own chipped, uneven teeth!

He lay there in the shadows, his brain attempting to cope with the situation, but failing. He had undergone some kind of change. That much was certain. But what? His instinct was to prowl and kill, the moon a compelling force, irresistible, controlling his body, his brain.

He heard the gate at the end of the corridor being unlocked. It clanged open, then footsteps came along the length of linoleum. Hugh Gunn recognized the studded boots of the night warder. They were coming to check on him. He was the only one in ‘solitary’ on account of his age. The dogs had given a warning cry and the prison authorities were taking no chances.

Hugh pulled the blankets up over him until they covered his whole form. It was stifling beneath them. He had always hated being indoors, and bedclothes had been abhorrent to him even in the severest weather. Now he was almost suffocating. His lungs, which seemed to have expanded out of all proportion along with every other part of his body, needed air. Cold, fresh air.

‘Gunn. You all right?’

He did not answer. He lay still, hoping that the blanket covered all of his huge, unnatural form. The beam of a torch played on it briefly, and he heard the warder grunt his satisfaction. The torch clicked off, and Hugh Gunn lay listening to the receding footsteps, the grille being relocked. Then silence. Not a sound, even from the dogs.

Eventually he returned to the window. The moon was well into the sky now, and he sensed whence his power came. It gave him strength, yet it controlled him. He was its servant, obliged to carry out its bidding, obeying the most primitive of all instincts, hunting and killing. Yet it was impossible for him to appease his desires. There was no way out of this place, and until such time as he was free then he would fight against the frustration when the moon was near full, the nightly torture that could only ease when daylight came.

He was still standing at the window, claws resting on the bars, when he noticed a paleness in the Eastern sky. Almost immediately the restlessness inside him seemed to ease. He became calmer. And he felt exhausted, the power draining from him.

Wearily he dragged himself across to the mattress, surprised to notice how naturally he moved on all fours. He did not stretch out, but instead curled up, this time leaving the blankets on the floor. His breathing was heavy and laboured, but as the dawn light flooded in through the small window his lungs seemed to need less conscious effort to do their work. He slept.

His first reaction when he awoke was to snatch the blankets over him, not purely to hide the awful transformation from others, but simply because he was cold. As he did so, he noticed his hands. Then his legs. They were the same as they had always been; grotesque, but … human!

Almost frenziedly he examined himself all over. Everything was gone, the horrors of the night had disappeared as mysteriously as they had materialized. Nose, ears, teeth, claws. It was as though he had endured some nightmare of delirium, horrors which had been confined solely to his mind. Yet he knew they were true enough. It had been no dream. The thought frightened him, for he knew it would happen again, and again. And it was all to do with the moon. It was the master. He was the slave. Beyond that he did not understand.

He was hungry, but no longer did his thoughts turn to raw meat torn from a freshly killed beast, but rather to the mundane repast of the prison dining hall. He began to dress. His muscles ached as though they had undergone some terrible strain.

He wished that he understood more about the transformation. Why had it happened ? When would it take place again? Did it occur in other people? What kind of beast had he turned into? He could answer none of these questions, yet he was aware that the change gave him a feeling of superiority over both man and beast. Even the fearsome prison dogs had howled their terror when he had bayed at the moon.

He wondered what would happen if his secret was discovered. Perhaps they would keep him locked up forever then. It was a terrifying thought, and he determined that the truth must never be found out. Somehow he must curb his desire to howl his thanksgiving to the moon. He must cringe in obedience, cover his body with a blanket, ensure the terrible claustrophobia, and eventually the day would come when his gaolers would set him free. These thoughts brought back memories of the Black Hill, the smell of the heather in late summer, the sweet scent of the pines, and, above all, the wildness, the freedom.

His night would come, and then all the waiting would have been worthwhile.

Night after night the change took place in that tiny cell, the coarse, matted hair growing out of Hugh's skin, nails and teeth extending into claws and fangs, movement on all fours becoming easier than balancing precariously on two legs. Hugh disciplined himself to pay silent homage to the source of his power. Even in the primitiveness which swamped him, the lowering of the intellect to that of an animal, he realized that to draw attention to himself would be to invite disaster. The fleeing fox did not bark in covert with the huntsmen in pursuit, and so he forced himself to remain silent, except for the incessant padding of his heavy paws on the concrete floor and the panting of frustration. His fetid breath was visible in the coldness of the cell, the vapour rising from his slavering jaws and drifting out through the window.

Slowly he overcame his fears. He learned by experience. When daylight came he automatically reverted to human form. And so long as none set eyes upon him during those few hours then his secret was safe. Likewise, the change did not occur except during the period of the full moon.

Once Hugh Gunn had become accustomed to the routine he no longer looked upon his affliction as a curse. It was, in fact, a blessing. Countless times he gave thanks to his god, the moon, that he was not as other men. He was a supreme being, and only his present short incarceration prevented him from exploiting his powers.

He laboured ceaselessly in the prison workshop, enjoying the double satisfaction of realizing that both his fellow prisoners and the warders secretly feared him, and that he was rapidly earning remission. And once he was free ...

A clear sky heralded an early Autumn frost as Vic Gunn trudged down the long slope towards the distant whitewashed farmhouse below him. The faint scent of woodsmoke was in the air, and he realized that once again the seasons were changing. Summer was gone, and the green foliage was already tinted with gold. Most of the blackberries were overripe, the brambles covered with cobwebs each morning. It was a beautiful time of the year. It heralded a relaxation of the hard labours of lambing and shearing. The sheep would be brought down from the hills to the fields around the farm, and he would be spared the daily climb up these steep slopes. Just lately it was becoming more of an effort. Maybe in a year or two he would sell up, buy a bungalow somewhere and …

‘Vic!’ Margaret was waiting for him at the small wicker gate which led through the flower garden to the rear entrance. She was wearing jeans and a sweater.

She didn't look much different now than she had twenty years ago. Greyer, perhaps, more lines on her face, but that was all.

‘Vic!’ There was an urgency about her call and he increased his step.

Anxiety showed on her face, and in the way she gripped the top of the gate.

‘What is it?’ He was slightly out of breath.

There's been a phone call. The prison governor. He says that … that Hugh's been a model prisoner. Exemplary conduct.’

‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe we were wrong about him, and -’

‘He's got full remission. Oh, Vic, they're …’ Her expression changed to one of fear, her lower lip trembling, ‘they're … they're releasing him next Friday. Oh, God, they're sending him home!’

CHAPTER FOUR

Vic Gunn arrived at Shrewsbury station an hour or so before the train from Stafford was due. He was uneasy. The prospect of seeing Hugh again did not appeal to him. Twice he and Margaret had attempted to visit the boy in prison, but on each occasion he had spurned them, refusing even to come into the visitors' room. After that they had not bothered.

Vic wondered how difficult the reunion would be. That was one of the reasons why he had persuaded Margaret to remain at home. There were one or two matters to be sorted out between Hugh and himself.

The platform was crowded by people with luggage going away for the weekend, maybe longer. They generated an atmosphere of gaiety, carefree folk who lived ordinary lives. Vic Gunn envied them.

He sat down on a bench, and lit a cigarette. He didn't smoke much at all these days, but suddenly he needed tobacco smoke in his lungs. The clock opposite him showed 7.15 pm. Quarter of an hour to wait. Up until now he had ignored the blaring of the public address system. Now it seemed to hammer its message at him viciously.

‘The next train arriving at platform two will be the six-thirty from Stafford. All passengers …’

All passengers. Just one of them concerned him. An ugly hunchbacked youth, an evil killer, a child born of rape, a werewolf ... his wife's son by another man.

He stood up and began to pace the platform. That loudspeaker was determined to torture him. The train from Stafford would now be ten minutes late ... as though somehow Fate herself was attempting to delay its arrival, taunting him.

At last he saw it pulling in, slowing, doors opening, passengers leaping out before it was at a standstill. But he had eyes for only one. He scanned the line of people as they hurried towards the exit. There was no sign of Hugh.

Vic continued to watch the train. Maybe Hugh had dozed off, was still sleeping. A guard was checking the carriages, slamming the doors, latecomers scrambling aboard.

Five minutes later the train pulled out again. The werewolf had not returned.

Vic Gunn consulted a timetable and checked on the time of the next train due in from Stafford. 9.30 pm. He sighed, lit another cigarette, and went in search of a cup of coffee. He would wait.

Two hours later he was again checking the scurrying passengers alighting from the train. He watched the guard check the carriages once more. Nothing, not a sign of Hugh.

Puzzled, Vic Gunn walked slowly out to where his car was parked. He was uneasy. Just where had Hugh gone to after his release - and what were his plans?

Margaret Gunn was upstairs in the small bedroom, making up Hugh's bed, when she heard the back door open and close and the sound of footsteps on the wooden floorboards below. She glanced at her watch. 8.15 pm. Vic had been quick. Usually it was an hour's run from Shrewsbury.

‘That was quick,’ she called out ‘Hang on, I'll be down in a second.’

She paused on the landing to straighten her hair. She noticed in the mirror above the tallboy that she was trembling. Her stomach muscles were taut. She felt sick.

She tried to pull herself together. This was no way for a mother to greet her son on his return. At least she had to look cheerful. She forced herself to smile, and began to descend the stairs.

Half-way down she could see Hugh sitting in the chair by the fire, his back towards her. He was wearing a suit of ill-fitting clothes, probably some second-hand garments which they had given him on his release.

‘Hallo, Hugh.’ She put all the warmth she could muster into those words. ‘It's good to have you back. I …’

She broke off. He had not moved or even acknowledged her presence. And there was no sign of Vic. She experienced a fleeting sensation of panic, but overcame it.

‘Where's your father ?’

‘How the hell should I know? He's big enough and bloody old enough to look after himself, ain't he?’

She did not reply, instead walking across and standing opposite him. Her flesh was goose pimpling, and there was a dryness in her mouth that made speech difficult. He had changed a lot in eighteen months. Even physically, to anyone who knew him intimately. His features were rougher, coarser, his ugliness seemed more pronounced. There was something else about him also, something which she found difficulty in defining at first, but when she did finally determine what it was it caused her to step back involuntarily. It was as though her son was the very personification of evil, a fiend in human form.

‘I asked you where your father was, Hugh.’ She tried to sound kindly but firm, although it was difficult to keep the revulsion out of her voice.

‘And I said I didn't bloody well know.’

‘He fetched you from the station in the car.’

‘He'd have a job. I didn't come by rail.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well, he went to meet the train at Shrewsbury.’

‘Then I expect he's still sittin' on the bleedin' platform. Or maybe he's found himself a tart to pass the time.’

‘Hugh, please! Don't say things like that about your father. Anyway, how did you get here?’

‘Not that it's any concern of yours. In fact, I walked some of the way, hitched the rest. Walked from Clun, up over the Black Hill.’

‘I'll get you something to eat I expect your father will be back soon.’

She was angry, but she dared not show it. She walked into the small, narrow larder, then stiffened when she heard his footsteps following her.

‘Scared o' me, ain't you?’

His breath smelled foul, and she wondered what he had been eating. More likely he had not bothered with such tasks as cleaning his teeth during his spell in prison.

‘No.’ She was trembling so violently that the lie was only too obvious.

‘Yes you are.’ He laughed, a low evil chuckle, displaying his chipped and yellowed teeth. ‘But don't worry, I'm not going to murder you and cut you up into little pieces.’

‘How dare you say that!’ she gulped. ‘And anyway, you went to prison for manslaughter. You killed in self-defence.’

‘Did I buggery!’ He threw back his head and laughed loudly, a terrible sound that would have made her flee from her own house had he not been blocking the only exit from the larder. ‘I was just too bleedin' clever for 'em, that fuckin' judge, too …’

‘Don't use that language in this house!’ She attempted to show anger, but her fear dominated and her words lacked impetus.

‘I use it everywhere,’ he said, ‘but don't worry. I ain't stoppin' long around here. Like I said, I killed that bleedin' schoolmaster. He didn't have a chance. I put the cane on the desk, and that paperknife in his hand, using a handkerchief like they do on the telly so my fingerprints wouldn't show. Then I gutted him like a rabbit, spewing his guts up the wall and on the ceiling. After I'd cut his throat, of course!’

Margaret Gunn tried to scream, but no sound came. She thought she was going to faint, but the dizziness was only temporary.

Finally, she said, ‘If the police get to know …’

‘They couldn't do a bloody thing about it,’ he picked up a bread knife, tested the blade with his thumb, and began to hack away at a loaf. ‘No, they made a balls-up of the enquiry, and it's too late now. I could go and tell 'em.’ He stuffed a hunk of bread into his mouth and continued boasting, spitting crumbs down the front of his soiled shirt. ‘Williams had it comin' to him. He tried to take the piss out of me in front of the other kids. Been tryin' it for years. But I had the last laugh.’

‘Look here,’ she said, trying to regain her composure, ‘there's something you ought to know, Hugh.’

‘Is there?’ he laughed again. ‘Maybe there's a lot o' things I ought to know, but -’

‘Shut up and listen,’ she snapped, and to her amazement he fell silent.

‘Something which I've been afraid of for years has happened to you,’ she breathed, ‘and I can prove it. Hold up your hands. Go on.’

Surprised, he did as she asked. She pointed to the third finger on each hand.

‘See those?’ she whispered. ‘They're longer than your other fingers. They shouldn't be. And do you know why?’

‘Go on.’ He was beginning to mock her again.

‘Because,’ she snapped, ‘your father was a werewolf!’

She had anticipated coarse ridicule. Instead he was silent, his tiny eyes widening, and a look of fear crossed his features.

‘What!’ he breathed. ‘Him?’

‘No, not my husband It was -’

‘Been offerin' it around, eh?’

‘No, I have not,’ she snapped. ‘I was raped. By a man suffering from lycanthropy.’

‘Oh, Christ!’ he muttered ‘Bloody hell! So that explains it.’

‘What?’

‘Funny turns I've been having.’ Suddenly the aggression was gone. Now it was his turn to tremble. Never before, since infancy, had she seen him afraid.

‘What ... what kind of funny turns?’

Hugh Gunn drew a hand across his wide forehead. Margaret saw that he was shaking.

‘Happens on certain nights,’ he told her, his voice low. ‘Always when the moon is full. I … I grow thick hair … claws … my teeth …’

‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘that's it, all right. You're a werewolf, sure enough.’

For a long time they just stood there looking at each other in silence.

‘What … what can we do?’ There was pleading, desperation in Hugh's voice when he finally spoke again.

‘I don't rightly know,’ she replied ‘Maybe if we consulted a priest …’

‘No!’ His eyes blazed. ‘Not that!’

‘Well, we'll have to think of something.’ She experienced relief now that this encounter seemed to be at an end. The moon will be full again in about a week … the Harvest Moon. I'll … wait, I think this is Vic coming now.’

Vic Gunn walked wearily into the living room, and flung himself down into a chair. He looked up as Margaret and Hugh emerged from the larder, surprise showing on his face at first, then anger.

‘And where the devil did you get to?’ he demanded of Hugh. ‘I've been sitting on Shrewsbury station for almost three hours!’

‘Nobody asked you to go there.’ Hugh's manner became sullen and resentful again.

‘The prison said -’

‘You don't want to take any notice of what the prison say.’ Hugh laughed evilly. ‘Anyway, I'm tired, and I'm going up to bed.’

Vic and Margaret watched him climb the stairs, not once glancing back, listened to his footsteps on the landing above, and then heard the slamming of his bedroom door.

‘Well, prison life hasn't changed him any,’ Vic grunted.

In hushed tones Margaret told him of the conversation which had ensued.

‘So it's true, after all.’ The farmer's tone was grim, his complexion ashen when she had finished. ‘The curse has begun all over again. Ever since old Gwynne Owen imported that damned sheepdog from Germany twenty years ago, the Black Hill has never been free of the curse of the werewolf. Well, it can't be allowed to continue. Hugh has got to be settled here and now, before the next full moon rises!’

‘But how? He won't see a priest, and anyway, we don't know that that would do any good. And after all he is our son, whatever else he might be.’

Vic checked himself from saying ‘your son’, and stroked his chin thoughtfully.

‘A silver bullet,’ he murmured, ‘running water ...’

‘No!’ she gasped. ‘We can't do that.’

‘It isn't only his life that's at stake,’ he retorted grimly. ‘It's ours, the villagers', the people of these hills.’

‘I won't let you kill him,’ she said. ‘There has to be another way. Exorcism seems the only answer. Perhaps we could talk him into it.’

‘Well, there's no time to be lost,’ Vic muttered. ‘Only the walls of his cell have kept him from killing these past eighteen months. From now onwards he'll be free to roam the countryside at will. I …’

He stopped suddenly, head turned towards the open kitchen window. From outside, somewhere up on the Black Hill, came a long, drawn-out howl, rising to a crescendo and seeming to linger in the still night air. Almost immediately it came again, the second blending with the echo of the first, then dying slowly away. Silence.

‘What was that?’ Margaret Gunn whispered. ‘It ... it couldn't be Hugh. He's upstairs in his room. That came from the Black Hill.’

‘God in heaven!’ Vic groaned, rising and crossing to the window. He stared out, but night had cast its mantle of darkness over the hills and he could not even see the outline of the forest on the skyline.

‘What was it?’ Margaret asked again, and wrung her hands together. ‘That was no werewolf, and anyway, there isn't a full moon. Yet it was no earthly sound.’

‘Remember the “Legend of the Black Dogs”?’ Vic closed the window and turned to face her.

‘I recall that old Gwynne Owen used to babble on about some spectral dogs,’ she replied. ‘Huge black dogs, like a cross between a collie and an Alsatian, as big as a calf. The story began in the Middle Ages. Those who saw them died. Harbingers of doom, or something like that. Sometimes they weren't seen for centuries, then they'd suddenly show up in times of disaster.’

‘That's right,’ he said nodding. ‘It isn't just a local legend. These dogs have supposedly shown up in various parts of the country, but their species varies according to the locality and how the people interpret the legend.’

‘Then ... then you think ... ?' She could not muster the courage to put it into words.

‘Well, in the light of what we know already, werewolves and all that, who are we to dispute this story?’

‘Maybe it was a sheepdog gone wild,’ she suggested, seeking desperately for a logical explanation, attempting to convince herself at the same time. ‘It's happened before. Remember that collie that lived up on the Black Hill for weeks, a hungry, mangy creature that worried the sheep until it was eventually shot?’

‘That howl came from no sheepdog,’ Vic Gunn muttered. ‘I'd swear to that. It was a warning. The supernatural forces themselves are warning us that there is a werewolf in our midst!'’

CHAPTER FIVE

Hugh Gunn did not arise until it was almost midday on the day following his return home. Margaret was preparing lunch in the kitchen when she heard his heavy footfalls on the narrow staircase.

He was wearing a rough working shirt that fastened with difficulty across his chest, a pair of jeans, and some heavy boots that had once belonged to his father.

‘Lunch won't be long,’ she called out to him.

‘Don't worry about me,’ he grunted. ‘I'll be on my way in a few minutes.’

‘Where are you going?’ she appeared in the doorway between the two rooms, alarm on her features and in her voice.

‘Like I said last night, I won't be hanging around here.’

‘No … no, Hugh, don't go yet.’

‘You don't want me around,’ he retorted, ‘a murderer. A … werewolf.’

‘Look, we're going to try and help you.’

‘Don't be bloody stupid. Nobody can help me. Not even you. Just forget I ever existed … if you can!’

She watched helplessly as he walked out through the door, across the yard, and disappeared from sight behind the barns. Only then did she realize that her purse was missing off the table, but she reflected that she would have given him the money anyway.

An hour later when Vic returned she was seated at the table, her head resting on her arms. She looked up. The tears had dried but they had left their mark.

‘What's up?’ he grunted. ‘Where's Hugh?’

‘He's gone.’

‘Gone? Where?’

‘I don't know. He just walked out I couldn't even see which direction he took.’

‘Maybe we ought to notify the police,’ he sighed and sat down opposite her.

‘They wouldn't be interested,’ she replied. ‘He's able to support himself, though God knows what his plans are.’

‘The police would be interested in his movements,’ Vic said. ‘After all, he only came out of prison yesterday. And he's a killer.’

‘No, don't, Vic,’ she grasped his arm as he moved somewhat half-heartedly towards the telephone. ‘After all, we can't tell them that he's a werewolf. We'll just have to hope and pray.’

They ate in silence, and afterwards, when Vic had returned to the fields, Margaret Gunn reached down the bulky telephone directory. Her fingers trembled, not with fear this time, but at the memory of a bearded man who had once hunted these hills, clad in a camouflaged combat jacket, a wide-brimmed floppy hat, gun beneath his arm, dog at heel. Gordon Hall, the very thought of this man, the journalist who had once rented the shooting rights of the Black Hill, was an exciting one if she ignored the circumstances surrounding their meeting. He had been instrumental in the destruction of Philip Owen, the original werewolf, and later had rescued her from the clutches of the youth who had kidnapped and raped her.

She wondered what Hall looked like now. He would be older, that beard tinged with grey and possibly he had put on weight. Nevertheless, she would like to see him again, and not only because he might be a saviour in this latest crisis. He was the one man who would know what to do.

His name was not listed in the Wolverhampton area. He had moved on, perhaps even retired. Somewhat disappointed she decided to try his London paper. Perhaps they would know.

‘Sorry love, he's not in today.’ Margaret experienced exultation when, after her call had been switched through to three different offices, someone actually confirmed that Gordon Hall was still in existence. ‘He'll be in tomorrow, though. Can I get him to ring you?’

‘No,’ Margaret was thoughtful ‘I'll ring him tomorrow.’

‘Who shall I say called?’

‘Just … just say it was an old friend,’ she said, and thought she detected a faint snigger from the other end of the line. Evidently Gordon Hall had not changed over the years.

Hugh Gunn walked rapidly until he was clear of Llanadevy village. On several occasions people turned and glanced after him. He sensed the hate and distrust in their expressions. He had plenty of old scores to settle. Maybe he should have stayed around, taught them a lesson, made them cringe behind locked doors at night. It wouldn't work out, though, he decided. Too many people knew him. He needed somewhere bigger for the time being, a place where his presence would not be noticed, a city with its teeming thousands. Nobody would even glance twice at him there.

He continued in an easterly direction. The day was warm, and from the settled look of the sky it might stay that way for a day or two. That was good. Probably he would have to sleep rough for a few nights. He didn't mind that.

He paused to buy some crisps and chocolate from a filling station in a small village. The woman who served him glanced nervously at him as he stuffed his purchases into the old haversack on his back, and he was fully aware that she was watching him until he was out of sight. That was the trouble in rural areas, everybody wanted to know your business.

He skirted Craven Arms. He had often gone there to the livestock market with his father in the past, and there was always the chance that somebody might recognize him. All he sought at present was to travel incognito.

Towards late afternoon he left the narrow, winding road and struck off across the fields. A line of winding willow trees in the distance denoted the course of a small river or stream, and Hugh Gunn was thirsty. He was also very hungry.

The stream was a wide one, possibly a tributary of the River Corve, the water deep and clear. He flung himself down, and began to lap noisily, splashing the cold water over his head as he did so. For fully two minutes he drank, and then he straightened up and opened his battered canvas haversack. In the bottom lay some rabbit snares, well-used ones with rusting wire and tangled cords. He studied them whilst he devoured the chocolate and crisps greedily. It was a long time since he had last caught a rabbit in this way, but he knew that he would not have lost his skills.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing chocolate across his face. Then he glanced up at the sky. The sun was dipping towards the range of hills in the west. Night was only a couple of hours or so away, and there was little point in moving on much further.

He walked away from the river towards a silver birch coppice which stood at the foot of a small hillock. The leaves were turning brown, some of them already fallen to form a soft carpet on the ground beneath the branches. This place offered shelter.

He grunted with satisfaction as he noted one or two rabbit runs in the grass on the exterior of the spinney. Rabbit for supper. It might be a late supper, but he knew that he could catch one without much difficulty.

He cut a small stake from one of the trees, sharpened the end with his pocketknife, and pushed it deep into the ground. His strength had not been sapped during his imprisonment. If anything, it had increased. He did not need a hammer to drive the peg in firmly. Expertly he set the snare up, a small forked twig holding the wire noose in place above the ground, equidistant between the rabbit ‘jumps’ in the grass. Then he returned to the trees to wait.

Dusk was turning to deep darkness when his acute hearing picked up the sound of a rabbit hitting the snare. He was already on his way towards it when it began to squeal.

It took him less than a minute to skin it, peeling back the thick fur and not troubling to remove the head. He sank his teeth deep into the warm, quivering flesh, tearing ravenously at it, gulping it down, finally licking the bones clean and swallowing the offal.

He tossed the remains away and lay back on the soft bed of leaves and grass. He sighed deeply. For the first time in his life he felt really free. He was answerable to none, no schoolmaster, no warders, no parents. The world was his playground.

Hugh was oblivious to the chill of an autumnal night, sleeping deeply, his haversack for a pillow. When dawn came he awoke refreshed, but hungry. He cursed himself for not having set up another snare before going to sleep. Out in the fields he could see three or four rabbits hopping about, grazing the dew-drenched grass. He knew that he would not be able to run them down, and that once disturbed they would in all probability remain in their burrows for the remainder of the day.

Slowly he began to traverse the interior of the copse, sweeping the leaves aside with his feet, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. It took him about ten minutes to find that which he sought, a small grey spiky ball, the head withdrawn, eyes regarding him fearfully from behind its natural barrier.

He picked it up, the spines scarcely scratching the leathery skin of his hand, and with one swift movement he flung it hard against the trunk of the nearest tree. As it bounced to the ground it unfurled, and at that instant a heavy booted foot crushed the small skull.

He used his knife to remove the thick, prickly skin of the hedgehog, and for the second time in a few hours he feasted on raw meat, munching and slavering in appreciation.

His hunger satisfied, he licked the bloody blade of his knife clean and, picking up his haversack, left the coppice, walking towards the rising sun with the hills on his right, the road on his left.

By midday the structure of the landscape around him was changing gradually. The hills were merging into a flat stretch of arable land, the grazing fields were also replaced by arable, and in the crops, potatoes, turnips and swedes, he saw an easy source of food. The money he would save until later.

Human habitation, too, was much more widespread. Villages seemed closer together, and in the distance he could see a town, its most prominent feature a green domed church.

He rested awhile beneath a hedge, dug up and ate some potatoes and a swede, and considered his plans.

He was wary of people and towns, yet he knew that he had to venture amongst them. This land was not big enough to support him in the wild.

Suddenly he heard a movement, followed by low, whispering voices. He stiffened, and remained absolutely still. Someone was on the other side of the thick hawthorn hedge.

He listened intently. His first thought was that he was being spied upon, but soon he realized that they were talking amongst themselves. A man and a woman. Young voices. But why the secrecy? His curiosity was aroused, and stealthily he began to ease his huge body forward, using his elbows to propel himself until he was in the stools of the hedge and less than a yard from those whom he had heard.

Hugh Gunn stared in amazement. He caught his breath with astonishment, for the couple's clothes were strewn haphazardly around them and they were completely naked.

They were young, no more than twenty at the most, the man tall and muscular, and girl petite with a shapely figure. Hugh could not see the man's face, for it was hidden in the spread thighs of the girl. Her back was arched, her eyes were closed, and she was making faint noises which were definitely pleasurable ones.

Hugh Gunn was intrigued. Something was happening to himself, too, and it was being caused by the sight of these people and their behaviour. There was a rising tenseness in his loins, a sensation that spread slowly out into the rest of his body, set his pulse racing, his heart pounding, and breath quickening. His hand slid down to his lower regions, and he began to rub himself slowly through the material of his jeans.

Now the couple were kissing conventionally, the man's hands stroking the small breasts of his companion, squeezing the nipples until they stood out stiff and cherry red.

She pulled him down to her, stretching her thighs even wider so that he could lie in between them. Gentle rhythmic movements began in both bodies as they clung together, grunting and gasping with delight, terminating a few minutes later in a wild flailing of arms and legs.

Hugh Gunn watched the withdrawal almost hypnotically. He saw that part of the female anatomy where the man had obtained his pleasure, and he knew now how it was done. He watched them dress slowly and make their way back in the direction of a small hamlet about a mile away.

Only then did Hugh give full vent to his desires, and as he convulsed in the long grass he vowed that he would enjoy the obvious pleasures which the female sex had to offer at the earliest opportunity.

The town was not nearly as fearsome a place as Hugh Gunn had imagined. Nearly all the shops were closed because it was Sunday, yet people walked the streets casually, mostly boys and girls with arms around each other. This only brought back memories of that which had happened earlier in the day, and he wondered how to go about acquainting himself with the opposite sex.

He wandered from the higher part of the town down to the lower end, idling along the side of the wide river. Men fished at intervals from the bank, and there were gaily coloured canoes passing by every so often.

Suddenly he was aware that a group of youths had approached him, and were standing directly behind him. He turned his head, and was greeted with a burst of raucous laughter. There were five of them, all dressed similarly in black leather jackets and patched jeans, various emblems on all parts of their clothing.

‘What is it?’ one guffawed.

‘Dunno. Never seed owt like it before.’

‘It's a gorilla.’

‘Naw, too bloody ugly. Looks like the 'Unchback o' Notre Whatsit.’

More laughter. Hugh felt the anger rising up inside him, building up like a rumbling volcano heading towards a sudden eruption.

He half-turned and said, ‘Piss off!’

They advanced towards him threateningly, moving in unison as though in accordance with some preconceived plan.

‘You're askin' for trouble, mate,’ the tall one who appeared to be their leader snarled. ‘You'd better apologize for that, pronto.’

Hugh clenched his huge fists, spat a blob of phlegm with unerring accuracy into the other's eye, and growled, ‘Now, sod off, the lot of you!’

They surged towards him, but they had underestimated his instinctive reactions as well as his agility. A boot caught him on the thigh, and he seized the ankle just long enough to throw his attacker off balance. His fist shot out, catching the tall youth full on the nose. The other reeled back, twin rivers of blood gushing from his nostrils.

Blows rained on Hugh Gunn, but they seemed to have no effect. He brought up one knee sharply, felt it sink into a groin, and the odds against him were lessened still further.

Then, without warning, a heavy blow descended on the back of his head with such force that not even his hard skull, covered by its mop of unruly hair, could have withstood it. He staggered forward, a red haze dancing before his eyes, and the youth with the block of wood hit him again. Hugh Gunn was unconscious before he hit the ground.

‘Let 'im 'ave it!’ the bloody-nosed one snarled. ‘Duff 'im up good and proper. Put the boot in on 'im!’

Vicious kicks thudded into the inert, ungainly form, only ceasing when a police panda car drew up on the main bridge. Two uniformed officers leapt out and began to run along the path. Fishermen looked up, but they did not interfere. Fighting was commonplace amongst the local louts at weekends. It was none of their business and they had no wish to make it so.

The gang which had attacked Hugh Gunn were out of sight long before the policemen arrived at the scene.

‘Nasty,’ one of the constables said to his companion, grim-faced. ‘The sooner we get an ambulance, the better.’

He remained with the victim of the assault while the other hurried back to his vehicle to radio for an ambulance.

The constable looked down on the huddled form of Hugh Gunn, and there was no sympathy in his expression.

‘These bastards are all as bad as one another,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Ugly bleeder, this one. Looks in a bad way, too. Still, I suppose it's no more than he deserved. If he snuffs it before the ambulance gets here, it'll just be one less to bother law-abiding folks.’

CHAPTER SIX

Fear was uppermost in Hugh Gunn's confused mind as he fought to regain consciousness. He had vague memories of having attempted to struggle from this black pit of oblivion before, but he had slipped back into it again. He grunted and made a more determined effort this time.

‘He's coming to.’ A female voice spoke from afar.

‘I'll tell the duty doctor.’

The smell was the worst part. A cloying, cleansing smell. Artificial. Hugh tried to focus his vision. White walls on all sides. No windows. Blinding fluorescent light. A small room. Prison again! He tried to struggle up, but the effort was too much for him. He collapsed back on the bed.

‘Take it easy,’ a man's voice, firm but kindly, said.

Hugh managed to open his eyes. He could see more clearly now. A short fair-haired man dressed in a long white coat stood by his bed with a girl at his side. The girl was pretty, but he couldn't distinguish details. She was dressed in a kind of blue uniform, a cap of the same material perched on her head.

‘Where am I?’ he grunted.

‘RSI Shrewsbury. Hospital, in other words. You're lucky. The way you were knocked about you should have had a cracked skull and broken ribs. You've escaped with concussion.’

Hugh was silent for a few moments. There was an awful lot more he wanted to know.

‘How long … have I been here?’

‘You've been spark out for four days. There was no identification on you. What's your name?’

Hugh Gunn decided his best course was to return to unconsciousness. He closed his eyes. Perhaps these people would go away.

‘I'd better let the police know he's come round,’ the nurse said.

‘And passed out again,’ the doctor replied. ‘There's no hurry. Anyway, they won't want to question him at ten o'clock at night. I'll give them a ring in the morning. And keep an eye on this guy. Maybe tomorrow we'll find out who he is. He's an ugly blighter.’

Hugh heard them leave the room, and only then did he open his eyes again. He was in a small ward, all on his own. His head throbbed abominably, and he felt sick and weak. Nevertheless, he knew he had to get out of this place at the earliest opportunity. He wondered what they had done with his clothes and the haversack containing his money. It would be difficult to avoid unwanted attention outside this place whilst wearing a pair of hospital issue pyjamas.

He lay still, and tried to work out some plan of action. Perhaps later, when the patients were bedded down for the night, he would be able to creep out. It wasn't like prison, under lock and key all night, warders patrolling the grounds.

He fought down the frustration and claustrophobia which yelled at him to leave his bed right now and run blindly in search of freedom. He was concerned, too, about his weakness. Illness was something totally foreign to him.

Several hours passed, and everywhere was quiet. No longer were nurses hurrying to and fro along the corridors outside the tiny ward.

Then, suddenly, he was aware that the weakness had left him. He felt stronger. Much stronger. He sat up in bed, and only when his gaze alighted on his thickly matted, hairy arms, the sharp claws which snagged the sheets, did he understand. The change was taking place! It was the time of the full moon.

Instinct and reasoning battled inside him. Stealth was of paramount importance. He did not know the number of staff on the premises, and if the alarm was raised he could be overpowered by sheer force of numbers.

He slid gently to the floor. Once again he found it easier to move on all fours, although the highly polished linoleum floor caused him to slip once or twice. He padded his way to the door, and remained there listening. No sound came to his ears.

Gently he eased the door open and looked out into the passage. Some distance away to his left he could see into a large, dimly-lit ward, rows of beds lining the walls, huddled shapes in them. No movement. To his right, some thirty feet away, he saw the head of a staircase. That was the way he must go, down the steps and out into the moonlit night to freedom.

The aches from his recent beating had disappeared. His head no longer throbbed, nor was his vision blurred. He decided that a werewolf was above human pain. It was a wonderful thought.

He crept out into the corridor. It was lit at intervals by low wattage bulbs, and he was relieved to be away from the blinding light of that small room.

He moved slowly, his long claws scratching faintly on the floor, keeping to the wall, eyes and ears alert. On his left a few yards further on, almost at the top of the stairs, was a door. It was slightly ajar, and there was a light coming from the room beyond.

He paused and looked inside through the crack, and that which he saw made all thoughts of escape evaporate temporarily from his mind.

A young girl was seated in a chair, reading a book, her back towards Hugh. He could not see her face, but she wore a uniform identical to the one which the nurse who had attended him with the doctor had been wearing. She was slim, and even that first glance told the werewolf that he could not possibly pass her by.

He pushed the door, and it swung open a little way, the well-oiled hinges making no sound. The girl did not move. She was engrossed in her novel.

Hugh moved into the room a few inches at a time, eyes never once leaving the girl, watching carefully for the first sign that she had heard him. But she did not look up, only flipped over a page hurriedly and continued with her reading.

He remembered the young couple he had seen in the field a few days ago, what they had done and the delight which they had obviously derived from it. This was his chance to experience those pleasures.

The first indication the night nurse had that she was not alone in the office was when the door closed with a faint click. Even then it did not alarm her unduly. Doors had a habit of closing on their own from time to time. Nevertheless, it was imperative that it remained open so that she could listen.

She turned, and then she saw it, a huge shaggy beast, in some ways resembling a human, eyes glowing redly, mouth open, jaws slavering, crouching there watching her, its body partly clad in hospital issue pyjamas.

She did not scream. Her mouth opened, but her vocal chords refused to function. Her brain rejected the awful apparition. It could not be. It was impossible that such a creature existed. There had to be some logical explanation. One of the patients playing a practical joke …

The moment one of those huge claws reached out and touched her thigh she knew that this beast was no figment of her imagination. Furthermore, it was here in this very room with her, and unless she acted quickly …

The scream was rising in her throat when a hairy paw closed over her mouth and reduced the sound to a terrified gurgle. She began to struggle. Her arms were pinned to her sides. She kicked at her attacker, but although the blows landed they made no impression. He grunted and snorted.

Fetid breath fanned her face. She struggled again, but it was futile. She retched, vomited, but her attacker did not relax his hold for one moment. She heard the ripping of material and experienced an agonizing pain in her left thigh. The monster wanted her body, naked. And to fulfil his depraved desires he was going to rip her clothing to shreds!

She prayed that she might pass out and thus be spared the sight of her inhuman attacker, but her consciousness was reluctant to leave her. She wanted to die so that she might not be a party to the mating. Oh God, what was this thing and where had it come from? And why her!

She closed her eyes tightly, trying to shut it all out. Deep scratches covered her naked body as she was pinioned across the desk, her uniform and underwear now no more than tattered ribbons strewn around the room.

The pain! Those claws had gouged her deeply. She felt the warmth of her own blood trickling down her. Claws tore at her thighs, prising them apart Oh, God, no! Not that! She opened her eyes, pleading.

There was lust in the werewolf's eyes. They glinted in anticipation of some hitherto unexperienced delight; saliva dripped steadily on to her from the open jaws, and the fangs, huge and yellow and razor-sharp, came down to her.

He grunted with frustration as the source of the ultimate pleasure apparently eluded him, pushing fiercely at her, oblivious of the fact that he was hurting her, not caring ... then finally, he uttered a loud gasp of delight as he sank in.

Mercifully, from that moment onwards the young nurse was unconscious. Her brain could not accept what was happening and had granted her oblivion. Hugh Gunn shuddered, the desk and everything on it vibrated, and only then was he aware of the scent of warm, fresh human blood.

His fangs sank deeply into her neck, instinctively severing the jugular vein first, bathing himself in the scarlet fountain, jaws wide to catch the gushing blood, drinking deeply, and only when it died away did he begin to rip at the tender flesh.

The mutilation took less than ten minutes, and only when he reared up from his carnage did he remember the situation into which Fate had cast him. A fleeting moment of panic had him bounding towards the door, then he halted abruptly as his cunning returned.

He was stronger now, much stronger. His basic appetites had been satisfied, and once again he had proved his superiority over human beings. Yet escape from this place was a priority. Nobody had heard the sounds of the struggle in the office. It was merely a case of proceeding cautiously until he was clear of human habitation. He left the room, and padded slowly down the wide staircase.

Five minutes later he was outside in the deserted street. He raised his head, his eyes drawn towards the huge silver orb directly above him, and he was powerless to prevent the chilling howl which came from the very depths of his black soul.

A mongrel dog, scavenging in dustbins in an adjoining alley, fled, tail firmly between its legs. Two tomcats, engaged in a duel for feline supremacy, took off in opposite directions. Sparrows and starlings roosting in the eaves twittered in fear, and huddled closer together.

Hugh Gunn loped away, keeping to the shadows, not knowing where he was going but trusting implicitly in the moon above to guide him to a place of safety.

The railway station was deserted as the werewolf dropped silently from the top of a ten-foot wall, landing on all fours and crouching, surveying his surroundings. A goods yard. Lines of silent trucks, some loaded, others empty.

Hugh Gunn wondered why his instincts had led him here. It was difficult to reason such things. Yet there had to be a reason. Then he understood. The way of escape from this place of human habitation was open to him. All that was required was cunning and patience, and he was endowed with both of those qualities in good measure.

He loped towards a line of loaded trucks. The cargo was coal, and clambering up on to the nearest container he began to claw at the black lumps, showering some on to the track below, heaping the rest up in front of him until he had dug out a hole approximately the size of his own body. He lowered himself into this, and then, reaching above him, gradually covered himself with some of the excavated lumps until only his head was visible, and even that would not be seen from the outside.

Satisfied, he settled back to wait. There was nothing else to do. He did not plan any further than the setting of the full moon.

At last the grey light of a cold, autumnal dawn replaced the moonlight. Hugh slipped into an uneasy doze. He dreamed strange dreams, the smell of fresh blood in his nostrils, the taste of tender flesh in his mouth, but both of these were dominated by sensations that kindled a fire deep inside him even when the form of the werewolf had been replaced by that of the human body, adorned with the tattered remains of blood-soaked pyjamas.

He felt ill. His head ached, and the bile rose in his throat. He groaned and tossed in the throes of delirium, but he was aware that the train on which he had hidden was moving. He lay still. He did not have the strength to move. The lumps of coal beneath him cut into his body, and occasionally those above him slithered down and threatened to bury him beneath a miniature avalanche. He prayed for night again, the refreshing darkness and the soothing powers of the moon. And the return of his strength.

The train rolled on, for hour after hour. Periodically it halted, sometimes for lengthy spells. Trucks were shunted, the engine was changed. He slept again.

When he awoke it was dark. The open sky was above him, cloudless, filled with stars … but no moon. It was too early. He attempted to move, but he was too weak. Still he must wait.

He could hear some activity, clanging, men talking, but it was some distance away. He had no idea where he was.

It was several hours before he felt the change taking place, the prickling of his skin where hair grew rapidly, the fangs pushing inside his mouth. His weakness receded, and he became strong once more. Within half an hour he was aware that he was capable of leaving this hiding place, his cramped muscles responding to his efforts. He slid over the side of the truck amidst a shower of coal, crouching in its shadow whilst he got his bearings.

There seemed to be bright lights everywhere. And noise, mostly that of traffic from beyond the high wall of the goods yard.

He remained where he was for some time. He was puzzled, and afraid. The countryside, the hills, the darkness he understood. But here there was neither grass nor trees to be seen. This was a place of eternal artificial daylight which destroyed even the silvery glow cast by the moon. Yet the moon was up there, he saw it, felt its power.

He moved slowly away down the line of trucks, alert to anything that might prove hostile. One section of the large brick wall which surrounded this place was in shadow, the circles of light cast by the tall lamps on either side just failing to meet.

Scaling the brickwork was no obstacle, his strong, sharp claws seeking out the niches, powerful muscles pulling his body up. At last he lay full length on the top and peered over the other side.

A dimly lit narrow street lay below him. His small red eyes followed its course to where it emerged into a wide thoroughfare of unceasing traffic and blaring horns.

Only then was he aware that he had reached his destination, his goal of several days ago when he had set out on foot from Llanadevy.

The city!

CHAPTER SEVEN

The general bustle of late night activity dwindled away gradually. Theatre and cinema-goers left the city centre for their suburban homes, and by the early hours of the morning only the drunks and dropouts remained, bedding down in subways and partly-demolished rows of houses, anywhere that offered shelter from the chill of an autumn night.

Hugh Gunn understood only one thing. It was reasonably safe for him to move out of the alley where he had skulked. He knew not where he was heading, only that he must keep on the move and find some place of safety by the time daylight came.

The three youths were jubilant. They walked arrogantly in the centre of the street, past empty and partly-demolished houses on either side. The one in the middle, the tallest, swung a ladies' handbag nonchalantly, laughing coarsely.

‘Empty that bloody bag and sling it, for Christ's sake!’ one of his companions said, glancing behind them. ‘It only wants the cops to find us with it, and -’

‘Cops don't come down here no more,’ the other laughed. ‘And anyway, why shouldn't I carry an 'andbag? He gave an imitation of feminine high-stepping, now draping the handle of the bag over his arm. ‘See what I mean, duckies?’

They huddled together laughing, the alcoholic fumes from their breath showing white in the cold air.

‘You shouldn't 'ave 'it 'er so 'ard,’ another said.

‘Why not?’ the tall one jeered. ‘I always say that anythin' worth doin' at all is worth doin' properly.’

‘You probably killed 'er.’

‘So what? 'Er were old, weren't 'er? What's another few months when you're knockin' on eighty? Best to go quick. No sufferin'. Just one,’ he raised his arm in the air and brought it down quickly, ‘and it's all over,’

‘Ow much is in the bag?’

‘Fairish, I'd say, but we shan't know till we've counted it, shall we, so what's the point of guessing?’

Their jubilation was steadily turning to nastiness. It was always the same with this particular threesome. Once they started to sober up they began quarrelling amongst themselves.

Eventually they reached the end house of a half-demolished terraced row. They had squatted here since the summer, but now that the contractors had begun work it looked as though they would be forced to move quarters in the near future.

‘Allo, somebody's shut the bleedin' door,’ the one with the handbag muttered.

It had jammed firmly, and only the combined weight of their shoulders managed to force it open.

‘Probably subsidence,’ the tall youth said.

‘Wot's that?’

‘You wouldn't understand, Poddy, so wot's the use o' me explainin' ?’

‘It means,’ the third one told him, not wishing his intelligence to be rated as low as Poddy's, ‘that the ground's moved due to all the 'ouses bein' knocked down, and as a result the flamin' door's jammed.’

It was very dark inside, the only illumination being a faint beam of moonlight which filtered in through the half-open door. Rubble was strewn across the floor, and a pile of old sacks in the far corner denoted where the three slept.

‘Tip that bloody bag out and let's 'ave a look,’ Poddy snarled.

‘Okay, okay, keep your 'air on. Get a candle, one o' you.’

After some rummaging amongst the debris a candle was produced, lit, and fixed in an upright position on a broken brick. The flame flickered, threatened to go out, and then burned up brightly, casting eerie shadows.

‘There's a bloody stink in 'ere. Poddy, you ain't - ?’

‘I bloody ain't. Probably some dirty old bastard been in for a shit while we were out. That's why the door was shut. 'E didn't want anybody to watch 'im. So much for your subsidence.’

The smell was strong, a rancid odour such as one might expect to find in the lair of a wild beast. It was nauseating.

‘Cats,’ the lanky youth said, wrinkling his nostrils. ‘Or dogs. We oughta shut the door when we go out. Never know what you might find in yer bed.’

‘Tip that bloody bag out. What the hell are we waiting for?’

Finally the contents of the handbag were emptied out on to the floor. Eagerly the three muggers bent down, scrabbling amongst keys, loose change, oddments of useless junk, until finally they found the leather purse.

‘Look at this,’ the tall youth shouted as the purse was snapped open. ‘Jesus, just look at it! Tenners! The old girl must've carried 'er savings round with 'er.’

‘Count 'em out, then.’

‘Well get yer bleedin' 'ands outa the road, then.’

The banknotes were unfolded, straightened, and dealt out like a pack of dog-eared playing cards.

‘Eighty … ninety … one 'undred. Bloody 'ell, a hundred quid for just one night's work!’

‘Hold it!’ Strong fingers gripped the hand that was already starting to gather the money up again. ‘We share it out now. As agreed.’

‘All right. But 'ow are we goin' to split a tenner to make it even?’

That question was never answered, for just as the quarrel was developing a shadow fell across them, a huge shape which totally blotted out the moonlight coming in from the door.

‘What the … !’

The three of them leapt to their feet, staggering back and peering into the darkness, trying to discern the intruder in the pitch blackness beyond the candlelight. They saw a pair of glowing red orbs and a huge bulk which had no definite shape, a mass of something that breathed loudly and stank of everything that was foul and putrid.

‘What the 'ell is it?’

At that moment the candle flickered and went out, bringing total darkness except for that malevolent pair of red eyes which glowed their hate like coals from hell.

Then it was upon them. There was nowhere to flee to, the piles of debris on the floor prevented any panic-stricken dash, and as they screamed the creature took them, one by one.

Poddy was the most fortunate of the three. He was killed instantly by a tremendous blow which broke his neck with a loud crack, and thus he was spared the seconds of suffering which was the fate of his companions.

Razor-sharp claws cut through clothing and sank into flesh and bone. The tall youth was disembowelled as he struggled, ripped open from groin to navel and flung to one side. He kicked and twitched for some time before he lay still.

The werewolf finished his third victim almost casually, lifting him up bodily, heedless of the screams; grunting, taunting, playing with him as a cat might with a mouse. Finally the screams were stifled as the beast's fangs closed over the youth's throat and sank in deeply, drinking the fresh blood from the pierced jugular, the fists and feet which flailed against the hairy attacker gradually becoming more feeble until at last they hung limply.

The werewolf had tasted blood, and now he embarked upon a frenzied carnage, a bestial banquet with three bodies to feed on, all freshly killed.

It was almost daylight by the time he had finished. He sensed the coming of the change back to human form, and sank down with his back against a pile of bricks to await the transformation. He hoped that one day he might discover the secret of avoiding his return to the shape and ways of mankind.

This time the headache and weakness did not return. He simply felt tired. He also felt very satisfied with his night's work.

His first task was to hide the remains of the three bodies, laboriously burying them beneath some rubble. Over in the corner, amongst their bed of sacking, he discovered a pair of trousers and a shirt, obviously the communal change of clothing. He discarded his tattered pyjamas and tried them on. They fitted him better than the clothes in which he had left Llanadevy, and a pair of boots off one of his victims completed his change.

Then he picked up the money and tucked it into his hip pocket. He was wealthier than he had ever been before in his life. And he was free.

He lay down on the floor and fell into a deep sleep. Even the noise of the contractors starting work further down the street did not disturb him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Veronica had been soliciting in Charles Road for the past twenty years. Nobody troubled her, not even the law. She was a source of amusement to most of the locals, and latterly her few regular customers had begun to treat her as a joke, too. And that was very bad for trade. Very soon she anticipated having to support herself on social security alone.

In her teens she had not been totally unattractive. In fact, at one period of her life she had even had a regular boyfriend, but when she had become pregnant he had suddenly disappeared from the district. A week after his departure she had had a miscarriage. That was the kind of luck that had dogged Veronica throughout her life.

Nevertheless, she still went and stood on the corner of Charles Road for an hour or two each evening, a routine which she found hard to break. There was always the chance that one of the drunks from the nearby pubs might be desperately in need of a woman. Any woman.

It was cold tonight. She fastened the collar of her long black coat, and shivered. A headscarf covered her long, straggling mousey-coloured hair, a protection against the wind as well as hiding the flecks of grey from prospective customers. The stockings on her thin legs were full of holes, but it was too chilly these nights not to wear them. Anyway, they wouldn't be noticed in the dark.

A cigarette dangled from her lips. Her last one. She wouldn't be able to afford any more until next week. It was her own red light, glowing in the darkness of the alley, and anybody who wanted her would know where to find her.

She was hungry, too. The night air brought with it the faint aroma of ‘Fred's Fry’, a couple of streets away. She fancied some chips. Maybe if there was nothing doing in an hour or so she would walk down there. She hoped that he wouldn't decide to close early. That would be just her luck. But business was business, and she could not risk losing a customer for a bag of chips.

Some twenty minutes or so later she heard footsteps coming from the opposite direction, slow and measured. She tried to work out to whom they might belong. Jack Brown? No, it was too early for him. Tom O'Connor? No. He always walked fast. She couldn't think of anybody else, not a local anyway. Her hopes rose. Any stranger down these parts had only come for one reason. She stepped out so that she was plainly visible. She wasn't running any risk of those two hussies further down the street waylaying him. Christ, a couple of teenage wenches, and they had blokes in their place every night. Men didn't seem to go for experience any more.

She gasped aloud when she caught sight of him and only just stopped herself from stepping back into the alley.

‘I ain't the fussy type,’ she muttered, ‘but I ain't never seen a feller as ugly as 'im.’

Nevertheless, she reminded herself of the prospect of life without cigarettes, bare living on social security, and a lot of other hardships, and said in the huskiest voice she could muster, ‘Hello, there. Lookin' for somebody? Somebody like me?’

He moved towards her, and the light from the overhead streetlamp fell full on his grotesque features. She started but forced herself to smile.

‘Yes.’ He sized her up, small, piggy eyes trying to work out what lay beneath that shabby old coat, ‘I was.’

They regarded each other steadily.

‘I got a nice cosy little place,’ she went on. ‘It'll cost you a fiver for the night, and that includes supper and breakfast, too, if you stay that long.’

‘OK,’ he leered.

‘What's yer name?’ she asked as they fell into step, heading back down Charles Road.

He hesitated a moment, then grunted ‘Vic,’ his father's name and the only one he could think of offhand. It amused him, and he laughed.

‘I'm Veronica,’ she cackled, and decided that looks didn't really count. He was young. No more than seventeen. She fancied a youth in her bed, and suddenly the financial aspect took second place. After all, she could always switch off the light.

Her ‘place’ was a two-up two-down that seldom saw a duster or broom, and smelled of stale boiled fish. That was because of the cats. She shooed them out of the back door, bolting it after them, and put the kettle on.

‘You ain't from round here,’ she said as she took off her coat and draped it over a chair. ‘I can tell. Your accent. Kinda slow. Not Brummy like me.’

‘Brummy?’

‘Ain't you ever 'eard o' Brummy?’

‘No.’

‘Birmingham, stupid.’

‘This is Birmingham?’

‘Now you must be joking. Don't tell me you're wanderin' round 'ere and don't know where you are?’

‘I was joking,’ he replied without conviction. ‘All the same, I haven't been here before.’

‘Ow about a bit o' supper and an early night?’

‘OK,’ Hugh Gunn said, and already he was looking forward to the night which lay ahead. She didn't compare with that nurse but at least it would be more leisurely.

The bedroom was small and stank of stale sweat. The bed itself was a heap of unmade blankets and sheets, the latter grimed with dirt, and bearing stains which testified to Veronica once having been moderately successful in her chosen trade.

Soon two unclean bodies were embracing on the bed. Veronica wrinkled her nose. This fellow had a smell about him. It wasn't BO. It was worse, like something that had been rotten for a very long time. Maybe it was something to do with his job, whatever that was. Possibly he worked in a tannery, curing skins or something like that. She used to have a client, several years ago, who earned his living in one of those places. He didn't wash, either. Sometimes he even had dried blood on his hands. That was it, she decided. The odour was similar. This feller might have been employed in a slaughterhouse. It didn't really matter.

Within a very short time it was obvious to Veronica that her partner was not experienced where women were concerned. He was eager, excited, but that was all. He was spent far too quickly.

‘Let's snuggle down for a bit,’ she suggested. ‘You'll maybe feel more like it again then.’

He nodded his agreement, and she pulled the bedclothes up so that their bodies were covered. Then she stretched out a hand and switched off the light.

‘Sometimes it's better in the dark,’ she croaked and felt for him again.

Sometime later she fell into a doze. It was warm and comfortable with a man in her bed. She wondered if there was any way in which she could tempt him to stay for a night or two.

Her fingers continued to stroke him. His skin was very rough, she thought, like emery-paper. A real tough one. As hard as they came.

Then she realized that something was definitely wrong. She was wide awake instantly, her heart pounding. That stubble on her partner's body had grown. The hair was long and coarse. It was impossible! At first she thought that perhaps her hand rested in the area of his pubis. She ran her fingers further up. A thick unending wiry matt ... and the stench, it was becoming overpowering.

She scrambled up, flinging the blankets away from her.

‘I dunno what's goin' on ...’

There was a low snarl and her arm was grabbed. She screamed. Those were no mortal fingers. They dug in savagely, tearing her skin, dragging her back, and she was pulled round to face her attacker.

A huge hairy shape knelt over her, pinning her to the bed, claws raking her face and breasts. Her eyes bulged with fear. In the half-light from the street outside she could discern the vulpine features, the teeth drawn back to disclose the fangs, the vapour from its nostrils, the evil red eyes, pointed ears ...

Subconsciously she noted all these, but her brain refused to accept them. She had led a simple life, and she only understood the orthodox. One did not go to bed with a man and wake up to find a wild beast by one's side. She began to laugh. It was really rather funny.

‘You ain't 'arf an ugly one,’ she giggled. ‘But yer nice and cuddly. Yer …’

Hugh Gunn growled and slashed at her face. She shrieked, writhing beneath him, laughing and crying hysterically, blood gushing from her mutilated features, an eye hanging from its socket, her nose torn and bloody. He smelled the blood and went into a frenzy, tearing with claw and fang, biting, mutilating, attempting to satisfy his every desire.

Veronica, the aging whore, was dead long before the werewolf had finished with her body. Rivulets of crimson fluid trickled down the walls, some of them congealing before they reached the floor, others forming into pools and soaking into the warped floorboards.

Only when her body was ruined was he silent. He crossed to the window. A slight numbness in his body had forewarned him that the night was drawing to a close. He saw the sky beginning to turn grey, the waning moon lost to sight behind the rows of dingy houses.

He sat on the edge of the blood-soaked bed and waited whilst the transformation to human shape was completed. Exhaustion accompanied it, together with depression. He buried his head in his hands. The nights were all too short. If only his vulpine state could become permanent.

Soon he was Hugh Gunn, the farmer's son from Llanadevy, again. He gazed on the bloody remains of Veronica, but he had no regrets. She had served her purpose, inferior though she was to the pretty young nurse at the hospital. He had fed and was satisfied. Her body had given him strength. It had also taught him other things.

He went downstairs, searched through the filthy kitchen until he found some tea, and made himself a drink. As he sat in the living room sipping the steaming beverage he considered his plans. They were simple enough. Lie low by day and prowl abroad in search of prey once the moon had risen. There was only one snag. He sensed that the time of the full moon was over. He had learned to recognize the signs, such as the increasing depressions by day, as though same unseen power was warning him to prepare himself for a time of ordinary human existence.

His thoughts returned to Veronica, and an idea occurred to him. She lived alone. She appeared to have few friends, no relatives, and her disappearance was unlikely to be noticed immediately. That meant that he had her house at his disposal, for a time anyway. He would remain here, a hermit in the concrete jungle, until the time came for him to become a werewolf once more.

Hugh slept for most of the day, waking towards late afternoon. His limbs were weary, his powerful frame drained of its strength. He did not relish the prospect of the decision which he had reached earlier. In the hills it would have been different. There was always something to do, rabbits to snare, rats to catch.

Then he noticed the television, an antiquated black and white model with a twelve-inch screen. Telly was something which appealed to him. It always had. He wondered if this set worked, and going across to it, he plugged it in and experimented with the various controls.

The sound came on first. He knelt in front of the blank screen, listening, waiting for a picture, recognizing the voice of one of the newscasters.

‘… and here are the main points of the news again. There are still no further developments in the Shrewsbury hospital murder in which a young night nurse was mutilated and sexually assaulted. An unknown youth, who was receiving treatment at the time of the killing has since disappeared, is being sought by the police in connection with the nurse's death, and also in connection with the triple murder of three young men discovered yesterday in Birmingham by demolition contractors. A police spokesman said that the bodies were ‘savaged as though by some wild animal’. Scotland Yard experts have compiled an identikit picture on information supplied by those who were in contact with the unidentified man during his stay in hospital …’

The screen lightened, flickered, and a distorted picture gradually took shape. Hugh Gunn gasped, staring in horror and disbelief. The likeness of the police drawing was incredible. It was as though the television screen was a mirror, reflecting his own misshapen features in every detail!

‘… anyone recognizing this man is asked to contact Scotland Yard or their nearest police station …’

Hugh switched the set off, turning the control knob viciously. He remained on his hands and knees, watching the white dot fade into obscurity. Life had suddenly become very complicated.

Eventually he attempted to reason logically with himself, forcing his confused brain to work. There were two major factors in his favour. First, nobody knew his identity; but that would not remain so for long. Possibly the prison authorities or the Llanadevy villagers had already connected him with the missing killer. Second, and most important, his whereabouts were not known. But for how long could he remain hidden by these four walls?

The city was a place of unknown terrors for a werewolf temporarily deprived of his powers. He did not know his way around. There was nowhere to run. The moon in its mercy towards creatures of the night had brought him to this place. Yet, once he was discovered he would be at a disadvantage. In the hills there were places to hide, acres of impenetrable thickets, miles of uninhabited country. And he knew every inch of it.

His decision to come to the city had been a mistake. The forces which had guided him here had merely pandered to his whims. Now he must return whence he had come. But how? Every hand was against him, the entire police force would already be searching for him, maybe even now beginning to make house-to-house enquiries.

He glanced around him in terror, anticipating a knocking at the door. But outside the street was silent, deserted.

He sighed, and returned to the kitchen in search of food. He had to leave soon before it was too late and he found himself trapped in this filthy hovel. Once darkness fell he must set forth, moving in the shadows, alert, hiding from every passer-by. Only this time he would not have the advantage of the strength and the cunning of a werewolf. He was a mortal, as other men, hunted, outnumbered, and he could expect no mercy. He had no idea in which direction Llanadevy and the Black Hill lay, and so he had no alternative other than to make his way clear of these sprawling suburban areas and trust to luck.

In his mind he saw his mother, distraught, pitying him. He smiled to himself. She would help him. He was certain of that. She would not hand him over to the law, no matter what he had done, simply because he was her son. She was the one person in the world who would hide him.

As soon as darkness had fallen he emerged from the house, closing the door behind him, and set off swiftly along Charles Road. Two cats watched him go, and then commenced to wail for their mistress whom they knew was dead.

CHAPTER NINE

‘Oh, God, it's awful!’ Margaret Gunn looked up at Vic with a tear-stained face and then at the handsome, bearded man who sat in the armchair by the fire. ‘I wish we'd sent for you before, Gordon. Maybe then all this would never have happened.’

‘I doubt whether I could have done much to prevent it.’ Gordon Hall stroked his thick black beard, which had considerably more grey in it than the last time he had sat in this room. ‘It's no good blaming yourselves, either of you. Hell, what d'you think the police would have said if you'd told them your son was a werewolf? Don't forget, both Philip and Tom Owen are officially listed as psychopaths.’

‘I'm glad you've come down, anyway, Gordon.’ Margaret glanced somewhat guiltily at her husband as she spoke. ‘Just having you around for a few days will help. The police have been here all afternoon. They're now certain that Hugh is responsible for both the Shrewsbury murder and this triple Birmingham killing. But why hasn't he been picked up? He's never been to a big town or city before. He wouldn't know how to look after himself.’

‘His werewolf cunning has kept him safe,’ the journalist said, methodically stuffing a blackened briar pipe with a long-stranded tobacco from a lambskin pouch. ‘The full moon's finished now. If he hasn't left the city already he'll be picked up any time now.’

Fresh tears began to roll down Margaret Gunn's cheeks at his words.

‘Now don't go upsetting yourself,’ Vic chided her gently, slipping an arm around her. ‘We've got to face up to it; the longer Hugh's free the greater the danger to ordinary folks.’

‘I know. She attempted to smile. ‘But being a man you wouldn't understand. No matter what he's done, or how he was conceived, he's still my son. If only there was some way I could help him. At heart he's just a simple boy. It's the curse which is responsible for these atrocities …’

‘Strange about those dogs howling,’ Gordon Hall muttered. ‘I'd take your word for it, Vic. Anybody else, and I'd say they were either imagining it or else it was a sheepdog. It's also equally strange that you haven't heard 'em since. Just as though they warned you, and now that the werewolf's left the area, they're silent again.’

The confrontation between the encampment of tinkers and the police had lasted for most of the day. The levelling of the stretch of waste ground, in preparation for a housing estate to replace the former slums, was scheduled to begin the following week. The council had presumed that the deep trenches which their bulldozers had excavated around the perimeter of this place would be sufficient to prevent a new influx of caravan dwellers. They had been mistaken.

Under cover of darkness the tinkers had filled in one section, levelled it, and returned to their former home. Before midday the police had returned and served an eviction order.

Docherty, the giant red-bearded undisputed leader of the nomads, had gone through the motions of reading the official document, even to the extent of convincing some of his followers that he was literate, and had then proceeded to tear it into shreds, finally flinging them into the faces of the two officers whose duty it had been to serve this notice to quit.

More police had arrived on the scene within a matter of minutes, and skirmishes had broken out. There had been several arrests, then a lull whilst Docherty addressed his people.

‘It's the duty of every man jack o' ye to stand and fight for what's yours!’ His booming voice reached the houses in the area of Charles Street several hundred yards away. ‘It's up to us to show 'em.’

‘Aye, and who'll feed us whilst our menfolk are in gaol or hospital?’ a sharp-featured woman heckled. ‘You certainly won't, Patrick Docherty, 'cause ye'll be too drunk!’

There were shouts of approval at her words, and not all from the female section of the caravanners. Sensing that his leadership might not be as secure as he had believed, Docherty asked for a vote. Sixteen were in favour of contesting the power of the police. Thirty-one favoured a tactical withdrawal.

‘We'll be leavin' afore tomorrow morning.’ There was disgust and defeat in the big man's reddening features as he turned to address an inspector of police.

‘See that you're gone, then,’ the inspector replied. He hoped that his relief did not show, either to these tinkers or his own men. ‘Anybody not off this land by nine o'clock tomorrow morning will be arrested.’

The council had demanded their removal today, the policeman reflected, but a few hours was neither here nor there. Especially when somebody might get hurt.

Hugh Gunn stood in the shadows, watching the caravans being hitched to cars and lorries then pulled over the rough causeway on to the road. It intrigued him to discover a gypsy settlement in the heart of this city. He was familiar with these wandering bands. Periodically they passed through Llanadevy, leaving in their wake a carpet of empty cans, bottles, waste paper, and often the shell of some abandoned vehicle which they had stripped of all removable parts. They were not welcome in the village for they stole and poached, but now the youth identified with them. Their way of life was much the same as his … well, almost. They shared freedom.

The wheels of a car sank deep into the soft earth with which they had filled in that part of the ditch, and men were cursing, pushing, losing their tempers.

Hugh Gunn walked across to them. Some of them looked up, but they said nothing, perhaps believing him to be one of their encampment, for tinkers came and went as they pleased without striking up acquaintances.

He took his place at the rear of the vehicle, a rusted Austin Cambridge with no road tax licence on the windscreen, and flexed his muscles.

‘Right, now!’ The driver was revving up, doing little more than shower his rear helpers with mud as the wheels spun uselessly. More cursing ensued.

Hugh grunted, and exerted all his strength. His muscles knotted, and the veins stood out on his forehead. The car gained an inch or two, the engine roaring its protest. He transferred one hand to the bumper, this time lifting as he pushed, feeling the Austin slowly freeing itself from the sucking mud.

Hugh staggered forward but kept his balance, the men on either side of him sprawling on the ground.

‘Jesus!’ one of them swore, and then looked up at the youth. ‘An' who the hell might you be, son?’

‘Just happened along,’ Hugh said. ‘And seein' as you were having trouble …’

‘You're not from the camp,’ the second tinker said, regarding him suspiciously.

‘No, I ain't,’ Hugh growled, ‘and what difference does that make.

‘Nothin' I s'pose.’ The gypsies looked at each other.

‘If you're goin' places I'd appreciate a lift,’ Hugh said, doing his best to appear casual. ‘I can pay for it.’

‘We'll have to ask Docherty. 'E don't care much for strangers and -’

‘What's goin' on? Who's this bloke?' The red-bearded leader suddenly appeared from behind them, a fearsome spectacle as he stood framed in the headlights of the next vehicle preparing to leave the site.

‘I wondered if you could take me along,’ Hugh asked with attempted humility.

‘Huh! And what's wrong with bloody buses and trains?’

‘Only that I don't like people.’ He nodded in the direction of the nearest street. ‘Not them sort o' people, anyway.’

The big man leaned forward, scrutinizing this stranger from beneath a pair of bushy red eyebrows, squinting, his coarse features openly displaying hostility.

‘All right,’ he said at length. ‘I can see you're no town dweller. But you'll have to work, boy. There's no passengers on this trip. You can travel in Patrick's wagon over there.’

Hugh saw the old lorry on the road, its bodywork in the last stages of corrosion, the trailer piled high with scrap metal.

‘You'll ride in the back.’ Docherty waved the next vehicle forward. ‘There's plenty o' cover under that scrap if it comes on to rain. And at nights you can sleep under the truck.’

‘Where we headin'?’ Hugh asked as he turned away.

‘You'll find out when we get there,’ the tinker bawled after him, ‘And don't get givin' no lip! I'm the boss around here, and what I say goes.’

It was reasonably comfortable in the back of the decrepit lorry. Hugh found an old mattress, and lying down on it he propped a length of sheet steel up in front of him as a protection against any part of the load which might slide during the course of the journey.

It was some time before they moved off, Docherty insisting that every vehicle was clear of the site before any of them left. Hugh could see inside the cab through a tiny rear window. A long-haired, dark-skinned man sat behind the wheel. The passenger seat was empty. Evidently they were determined not to grant any concessions to a stranger.

The convoy rolled slowly through the darkened streets, the drivers deliberately avoiding main roads, following twisting routes that sometimes turned back on themselves. Like himself, Hugh decided with satisfaction, these people shunned society. It was as though the powers of darkness had singled him out for special protection, granting him his wish to visit the city, then leading him to safety when he had tired of it.

Suddenly the vehicles began slowing. Hugh heard his driver yelling back to the one behind, ‘Police. Road block up ahead.’

‘Holy Christ! They wanted us out o' the place, now they're stoppin' us.’

‘Probably just searching for that murderer, the sex-killer.’

Wooden barriers spanned the roadway at the junction ahead, a red and white police patrol car parked just behind them. One officer was seated in the vehicle, the other occupying a prominent position where he could be seen by all approaching traffic. His hand was raised to halt the leading tinkers' vehicle.

Hugh lay on the floor of the lorry, his intestines seeming to twist themselves into a series of reef knots. Only during his spell in prison had he felt so absolutely helpless. Any attempt to clamber over the side and rim for freedom would have meant immediate pursuit. The police would have cordoned the area off in a matter of minutes. Again he cursed himself for having come here.

He felt the lorry moving again, easing forward, picking up speed. That meant that those in front had passed through the barriers. The headlights of the following vehicles lit up the top of the cab above him. Everybody was being allowed to continue on their way.

Relief surged through Hugh, loosening the knots in his stomach.

‘Come on, keep moving. Everybody through.’

The policeman pulled the barriers back into place after the last caravan had passed through, and gave a loud sigh of relief.

‘Maybe we should've checked 'em, Charlie,’ his companion said.

‘You must be joking. After all that trouble yesterday? No way, it's enough just to see the back of that lot!’

Hugh Gunn managed to sleep after the first few miles in spite of the jolting of the lorry. In a strange way he found the movements soothing, coupled with the fact that every minute that passed meant that he was that much further away from the city.

It was fully light before he awoke. The lorry was stationary, people were moving about, talking. He raised himself up, pushed the sheet of metal to one side, and peered out over the side of the vehicle.

He grunted with surprise at the scene which greeted him. Sloping hillsides, the masses of bracken turning brown after a succession of frosts, the heather a fading purple, sunlight dispersing the last of the early morning mist in the distance. He took a deep breath. The air smelled sweet and good. Wherever they were, they were far from Birmingham.

A buzzard wheeled high in the sky above, mewing loudly, its sharp eyes searching the undergrowth below it in the hope of spotting an unwary mouse or vole.

Hugh jumped down to the ground. The caravans and vehicles were parked on a wide grass verge close to a pine wood. Some of the people were clustered around a small fire. Others were cooking with more modern appliances in their vans. Nobody took any notice of him, not even glancing up when he walked past them. First, he needed to relieve himself in those woods. After that he would require food. And he was also curious to know exactly where they were.

It was gloomy amongst the pines, the sunlight blocked out by the dense overhead foliage. Hugh considered walking on, leaving these tinkers to their own devices and making his way from here onwards alone. But he was hungry. It would be easier to eat with them now whilst he had the chance. After that he would be living off the land for a long time to come.

‘I've been meanin' to have a chat with you, boy!’

Hugh stiffened. He was becoming careless. The city must have dulled his senses for he had not heard Docherty's approach, and now the big man was standing directly behind him.

‘Well, I'm not exactly running away.’ He zipped himself up, and turned to face the tinkers' leader.

‘Ain't you?’ Docherty leered, and closed an eye in a deliberate wink. ‘I'd say you were. Runnin' fast and hard. We got you out of a tight corner, didn't we?’

‘I don't know what you're talking about.’

‘Oh, no? Well, let's cut out all this clever stuff, shall we? I didn't get a real good look at you in the dark last night, but even so I should have known that there couldn't possibly be two buggers as ugly as you. You're the sex killer!’

‘You're mad,’ Hugh said, and felt his pulse beginning to race.

‘No, laddie, it's you who's mad. Never did have any time for blokes who assault and murder young girls. If I'd realized earlier I'd've handed you over to the cops at that roadblock. Still, tm glad now that I didn't.’

Hugh stiffened. Docherty reached inside his ragged corduroy jacket and withdrew a small axe, the kind used for chopping kindling wood. The head was no more than four inches wide, but the blade had been carefully honed to a sharp edge. The tinker toyed with it, gloating.

‘They got a reward out for your capture, boy,’ he said with a grin. ‘Ten thousand quid, offered by the hospital authorities for information leading to the arrest of the bum who raped and chopped up that nurse. It was on the radio as we came along.’

Hugh stepped back as Docherty dropped in a crouch.

‘Fond o' choppin' kids up, ain't you, son? You did another three in Brum. Maybe with their long 'air, and in the dark, you mistook 'em for girls, eh?’ He laughed evilly. “Information leadin' to the arrest”, that's a laugh. Anyone meetin' up with you in a quiet wood somewhere is likely to 'ave a mite o' trouble on their 'ands, eh? Unless o' course, it was someone like me, choppin' wood, an axe all ready in 'is 'and. See what I mean? Nobody's goin' to shed many tears when they see what's left o' you. Ten grand. I could buy me a little place with that, somewhere the cops wouldn't be movin' me on every five minutes.’

‘You're mistaken.’ Hugh felt the trunk of a tree against his back. He could retreat no further.

‘And you're a bloody liar as well.’ Docherty raised the axe and laughed softly. ‘Let's see how you like bein' chopped up, me boyo!’

CHAPTER TEN

Hugh Gunn was reacting even as the axe swung up above Patrick Docherty's head. His powerful legs acted as a springboard, propelling him upwards, and as his fingers closed over the stout branch immediately above his head, his feet were kicking outwards, his swinging body adding impetus to the double blow which took the big Irishman on the chest.

The tinker stumbled backwards and fell, the axe falling to the ground, its head embedded in the soil. Hugh landed nimbly, grabbing the axe handle and straightening up all in one perfectly coordinated movement. He grinned.

‘Clever bastard, aren't you?’ he said.

Docherty flung up his hands to protect himself, but no human limb could have deflected the inevitable course of that axe as it sped towards its target, smashing the tinker directly on the forehead, splitting his skull wide open, churning out grey matter and crimson fluid.

Death was instantaneous. Hugh Gunn stood over the twitching body, laughing softly to himself. The werewolf could not have done better. It was very satisfying to know that he could kill as swiftly and as efficiently in human form. It reminded him of that evening in Clive Williams's study.

He bent down and gripped the axe, having to twist and. pull, firmly before it crunched its way free. The gypsy's head was totally unrecognizable.

He swung the axe again and again in devastating blows which severed limbs at one slash, the blade sinking into the soft earth beneath on several occasions, his strength mounting as his frenzy increased.

At last there was nothing left to mutilate. Docherty's remains comprised a dozen or so separate parts of the human anatomy, chunks of bloody meat. And all wasted because Hugh Gunn could not bring about the change and enjoy the food as only a werewolf could.

He tossed the axe into a clump of rhododendrons. Some distance away he could hear the other tinkers talking as they breakfasted. He wondered how long it would be before they began to search for their missing leader. Perhaps they would not bother.

He turned away, walking quickly, the ground rising steeply until he emerged from the wood on to the open heathland. To the west, their topmost peaks still shrouded by mist, he noticed a line of hills. Somehow, they looked vaguely familiar. But it could not be. It was too much to hope for. Nevertheless, he could not remain near this wood for much longer, and with ungainly strides he set off in a westerly direction.

By midday the hills were much closer, and Hugh estimated that he had covered about five miles. He paused for a short time, discovered a clutch of mushrooms in a boggy hollow, devoured a couple of handfuls greedily, and pressed on again.

It was dusk when he arrived at the foot of the hills, and even in the twilight he knew where he was. It was incredible. These foothills were the beginning of the Welsh border country. The tinkers must have struck camp somewhere along the Long Mynd, probably bound for Wales. He wondered if they had found Docherty's body yet. He doubted very much whether they would report it, for they would not be keen to renew their acquaintance with the law. In all probability the foxes would feed well that night.

It was too late in the day to enter the hills, so Hugh hunted around for shelter for the night. Eventually he settled for a place amid a clump of gorse. The heather beneath him was as soft as any bed, and he scarcely noticed the sharp prickles which provided walls and roof.

He slept deeply, and did not awaken until the warmth of the morning sunlight filtered down on to him through the overhead branches. He stirred, stretched his limbs, and laughed softly to himself. He knew that he was home at last.

Vic and Margaret Gunn and Gordon Hall sat talking in front of the blazing fire. The nights were becoming cold now, and a whole week had passed since the journalist's arrival.

‘I guess I'd better be thinking about getting back to London,’ Hall said, smoking his pipe meditatively. ‘I don't think we'll be seeing Hugh round these parts again. He seems to have settled down to city life, judging by this latest killing. It just beats me why they haven't caught him. Without the supernatural powers during the time of the full moon he's just like any other mortal, a country kid, adrift in the city.’

‘They're labelling him the new Jack the Ripper,’ Vic muttered. ‘Got in with this old bag and then killed her. That makes five. Six, counting Clive Williams. Christ, how much longer can it go on? The police have circulated his description, and there's even a reward offered for him.’

‘Someone has to be hiding him,’ Hall said, then tensed suddenly as a long howl began somewhere outside, rose to a crescendo and then died slowly away. All three of them looked at each other. ‘The dogs ...’ Margaret breathed, ‘the Black Dogs!’ 'Aye.' Gordon Hall's lips were pressed tightly together. ‘The Black Dogs. And it can mean only one thing. Hugh's back in this area, and the spectral hounds are warning us!’

‘You know more about these dogs than you make out,’ Vic grunted. ‘It isn't only what old Gwynne Owen said. You know one helluva lot more than that … something you haven't told us.’

Gordon Hall smiled weakly.

‘I didn't want to add to the legend and spread alarm,’ he confessed. ‘In my opinion these dogs present a menace equal to that of any werewolf. It happened after the death of Philip Owen. At that time I was working on a series of supernatural features for my paper, and I was visiting all parts of the country. Some of the stories were unfounded, others weren't.’

‘Like the Black Dogs,’ Margaret muttered grimly. ‘Only it never got into print. Why?’

‘There are some things,’ Hall murmured, ‘which are better not publicised. That was one of them - apart from one short feature which started the whole thing off. But I can see that I'll have to tell you the story now, and you can form your own conclusions.’

Vic and Margaret looked at him. Both of them were uneasy. Outside, the hills were quiet except for the soft soughing of the autumnal wind through the dying foliage. It was as though the ghostly dogs were waiting for Gordon Hall's story, too. Or perhaps, now that they had given their warning, they would remain silent.

Hall relit his pipe. ‘Mostly one associates ghost hunts with ruined castles, abbeys, old houses and perhaps a disused churchyard,’ he began. ‘The environment is right, the watchers quickly absorb the atmosphere of the setting, and, consequently, I believe that this is the reason that many expeditions of this nature have been successful over the years. I read an article only a few weeks ago where the writer claimed that poltergeists were a direct result of the mental attitude of those who inhabited the particular place of haunting. He was not trying to say that they were hallucinations on the part of the watchers, but rather that the people present were responsible for the presence or absence of this type of spirit. Some years ago, I was invited to join a party at Orton Hall, Warwickshire, where a poltergeist had been active for many years. There were seven of us in all, and we each chose a different part of the rambling old mansion in which to pass our long, cold vigil. The caretaker, the only inhabitant of the place, locked himself in his quarters with his Alsatian, Judy, a ferocious-looking, yet strangely docile beast. Before retiring for the night, he had assured us ' that “tonight was the night” for he could “tell by the dog”. Judy looked perfectly normal as far as I could judge, but as this man was the one who had seen “the thing”, time and again, I was quite happy to abide by his judgement.

‘As far as I was concerned, the whole thing was one long bore, and I was truly grateful to see the dawn breaking. I had spent the last couple of hours smoking and gazing out of the latticed window into a black nothingness, just waiting for that first glimmer of light in the Eastern sky. However, when we all assembled in the kitchen for a “post-mortem” to be conducted, it seemed that out of the seven of us, only three submitted a nil return.

‘The caretaker had witnessed Judy cringing under the table, mournfully whimpering, as she tended to do when a haunting was in progress. I confess that I had heard the dog during the night, yet many dogs are given to periods of unrest and disturbance for various reasons. Two of the young students had witnessed a door opening and then slowly closing. Yet this again is a common occurrence in old buildings, due to faulty catches and frequent draughts. The female member of the party had watched one of the drawers in an Elizabethan dressing table open and then close. This, I will admit, takes a bit of explaining, yet often, in the case of a highly sensitive person, one sees what one expects to see. As for Roxton and young Thornton, their reports tallied exactly with mine. They had seen absolutely nothing that would substantiate the recent stories of the poltergeist which had been a gift from heaven to one or two of the local press reporters, including themselves.

‘Anyway, within twelve months, the old hall had been demolished, and if there had been a poltergeist, all he was left with was a memorial stone. As for myself, I soon forgot the whole matter, and it was some time before Clive Roxton's trail and mine were to cross again.

‘He called at my home one night, and informed me that he was freelancing now, but it was not until he had finished his third whisky, after dinner, that he came to the real reason for his visit. From the inside pocket of his jacket he produced a crumpled copy of a countryside journal to which I contribute regularly. I could see by the cover that this particular issue was some months old, and I was already racking my brains in an attempt to think of the subject matter of my article in it, the reason, no doubt, for Roxton's presence there that night.

‘What do you really know about the “Black Dogs”?’ He leaned forward, drawing on his cigar, and adopting that attitude which I always associate with policemen who question juvenile delinquents, a sort of, ‘Come on, now, let's have the truth’.

‘Well’, I began, ‘probably no more than you. It's a pretty general legend throughout the British Isles. They appear to have been most prevalent in the Cornwall area over the centuries, although the ones I wrote about in that article are in the Welsh border hills. There are records of them first having been seen during the fifteenth century, always prior to some misfortune. Spectral dogs, of course. They appeared before a hill farmer at Clun, just as dusk was falling one evening. He struck at the beasts with his stick, and next morning he was found lying in the fields, completely insane. He died of an epileptic fit a few days later.’

‘Yes, I've been into their history.’ There was a trace of impatience in Roxton's voice. ‘But what I'm really interested in is the one you saw. That's if there's any truth in the article …’

I felt anger rising at this last remark, yet I held myself in check, for I knew Clive Roxton of old. It wasn't that he was doubting the veracity of my literary work, but rather he was goading me into parting with the information which he sought.

‘It's true enough,’ I replied. ‘You know that as well as I do. But I'll tell you the full story … as much as there is to tell, anyway. I was out on my hill shoot one blazing hot summer's afternoon, and I had paused for a rest and a smoke on the edge of the woods. Suddenly Remus, my yellow Labrador started to growl, a sort of low rumbling in his throat, and his hackles began to rise. Then I caught sight of this dog, if you can class it as a dog, for it was of a tremendous size, almost twice as large as Remus, like a cross between a collie and an Alsatian. Its coat was the most awful aspect of it all. It was covered in mange, almost bald in parts. Anyway, you can't have a monster like that living wild, close to the sheep fields, so I shot it. Or rather, to be more exact, I thought I shot it. I aimed directly at its head, and as I fired it dropped like a stone in the bracken. Remus cringed away, whining, and absolutely refused to accompany me to inspect my kill. However, I was due for a shock when I reached the place, for there was absolutely no sign of the black dog! I searched the bracken round about, thinking that it might have crawled away wounded, but, not only was I unable to find it, nor even any traces of blood, but none of the ferns had been knocked down. I can tell you, I felt the shivers running up and down my spine, in spite of the warmth of the sun!’

Clive Roxton sat staring into the fire for some time afterwards. Finally, he tossed the stub of his cigar into the embers, and appeared to have reached a decision.

‘I've looked up the records of these Black Dogs,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Apart from their appearance portending disaster and doom etc., they are mostly seen on nights when the moon is full. One was seen in the grounds of Clun Castle on such a night, at the turn of the century. Now, I know it's a long chance, like our trip to Orton Hall when all we came away with was a variety of opinions and a number of half-truths, but are you game for another go? The moon is full a week next Tuesday, and I had in mind the Pen-y-Wern Stone Circle, a place of worship used by the ancient Druids, in the hills above Clun. Apart from the atmosphere and legends of the small ring of stones, it's a good vantage point. You can see the fields for miles around from it. In all probability we won't see anything, but if we do, well, I haven't picked up a really good story for some time now …’

‘All right,’ I reluctantly agreed. ‘I'll go with you, although in all probability the sky will cloud over, there will be no moon, it will either snow or rain, and the only Black Dogs which we shall see will be when we are delirious in the throes of pneumonia, a day or two afterwards. Nevertheless, I'll go with you …’

‘For once, my forebodings concerning weaker conditions did not come true. The journey down in Roxton's car from the Midlands took just over two hours, and it was 11.30 pm by my watch as we parked in the rutted track and tramped across the fields. A full moon shone out of a cloudless sky, and we had no trouble in discerning the various details of the countryside about us. About a hundred yards away, a hare jumped up out of the long grass and raced off, pausing once to look back at us, as though it was unable to believe this intrusion on its domain by human beings at this unearthly hour. Away to our left we saw the acres of artificially planted Forestry Commission thickets, the frost on the branches glittering in the moonlight, presenting scenery of a magnificence that the average person, who only traverses these areas by daylight, never sees.’

‘The farm below us was deserted, its previous owner, one Gwyn Evans, having sold up and retired only a month ago. I had heard that the new farmer was awaiting certain structural alterations to the property before moving in.’

‘On our right towered the Radnorshire mountains, their peaks capped with snow, whilst a mere quarter of a mile in front of us our destination, the Pen-y-Wern Stone Circle, was easily visible on the brow of a small hillock. The stones themselves were overgrown with moss and grass, yet the line they took was plain for all to see. There was no break in the circle; it had a diameter of approximately twenty yards and was as perfectly shaped as if it had been drawn up with modern instruments, whilst a stunted fir, having weathered incalculable winters, had resigned itself to innumerable more.’

‘We were clad in heavy overcoats and wellington boots, for the frost was wicked. Both of us carried a flask of soup, and a smaller flask of whisky to sustain us throughout our nocturnal vigil. We took up our positions beneath the lone tree, one on either side of the trunk, so that we would be able to keep a lookout in all directions. We did not speak, perhaps because the very atmosphere of this ancient place of Druid worship overawed us.’

‘The cold became even more intense, and from time to time I glanced at my watch. The moon had reached its zenith, and I saw that the time was just after 3.30. We had at least another four hours to wait, and the thought was enough to petrify one. I realized the futility of attempting to persuade Roxton to pack up early.’

‘Suddenly, in spite of my numbness, I was aware of my colleague gripping my arm. His lean face was a mask of excitement coupled with incredulity.’

‘ “Look!” He could barely mouth the words, so intense was his excitement. “Over there … on that slate quarry!” ’

‘I followed his pointing, gloved hand. At first I could see nothing, and then a sudden movement on the distant heap of shale, close to the Forestry Commission woods, caught my eye. It shambled rather than walked into a patch of bright moonlight, and then I could see it plainly. It was a large black dog, and it was standing erect, neck outstretched. A mournful howl which seemed to echo over the surrounding countryside reached us. There was not a murmur elsewhere, not even the brown owl which had been regularly screeching for the past hour uttered a hoot. Then the black dog turned in our direction, and it was almost as though it could see us, even though the distance was certainly not less than a quarter of a mile. Suddenly, it was there no more. Perhaps it had gained the plantations nearby. If so, we never saw it go.’

‘Good God!’ Vic Gunn muttered when Gordon Hall had finished his story.

‘But that isn't all,’ the journalist concluded. ‘A few weeks later Clive Roxton was killed in a road accident. A terrible tragedy. It scared me, I can tell you. I didn't sleep properly for weeks afterwards. Had he died because he'd set eyes on one of the Black Dogs? Was the legend coming true, and if so were my days numbered also? Anyway, I'm still around, but the fact remains that disaster followed the appearance of that dog. And now the fiends are howling again. Is it because the werewolf has returned, or is some other terrible event about to happen?’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Vic Gunn and Gordon Hall had gone into Craven Arms to a livestock sale. Margaret did not like being left alone these days, but, as Hall had pointed out, it was unlikely that anything would happen during the daylight hours. Three days had elapsed since the Black Dogs had howled, and life in Llanadevy had reverted to normal. The journalist had agreed to stay on until after the next full moon, and if nothing had happened by then he would return to London.

Margaret left the house, picked up a large bucket which stood outside the back door, and headed in the direction of the small henhouse beyond the big barn. The poultry had not laid a single egg for three days now, not since that fearsome cry, almost as though ... it was her imagination, she decided. It was certainly strange, though, that the catch on the door had been undone yesterday morning. The birds had been uneasy, perching high on the rafters, reluctant even to venture down to feed. Usually when she scattered handfuls of maize on the floor they fluttered and squawked down after them, hustling each other, scratching, clucking. It was very odd about the absence of eggs, she reflected. Surely none of the villagers had taken to thieving?

She stopped in amazement before the door. The catch hung down again, yet she had made a special point of securing it on the previous night. She stood listening. There was no sound from inside.

She pulled the door open and stepped into the dim interior, the air heavy with the stench of droppings. A Sussex White regarded her from a beam above her head, and Margaret could tell from the way it crouched that it was terrified. Perhaps a fox had been prowling round during the nocturnal hours ...

She started then, and the bucket dropped from her fingers, clattering and rolling on the floor. Something moved in the far corner, a shape that reared up, straw-covered, long-haired, grotesque.

‘Hugh!’ she clutched at a post for support, and thought for a moment that she was going to faint.

‘Yes, it's me,’ he chuckled, and stepped out of the big nesting box so that the light from the doorway fell on him. ‘I knew you'd be pleased to see me.’

‘The police are looking for you,’ she said weakly.

‘Well, they won't find me here, will they?’ he grunted. ‘You wouldn't give me away. No mother would shop her son to the cops, no matter what you say.’

She knew then that he spoke the truth.

‘We want to help you, Hugh.’

‘That's why I came back.’

‘Perhaps we could see that priest …’

‘Don't talk bloody stupid. You'll help me, but not that way. I need food, for a start. I can't live on eggs.’

‘How long have you been back?’

‘A day or two. Haven't really kept count.’

‘Those killings …’

‘Don't fret yourself about them,’ he grunted. ‘Three muggers, an old whore …’

‘And a young nurse. And Williams before that …’ she added.

‘Look,’ he snapped, becoming annoyed, ‘The hue and cry will die down. They think I'm still in Birmingham.’

‘But … but,’ she faltered, ‘when the moon is full again …’

‘You'll help me,’ he said confidently, ‘I'm using the old chapel.’

‘That's been sold as a holiday place,’ she said.

‘Just the job. The guy has dumped some furniture in there and left it. He won't be back till the Spring. And then, well no doubt you'll find me somewhere else.’

‘Your father won't stand for this.’ She was trembling violently. ‘And Gordon Hall, the man who was responsible for the death of both Philip and Tom Owen, is staying here. They'll -’

‘But they won't know, will they?’ he leered. ‘You won't tell 'em.’

‘You won't be able to resist the full moon,’ she said. ‘Then … then everybody'll know. They'll hound you down.’

‘You leave that to me,’ he snarled. ‘In the meantime you can drop some food into the chapel.’

Margaret Gunn returned slowly to the house. For a time she sat dazed in a chair, and then, pulling herself together with an effort, she found a large carton and began to pack it with provisions from the larder. The maternal instinct prevailed.

Major Simpson, late of the Shropshire Light Infantry, would not have considered any place other than Shropshire for his retirement. He had always been fascinated by the border country, and so within less than a year of leaving the armed forces he had bought the Old Rectory at Llanadevy, and had also rented several hundred acres of shooting rights along the banks of the River Clun. In addition to this he submitted an offer for the vacant sporting tenancy of the Black Hill, and was merely awaiting a reply to his application before extending his favourite activity still further.

Life still had plenty to offer for the tall, straight man with snowy-white hair and a pencil moustache. His ruddy complexion was proof of his love of outdoor activities, his spritely step the envy of many younger men.

Sparse as these meadows were, with little cover for game, the winding river, especially when it flooded its banks, was a haven for wildfowl; mallard, teal, and occasionally a flock of the semi-wild Canada geese from Lydbury pools. And, as the Major was well aware, there was no better time for coming to terms with his quarry than when the moon was full.

It was with a feeling of excitement that Simpson left the Old Rectory just as the moon was rising above Radnor Wood. His wellington boots crunched on the hard frosty ground as he followed the bridle path across the fields in the direction of the river, his double-barrelled shotgun beneath his arm.

He whistled almost soundlessly as he walked, his spaniel following silently at his heels. The dog was showing less enthusiasm than usual, glancing into the shadows, cringing at every nocturnal sound.

‘What's the matter with you?’ Simpson growled. ‘Getting soft, I reckon. Too comfortable lying in front of the fire, eh? Well, this is what retirement is all about. Moonlit nights, shooting most days. Could be we'll see that poacher fellow from the village tonight. Heard about him. Damned cheek! He's poached the meadows since he was a boy and thinks he can go on doing it. Well, he's got another think coming, eh, Brandy?’

The spaniel pricked up its floppy ears, whimpered, and slunk even closer to its master. For some strange reason it did not like being abroad at all tonight.

It was after ten o'clock when the Major finally reached his destination on the river bank, some three hundred yards downstream from the old blockhouse. He could see the building plainly in the bright moonlight, lonely and deserted, a grim reminder of those years, long ago, when an invasion had seemed more of a probability than a possibility. It had weathered many winters since, and no doubt it would see a few more until somebody decided to demolish it.

Somewhere he heard a mallard quacking and teal whistling. Conditions were wrong for shooting tonight, he told himself as he pushed a couple of cartridges into the breech of the 12-bore. With the absence of fleecy white cloud, only birds passing directly between himself and the moon would be visible. Still, on a night such as this it would have seemed criminal to have remained in the warmth of the blazing log fire back at home.

There was a weeping willow tree close by, its drooping branches almost touching the sluggishly flowing black water beneath it, and the Major decided to stand underneath it for the next hour or so. He called Brandy to heel, turning up the collar of his thick jacket as he did so, for the night air was already penetrating his heavy clothing.

He looked at his watch. The hands showed 10.15. He would give it until midnight, and then, if no duck appeared to be moving, he would head homewards for a quick tot and the comfort of a warm bed. Already icicles were forming on the barrels of his gun, and Brandy came and stood up against his legs for warmth. Yet he knew that at the first shot the spaniel would be plunging into that icy water with all the eagerness of a dog seeking a cooling swim on a hot day.

Several times he heard duck passing over, that magical sound of their wingbeats being the lure which kept men such as himself from their beds on a freezing winter's night, yet not so much as a glimpse of a bird did he get. He looked at his watch again. 11.25. The cold seemed more intense than ever now, and in view of his lack of success, and the non-appearance of the cirrus cloud, he decided reluctantly to head homewards. He had already slipped the leash over Brandy's head when he first heard the sound which caused him to halt in his tracks and stare in the direction of that old blockhouse from beyond which it had come. Then he heard it again. It was the guttural honk of a wild goose. One always had to be prepared for the unexpected, and slowly he let the leash fall from his hands as he eased the safety-catch of the gun forward.

Still the Major could see nothing. Both sky and river seemed devoid of life, and then he became aware that Brandy was whimpering, his hackles rising. Then the whimper changed to a low, throaty growl.

‘Stupid dog!’ he hissed angrily, afraid that he might spoil a remote chance of a shot. ‘Whatever's the matter with you?’

Then he saw the man. He was crouched against the side of the blockhouse, plainly visible in the moonlight. Simpson wondered why he had not seen him before, but concluded that he must have been concealed inside the building itself. The man was clad in heavy clothing like the Major's own, with thigh-length waders pulled up to their full extent, and the barrel of his gun was quite the longest that Simpson had ever set eyes upon, for it could not have been less than forty-eight inches, one of the real old duck guns, probably a flintlock, firing black powder.

However, be that as it may, the man was a poacher, he reminded himself. He felt the anger rising in him as he stalked towards the waiting gunner. Damn the fellow, he would teach him a lesson!

Honk! Honk! Major Simpson's attention was suddenly diverted yet again, as four geese suddenly came into view round the bend in the river, flying no more than fifteen yards above the surface of the water. He stood transfixed, unable to believe what he saw. He could not recognize them as any particular species as yet, but perhaps that was due to the moonlight, for they appeared colourless, a sort of whitish, yet too grey for snow geese.

The skein was now almost level with the blockhouse. He saw the poacher straightening up, bringing the heavy fowling piece to his shoulder as he did so. The geese had seen him, and, with an alarmed honking, they began rapidly gaining height, veering away as they did so.

Boo-oom! The explosion rent the night air asunder. The vivid flash lit up the frost covered water meadows, and sparks seemed to be falling everywhere. Yet Simpson's eyes were no longer on the skein of geese, for he was unable to look away from the horrific scene in front of him. The man was staggering towards him, his face a mass of gory pulp, one eye hanging from its socket, and clutched in his right hand (his left had been completely severed at the elbow) was the remains of that ancient fowling piece, now a lump of twisted metal. His screams were from his very soul. The Major wanted to run, but his legs refused to move as this poacher whose very life must already have been ebbing from him, made towards him, sightless, fleeing from some unknown horror.

Only then did Simpson catch sight of the thing which was pursuing the poacher, a shambling, shaggy, wolf-like creature, still some fifty yards away but gaining rapidly on its quarry.

The Major saw the poacher fall, and knew that the fellow was already dead. He was confident that whatever this ungainly horror was it would not survive a double blast from his shotgun at close range. The man who now lay less than fifteen yards from him had fired at it, but Fate had dealt him a cruel blow. The ancient gun had either been overloaded or perhaps the barrel had accidently become blocked with mud, and the weapon had burst.

Suddenly the creature stopped. It crouched, breath visible in the freezing atmosphere, snorting like an angry bull, mouth wide, displaying huge fangs, and then it let forth a howl that had Major Simpson backing away in spite of his faith in his gun.

The werewolf watched him, showing contempt for the gun which was trained on it, grunting, muscles tensing. Simpson squeezed both triggers simultaneously. At that very second the werewolf sprang, its tremendous hind legs propelling it forward, a snarling mass of fury that no charge of shot could have halted.

The Major screamed as the brute landed on him, knocking him to the ground. He felt his ribs cracking beneath the weight, the shotgun landing some distance away. The awful face was only inches from his own, its hot, fetid breath like the stench from a stagnant pool. Claws raked his body, tearing flesh and clothes, as the monster roared a mixture of triumph and hatred for mankind.

Its fangs sank into his shoulder, tearing at it, crunching and swallowing the meat whilst its victim, still living, kicked feebly, his screams becoming fainter.

Major Simpson closed his eyes and prayed. His father had been a man of the cloth, and he had been brought up to believe in God. His prayer was answered, and he died quickly.

A movement in the distance caught Hugh Gunn's eye. He glanced up, pausing momentarily in his mastication of human flesh, watching the running shape as it crossed the meadow in the direction of the village. He saw that it was a dog, a spaniel, and he returned to his meal, eating ravenously.

It was some time before he straightened up and bayed at the moon, his jaws dripping blood, particles of stringy flesh caught between his fangs. He barely glanced at the other lifeless form. The old man had not died under the claws of the werewolf. Like many animals of the wild, the man-wolf had a preference for devouring his own kills. And the night was young. The moon was still rising. Dawn was several hours away.

Hugh Gunn loped off. Somewhere, on the hillsides above Llanadevy, he could hear sheep bleating. Vic Gunn's flock. The werewolf increased its speed to a fast gait.

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘This is the weapon.’ Gordon Hall placed the crossbow on the table, laying beside it a couple of bolts. ‘See these? Tipped with silver. My christening mug and a couple of spoons. I had 'em melted down. Far better than any gun. Silent, too.’

‘And how long have you had these?’ Vic Gunn, watched by an anxious Margaret, picked up one of the bolts, examining it closely.

‘Fifteen years, maybe,’ the journalist replied. ‘Since after Tom Owen was killed.’

‘So you kept them in case …?’ Margaret Gunn asked in a hushed whisper.

‘Yes,’ Hall nodded. ‘I always feared that someday it might start all over again, that I might have need of a silver bolt.’

‘And you're going to … to shoot one of those into Hugh?’

‘If he shows up.’ Hall's expression was grim. ‘But in all probability he won't. I hope for your sake he doesn't, that the police run him to the ground in Birmingham. But we can't take any chances.’

Margaret was silent, staring into the fire, seeing in the hot coals a picture of a disused chapel stacked with second-hand furniture; her own son, the son of the werewolf, squatting amidst the dusty chairs and tables, waiting for the full moon which had already risen above the Black Hill. Even now Hugh might have left, unrecognizable in his misshapen, hairy form, the blood-lust, the killing urge, driving him in search of further atrocities.

‘I'm sorry.’ Hall laid the crossbow back on the table. ‘Believe me, it's the last thing I want to do, but you both know as well as I do that if we meet up with him it's the only way.’

Margaret looked up at the two men. Her mouth opened to speak, but at that second the telephone rang.

‘Hullo?’ Vic answered it. ‘Oh, I see. Well, maybe there's a perfectly harmless explanation, Mrs Simpson. Sometimes dogs have a habit of acting in the most inexplicable way. No, don't worry yourself. I'll check my place now. He might well have taken a roundabout route and come this way. I told him anytime he fancied a walk over my land it was all right by me. Yes, yes, I'll ring you back in about an hour.’

He turned to Hall and Margaret, and his voice shook slightly. ‘That was Major Simpson's wife. The Major went out duck shooting under the moon. His spaniel's just come back on its own.’

Margaret said, ‘Oh, God, no!’

Hall picked up his crossbow again. ‘I take it we're going to have to look around,’ he said, and fingers closed over the silver bolts.

‘Well, it can't do any harm.’ Vic reached for his coat which was hanging behind the door. ‘Ten to one the old fool's still blundering about in the moonlight.’

‘No, he isn't!’ Margaret shrieked, rising from her chair, taut and strained. ‘Hugh's got him. You know that as well as I do!’

‘But we've only the Black Dogs' say-so that he's returned to the hills.’ Hall sensed that something was wrong.

‘He's back!’ Margaret had to hold on to the chair to steady herself. ‘Oh God, what a fool I've been. He's been back several days, hiding out in the old chapel down the road, and I've been taking him food!’

For a few moments the two men stared at her in silence. Vic was the first to speak, anger and amazement in his voice.

‘Why the hell didn't you tell us?’

‘Because … because you would have destroyed him. You'd have killed him. And he's my son!’

‘And just what d'you want us to do now?’ Vic leaned towards her, his eyes blazing.

‘I'm sorry,’ she whimpered, and sank back into the chair. ‘If only I'd told you, Simpson would be still alive. Oh, I know he's dead. And it's all my fault But now … oh, I pray that you finish Hugh, and set him free of the curse before the law finds him and locks him up. I can't stand the thought of him suffering in a mental institution for the rest of his life. You've got to kill him … before he gets anybody else!’

‘So the Black Dogs were right,’ Gordon Hall said softly. ‘Come on, Vic. We've got a job to do.’

Even as they opened the door to step outside they heard the howl from the sheep fields above the farm, a sound deeper and more drawn out than that of the spectral dogs, a noise that embodied every imaginable vestige of evil, the cry of a wolf that had hunted and killed … and would kill again.

‘Hell,’ Hall muttered. ‘Things are moving fast Let's go.’

‘Hold it.’ Vic caught him by the shoulder. ‘We can't leave Margaret alone with that bastard prowling up there.’

‘He won't hurt me,’ she snapped. ‘I know that. I'm his mother, and -’

‘We're not taking any chances,’ Hall said. ‘You can never be sure of anything where werewolves are concerned. You stop here, Vic. We've only got one crossbow, anyway, so I'm just as likely to get him on my own. Lock the door, and don't open it to anybody until I get back.’

‘I guess you're right.’ Reluctantly, Vic stepped back into the house. ‘And good luck.’

He locked the door. They heard Hall's footsteps crunching on the frozen mud, then scraping on the loose gravel in the lane.

Finally there was silence, and Margaret began to sob uncontrollably.

The surrounding countryside was brightly lit by the moonlight, hoar frost sparkling on fields and forest as Gordon Hall began the uphill climb towards the Black Hill on the skyline above.

He kept to the hedgerows, taking advantage of the patches of shadow, the crossbow with the bolt in position held tightly in his hands. Any movement to the right or left of him would be easily discernible. Likewise, there was a good chance that Hugh Gunn would also be able to spot him.

When he reached the second field the journalist could hear the frightened bleating of sheep. He stood in the gap in the wide, straggling hawthorn hedge, listening. The flock were huddled in the far corner, milling together. Then he saw something lying out in the centre of the field, an indistinguishable shape. He knew only too well what it was.

He moved into the field, stepping warily at first, then quickening his pace when he saw that it was devoid of life other than sheep. A couple of minutes later he was looking down in revulsion at the remains of the unfortunate ewe which had fallen prey to the werewolf. The creature's throat had been torn out, and the belly ripped open by vicious, tearing claws. A mass of virtually unrecognizable bloody bones and skin was all that remained. The killer had feasted greedily on warm offal and fresh blood, preferring it to much of the meat which had been torn from the sheep and strewn around, staining the frosty grass crimson.

‘Identical,’ Gordon Hall muttered. ‘No different from before. But where the hell's he got to?’

He scanned the fields above him, but noted that the footprints in the frost did not return whence they had come. They continued on downwards in the direction of Gunn's farm. And yet Hall was certain that he had not passed the werewolf.

He turned and began to follow the paw-marks, an easy enough task because the trail was spotted with blood, obviously dripping from the coat of the werewolf.

He must have had a veritable bloodbath in that ewe, the journalist mused, but how the devil did I miss him on the way up?

A few minutes later the mystery was solved. The tracks led to the left of the thick hedgerow through which Hall had entered the field, a gap in the stools showing where the werewolf had forced his way through. Beyond lay a deep ditch, a drainage course that was now frozen solid, some four feet in depth, leading right down to the road below.

‘Jesus!’ Hall swore. ‘The cunning fiend used this ditch to take him unseen down to -’

At that moment a chilling howl rent the stillness of the night, a bestial cry that had echoed many times in these hills in years gone by; rage, frustration and hatred combined in one long, terrible sound.

Gordon Hall was moving instantly, traversing the treacherous, slippery slope as fast as he could, occasionally slipping, cursing, picking himself up again, knowing that he must not panic. There was no time to be lost.

For that cry had, without any doubt, come from the Gunns' farm!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Vic Gunn boiled the kettle on the open fire and made some coffee, handing a mug to Margaret. She smiled, and made an attempt to pull herself together.

‘Let's just leave it all to Gordon Hall,’ Vic said. ‘He's done it before. He'll do it again.’

‘It's awful,’ she replied with a shudder. ‘It was bad enough before, but when it's your own son …’

‘Try not to think of him like that.’ Vic rested a hand on her arm. That creature out there is in no way human. It is more dangerous than any jungle beast. It's a wolf, but a thousand times more cunning, stronger, invincible except for … well, Gordon will take care of that.’

‘Listen,’ Margaret turned her head towards the door. ‘I think Gordon's coming back. Maybe he's already -’ The latch rattled, but the door did not open. It was locked. It was also bolted. The catch was worked up and down furiously by somebody on the outside. ‘Who's there?’ Vic shouted. There was silence, except for heavy breathing from outside, each breath rattling, snorting, a sound that no human lungs could possibly have made.

‘It's him!’ Margaret shrieked. ‘He's come back!’

As if in answer to her cry, the beast outside howled its anger, and there came a tremendous blow on the door which threatened to splinter the woodwork. Then another. The hinges strained, and a rusty screw fell out and rolled across the floor.

Just when the fiendish battering ram might have succeeded in forcing its way into the house, the attempts were stopped. There was a brief pause. Even the stentorian breathing lessened. There was just a faint sound of claws scraping on frozen ground.

‘He's … he's going away,’ Margaret breathed, clutching her hands together.

Seconds later her hopes were shattered along with the wide latticed window. The curtains billowed inwards amidst a shower of broken glass and framework, splinters flying into the room. Then came another roar, more savage even than the last, and the head and shoulders of the werewolf came into view, its claws tearing away the last of the curtain material.

Margaret stood transfixed, suddenly faced with the full horror of reality, seeing her son in bestial form, his coarse hair matted with congealed blood, fangs bared, eyes glowing with hatred.

Yet fear had not robbed Vic Gunn of his ability to react quickly. His prime concern was for Margaret's safety, and in one swift movement he had snatched up the kettle from the hob, flinging it full into the fearsome features of the werewolf even as its head went back for another roar.

The killing howl turned instantly to one of pain, an agonized shriek that filled the room, claws clutching at scalded features as the creature staggered back.

‘Upstairs, quick!’ Vic was already helping the dazed Margaret towards the stairs, glancing over his shoulder, anticipating pursuit from the enraged creature. It was still howling with pain and wrath. Maybe they would just make it up to the bedroom and lock themselves in. But they would gain only another short space of borrowed time, for in the end nothing could halt the wolf-man.

They made it to the small, low-ceilinged bedroom, Vic pushing home the bolt and then starting to drag heavy furniture across the room to form an additional barricade. A wardrobe. A bed. Chairs ...

‘Maybe … maybe I could stop him.’ Margaret watched fearfully. ‘Perhaps he would listen to me.’

‘He would listen to nobody,’ Vic snapped, leaning wearily on a chest of drawers. 'There's only one thing that can stop him … hold it, here he comes now!’

They heard the werewolf ascending the narrow staircase, his huge bulk causing the rough fur to rub against the walls on either side; heard laboured breath, angry grunts. A roar, more fearsome than ever, caused both Vic and Margaret to cower back in the furthest corner of the bedroom.

The door shuddered, and a panel at the top splintered. They caught a glimpse of a massive claw gripping and tearing at the wood, finally breaking it with a resounding crack.

Margaret began to scream. Vic shielded her with his own body, gripping a heavy ornate candlestick in his hand, determined to go down fighting. Only over his dead body would the monster take his wife. Perhaps he should kill her first and spare her the mental agony, the physical torture. It was a terrible decision to have to make. Still he clung to a vain hope that in the end they would both live.

The door yielded, the hinges were ripped away, and with a growl of triumph the werewolf flung the wreckage of wood across the landing. Now all that stood between him and his prey were a few items of furniture. He grunted, and started pushing with his powerful frame, wardrobe, bed and chest of drawers scraping back across the uncarpeted floor.

Then, without warning, he stopped and crouched, listening. Running footsteps sounded in the yard below, followed by the noise of the door latch clinking furiously, fists knocking. Then came the sound of breaking glass as someone cleared a means of entrance through the jagged remnants of the living room window. Boots thudded and scraped on the quarried floor.

‘Someone's coming!’ Vic Gunn breathed.

The werewolf turned with a savage rumbling in his throat, the hair on the base of his neck standing out straight. Who was this who dared to interfere?

He saw Gordon Hall at the foot of the stairs, hatless, dishevelled, the hand which fitted a silver bolt to the crossbow bleeding from a cut. Hugh Gunn recognized the newcomer immediately as the man who had passed within a few feet of him as he had lain in the drainage ditch. He could have killed him easily then, but his instincts were yelling for him to return to his home, to seek its protection. Even during the transformation he was aware that Margaret Gunn was his mother. And suddenly he needed her, for now there was evil abroad this night, forces which were equal to his own supernatural powers, and they were not friendly towards him.

Hall was raising his bow just as the werewolf sprang, hurtling head first down the staircase, the creature sensing that this man had the power with which to destroy him. The journalist released the bolt, and even as the weight of the monster was bearing him backwards, throwing him forcibly to one side, he heard the missile embedding itself in a protruding oak beam, thudding, quivering. He had missed!

Gordon Hall lay breathless on the floor, the foul stench which came from his attacker almost choking him. He closed his eyes, accepting the fact that death was but seconds away. The crossbow had been knocked from his grasp. The second silver bolt still rested in his belt, but even had he had his weapon there would have been no time to fit it, no room to use it. He had failed miserably in his one chance to rid these villagers of the curse forever. He would die. So would Vic and Margaret, and countless others. He groaned, and hoped that the creature would kill him quickly.

Seconds later, Hall could not believe his luck. The werewolf was turning away, shambling quickly towards the open window, not looking back once as it vaulted the sill with surprising agility and, without so much as a parting howl of defiance, disappeared into the moonlit night.

Gordon Hall scrambled up, his first action being to retrieve his fallen crossbow, automatically fitting the remaining bolt into position. Then he ran quickly to the window. The yard outside was empty. Hugh Gunn had fled.

The journalist heard Vic and Margaret coming down the stairs, the farmer foremost, holding in his hand the silver bolt which he had tugged from the overhead beam on his descent

‘Christ!’ Vic helped Margaret into a chair. ‘That was too bloody close for my liking. I thought we were all goners. But why did he run? He could easily have killed the lot of us.’

‘I can only conclude that it was because of this.’ Hall turned from the window, holding up the second bolt, its silver tip shining in the artificial light. ‘Silver is a protection against werewolves. The fact that I had this in my belt saved me from his attack. He won't come back here tonight. That's a certainty.’

Vic retrieved the empty kettle which had gained them valuable time, minutes which had meant the difference between living and dying horribly. He filled it from the tap in the kitchen, and replaced it on the fire.

‘I guess we can all do with a drink,’ he muttered, and proceeded to relate to Hall the course of events since he had left.

‘I mucked that up good and proper,’ Gordon Hall said as he watched Vic pour boiling water into three mugs and stir the coffee. It was black. They all needed it that way.

‘Don't blame yourself,’ the farmer said. ‘You saved our lives.’

‘But we've still got to get him.’ Hall snapped. ‘And now it'll be much harder. He knows the strength of the opposition.’

‘But surely he'll have to return to the chapel at daybreak?’ Margaret reminded them.

‘It's our only hope,’ Gordon Hall nodded. ‘I could spend months scouring these hills for him without success. The question is; will he risk going back to his hideout? Anyway, I'm going down there to wait for him. I don't like leaving you two again, but I'm certain he won't come back here. Lock yourselves in one of the other bedrooms. I'll leave this spare bolt with you. If he should return I reckon it will serve as a means of protection.’

‘But that'll leave you with only one shot,’ Vic Gunn protested.

‘And one shot is all I'll get time for.’ Hall smiled wryly. ‘If I miss him this time …’ he left the sentence unfinished.

Suddenly, from far away up in the very depths of the Black Hill, the howling began again, a fearful baying, a clamouring as though a pack of hounds was in full cry, unceasing, unearthly.

‘Jesus, God!' Gordon Hall's face was deathly white, the first time that either Vic or Margaret had ever known him to show fear. ‘That's no werewolf. It's the Black Dogs again. A whole pack of 'em. They're going crazy, in full pursuit of … of someone or something!’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Hugh Gunn stopped, panting heavily, once he reached the narrow lane. He glanced up at the moon as though seeking guidance, but he did not give vent to the howl that rose in his throat.

He was frightened, and it was the first time that he had ever experienced fear whilst in wolf form. The scalding effect of the boiling water which had been thrown in his face was almost gone, yet his left front paw burned with an intensity that was driving him crazy with pain. He knew it was because he had touched the silver in the bearded man's belt. Had it pierced his skin he would probably have died. He did not know why he understood these things, it was simply an instinct deep inside him.

He stared in the direction of the old chapel, the tiny spire silhouetted against the night sky. It was no longer his home. He sensed that he could not return there, in the same way that a vixen leads her cubs away from the earth that has been visited by Man. They would hunt him there.

It would have to be the hills. There was no other alternative. He turned, and was about to force his way through the hedge into the nearest field when the howling began in the forest above.

The werewolf cringed, whimpering, the pain in his forepaw forgotten. The evil. He knew not what it was, but the atmosphere had been heavy with it this past hour, ever since he had killed the man down by the river. No longer was Hugh Gunn the hunter. Suddenly he had become the hunted. And it frightened him.

He glanced about him. Behind him lay the farm, and death from the man who fired silent missiles. The chapel was a trap. And the forests, hitherto always a place of safety, had now become a dark, unfriendly tract, ruled over by powers of darkness greater than those which controlled his own being.

Only the open moonlit spaces presented a chance of survival, but they were sparse cover. And when daylight came he would be forced to lie hidden in the dead bracken and scrub bushes, ever alert and watchful. By day Man would hunt him. By night … He shambled away on all fours, his pace slower now, aware that the agony of his damaged paw was becoming worse.

And still those unseen enemies bayed at him, closer now. They had his scent, but the countryside around was devoid of life. Now he howled, a shriek of terror which the echoes took up, drowned only by the continual cry of the pack of hunting dogs, those hounds of hell from time immemorial.

PC Price was far from happy at being fetched from his bed by the jangling of the telephone in the early hours of the morning. As he pulled on his dressing gown he heard the faint sound of barking, howling dogs in the distance, and made a mental note to register a complaint with the local MFH in the near future.

‘Probably left the bloody kennels unlocked,’ he muttered as he lifted the receiver. ‘Police Constable Price, Llanadevy Police Station … oh, yes, Mrs Simpson …’

He listened patiently to the account of the Major's disappearance, grunting from time to time.

‘Hmm, yes, Mrs Simpson.’ He realized now that he had no choice other than to forsake his bed for the remainder of the night. ‘And you say that Mr Gunn hasn't phoned you back? All right, leave it to me. I'll go and search right away.’

He replaced the receiver, and remembered the mutilated body of the tinker which had been discovered only twenty miles away the previous day. An axe killing. And they hadn't found that sex-killer yet, obviously the Gunn boy. The police officer's peaceful rural routine was in danger of being seriously jeopardized, and he did not relish the prospect at all.

He dressed hurriedly, went outside to his minivan, and took the road which ran parallel to the river. The moon was bright. Headlights were only needed to comply with the law. If Simpson was wandering about anywhere, he would soon spot him.

Gordon Hall doubted the wisdom of his decision to lie in ambush in the old chapel. He stood in the doorway listening to the frenzied sounds of the spectral hounds. They were in full cry, frantic now. And Hugh Gunn was somewhere up there.

He heard the sound of an approaching vehicle, and saw the headlights coming towards him down the lane. He stepped out, waited, and as the van approached it began to slow down, eventually stopping alongside him. He saw the word ‘POLICE’ printed in luminous paint on the side, and wondered what role the law was playing in all this.

‘There's a man missing.’ The constable did not waste words, leaning across and opening the passenger door.

‘I know.’ Gordon Hall clambered in without waiting for an invitation. ‘Simpson. Went duck shooting. His spaniel came back on its own.’

‘How the hell do you know that?’

‘I'm staying at Vic Gunn's farm. Mrs Simpson phoned.’

‘There's one helluva row going on up in the hills. Pack of hounds must have got loose from somewhere.’

‘I guess you could be right,’ Hall did not want to enter into complicated and lengthy explanations concerning the legend of the Black Dogs. ‘I'll help you look for Simpson. We'll have to take the hill road to get down to the river, though, unless you fancy a mile-long tramp across the fields.’

The policeman grunted and let in the clutch, eventually having to drop down to bottom gear as the lane narrowed and rose steeply. At last it levelled out into a wider, unfenced road with the river a winding silver snake through the meadows below on one side, bracken covered rolling hills on the other.

Price slowed down to a crawl, and for the first time he noticed the crossbow which Gordon Hall had across his knees.

‘Hey!’ he grunted. ‘What're you carrying that thing for?’

‘They don't require a licence.’

‘That's not what I asked you. It's an offensive weapon, and …’

‘Officer,’ Hall said slowly, ‘if you had the faintest notion of what was happening out here tonight I reckon you'd turn right round and head back to Llanadevy as fast as this van would go.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Price brought the vehicle to a halt, its engine ticking over slowly.

‘Before your time,’ the journalist went on, ‘there were two killers operating in this area. Philip and Tom Owen.’

‘I heard of 'em. Psychopaths.’

‘Officially that was the verdict. Actually they were suffering from lycanthropy.’

‘Lycanthropy?’

‘In other words, they were werewolves.’

‘Oh, what bloody rubbish! Now, look here, Mr Hall, my time is valuable. A man has been reported as missing -’

‘'Listen.’ Gordon Hall held up his hand. The terrible baying was loud, almost deafening, snarling, howling, increasing in volume.

‘What is it?’ The policeman had an expression of puzzlement and alarm on his face.

‘Look!’ Gordon Hall stared out of the window, pointing down the steep slope beneath them to where the ground levelled out to form a long plateau before dipping again.

‘What … whatever is it?’ Price grunted, clutching the steering wheel and craning his neck. ‘Whatever's going on down there?’

‘Well,’ Gordon Hall replied, his voice shaking. ‘At a rough guess I'd say that shambling creature in the lead is Hugh Gunn, your sex-killer, otherwise a werewolf. And those huge dogs, well they're the legendary Black Dogs. A whole pack of 'em, and they apparently don't like werewolves one little bit. They're overhauling this one fast, and my guess is that it won't get away.’

‘Hadn't we .. oughtn't we to do something?’ PC Price's tone lacked conviction. ‘Maybe we could go down there, and …’

‘The last thing we want to do,’ Hall replied grimly, ‘is to get involved in a conflict between the forces of evil. I don't even like the idea of being an onlooker. The legend has it that anyone who gazes upon one of those spectral dogs dies within a few days, and we're sitting here looking at upwards of two dozen of 'em !’

The constable fell silent, watching whitefaced as the pack closed in on the fleeing werewolf.

Hugh Gunn felt as though his lungs would burst. The pain in his paw was worse, intensifying, creeping upwards in the manner of an angina attack. One moment he had been ambling along at a steady mile eating gait, the next this pack of hellish fiends had burst from the cover of a small coppice, almost as though they had had foreknowledge of the route he would take and had lain in ambush.

The werewolf had increased his speed, relying on those huge bounds, and for a short time it had seemed as though he might even outdistance his relentless pursuers. Then the pain had returned, bringing with it a blinding red haze that had slowed him up.

He glanced up at the moon, hoping, pleading, but a bank of black cloud drifting in from the West had obscured it. No longer did it generate that tremendous power, except to the Black Dogs it seemed. His god had deserted him in his hour of need.

They were closing the gap quickly. Teeth were snapping only inches short of his rump. Then he felt a searing pain in his chest, an agony which caused him to falter and stumble. His balance lost, he rolled over, scrambled up and turned at bay, fang ready to meet fang, claw against claw.

He was expecting them to bear him down by sheer weight of numbers. Instead, they formed into a complete ring, encircling him, tongues lolling, hackles raised, and most terrifying of all was the total silence.

The echoes of the ferocious baying died away like thunder receding to make way for more lightning. There was not a movement apart from their eyes, which blazed their supremacy, their hate, as though they were reincarnations of the ancient Druid priests who had sat in judgement over offenders at the Pen-y-Wern Stone Circle less than half a mile away from this place.

Time ceased to exist. Five minutes, five hours, five days, Hugh Gunn had no idea how long they sat watching him. His strength was draining from him, his size appeared to be diminishing. Perhaps it was the dogs which grew larger. He attempted to whine, to plead, but no sound came from his throat. He sank down, defenceless, his jaws powerless, and then they leaped on him, individual dogs indistinguishable in the mass of fury, the slashing, biting fangs tearing coarse wolf hair out by the roots, ripping the throat asunder, the Black Death in canine form.

Then, as if at some silent signal they backed off the lacerated remains and broke into a fast canter along the plateau, up the incline, until eventually they merged with the dark shadows of the Black Hill and were lost to sight.

The clouds passed from beneath the moon, and once again the silvery, ethereal light flooded the countryside, the frost scintillating, the silence rolling back.

‘Christ!’ PC Price stared down below at the huddled, shapeless mass that had, only a few minutes ago, been a fleeing werewolf. ‘We'd better … d'you think it's safe to go down there now?’

‘I reckon so.’ Gordon Hall showed his confidence by leaving the crossbow in the van. ‘They won't be back tonight. Their work is done.’

It took the two men several minutes to pick their way carefully down the frosty slope, Hall in the lead.

‘I .. this is never that awful creature the dogs were chasing!’ Price exclaimed as he stared down at the remains of what had once been a human being, a mangled, lacerated corpse, the grotesque features still recognizable in spite of the work of the Black Dogs.

‘It's ... it's that fellow Gunn!’ the constable gasped. ‘There's no mistaking him. But how …?’

‘Some things we'll never know because we aren't meant to,’ Gordon Hall said, and looked up at the moon. ‘Possibly even the forces of evil themselves don't quite understand all that happened tonight. Two clashed, for reasons known only to themselves. A werewolf has been destroyed, and thus he reverted to human form.’

‘Look at these tracks.’ Price knelt down, examining prints the size of a horse's hoofprints in the frosty grass. ‘These dogs must have been as big as calves! Now, what the hell do I tell my superiors? I don't even have a dead werewolf as proof. There's only your word and mine.’

‘You tell 'em just what we see here now,’ Hall replied. ‘A dead killer. Savaged by something we never saw. We can't really tell 'em much else.’

They started back up the hill towards the van.

‘What … where do these dogs come from?’ Price asked.

‘From hell itself, probably,’ the journalist replied. ‘They might not be seen for centuries, and then suddenly they put in an appearance. Possibly they are the supreme force of evil in these hills, going back to the days of the Druids. And they would not tolerate a werewolf, so they came out of the past, demons of death, to destroy it. Now, hopefully, they've returned, and we shan't see them again.’

‘They … they strike me as being a much stronger, much greater malevolent force than a werewolf,’ Price muttered, relieved to find himself back at his vehicle.

‘I'm afraid I agree with you.’ Hall's face was grim. ‘It could even be that the werewolf is the lesser of the two evils. Werewolves we can combat, because we know their weaknesses. But the Black Dogs,’ he held up the silver bolt, ‘we don't even know if one of these will destroy them. Perhaps they are indestructible, in which case they are a terrible foe indeed. We have never challenged their power, and pray God that we are never called upon to do so.’

They reversed the van and drove slowly away. Both men were silent with their own thoughts. The last of the werewolf strain, inadvertently introduced into the border hills by Gwynne Owen almost twenty years ago, had been laid to rest. Yet Gordon Hall knew that for many months to come he would have nightmares about Alsatian-Collie dogs of immense proportions which materialized out of the darkness, harbingers of doom, leaving a trail of death and destruction in their wake, howling their wrath and killing in silence.

The End

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

This ebook is the eleventh 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 2012.

The list of books so far published is :

1. Werewolf by Moonlight.

2. The Sucking Pit.

3. The Slime Beast.

4. Night of the Crabs.

5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.

6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.

7. Return of the Werewolf.

8. Bamboo Guerillas.

9. Killer Crabs.

10. Bats Out of Hell.

11. The Son of the Werewolf.

The next book will be :

12. Locusts.

"Alan Alton and family move into the Shropshire hills to run a smallholding. One item that they take with them is completely forgotten in the hassle, namely a crate of peaches sent by an American relative, which also happens to contain a few Pennsylvanian locusts. Joining these are more locusts which flew north into the country due to the prolonged heatwave. Soon these few reproduce into many, into huge swarms which start devouring whatever they can find, and Britain wakes up to a state of emergency."

To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.
View Ebook Catalogue

Best regards,

Guy and all at Black Hill Books.