by P L Kane
Whatever was coming at him, ferocious and angry. He just about caught a flash of something cream before gravity took him, dragging him backwards rather than forwards this time, the poker flying out of his grasp.
He fell flat on his back in the kitchen, all the air from his lungs exploding out of him. Knowing that he needed to get back up again, or at least sit up because something was out here with him, he attempted to move and regretted that instantly as well. If he felt like this now, imagine what it would feel like in the morning when the alcohol wore off. If there was a morning. If he made it to the morning.
Even if this was only an intruder – intruders? – then they could still do him some damage while he was down and out like this. Could still mess him up if they found that poker he’d dropped and used it on him, just like he’d intended to do to them. But those eyes – bloody hell, those eyes! They hadn’t been anything approaching human, had they?
No. They hadn’t.
Because, as he used his elbows to roll himself and looked over in the direction the monster had gone, he saw it now clearly. As clearly as someone who’d had a skinful could.
Saw it there, still staring at him. Ready to spring again, those creamy claws out. Ready to finish the job it had started. Only something made it pause and wait. Some kind of recognition that he wasn’t really a threat. That he’d only been on the attack because Mitch thought he was being threatened himself.
Then the monster opened its mouth, revealing razor-sharp teeth.
And it let out a meow.
Chapter 6
She saw them, the monsters in the darkness.
The shapes, the outlines: the figures. Had heard the noises first, not just the scratching and shuffling – the banging. But also voices, the low mumbling that she couldn’t understand, but which terrified her.
She’d descended, seemingly into the bowels of Hell itself. Lower, lower, drawn – no, led – down here. Somehow hadn’t been able to resist no matter how hard she tried. It was like her limbs felt too heavy, like she was drunk.
There they were, the flickering shadows. All gathering, all talking – all those voices overlapping. Why couldn’t she separate them, understand what they were saying? What they were trying to say to her? Usually the voices she heard wanted to communicate something to her, or to others. Why were they making it so hard?
Why was she seeing all this in the first place?
The noises were getting louder the closer she came, and the closer she found herself, the more she didn’t want to see. Was scared to witness what the shadows were doing, because—
She should turn away, run. But couldn’t. Something was stopping her, someone was stopping her. Somebody behind her, hands on her shoulders holding her in place. Strong hands, firm, digging in. A feeling she’d felt before, but hated with every fibre of her being. The helplessness, the notion that her body wasn’t under her control, but someone else’s.
Suddenly she could make out one voice in the darkness, not low or mumbling, but crystal clear: ‘Wake up!’
What?
‘Wake up!’ it repeated. If she couldn’t run, get away, then that was the only thing to do. The only way of stopping all this.
‘Wake up!’ it virtually screamed at her this time. ‘Bella, you have to wake up!’
It was then, and only then, that she recognized the voice.
Recognized it as her own.
***
Bella sat bolt upright in bed.
She was dripping with sweat, had kicked off the covers because she was so hot. Felt like she was melting, burning up. Her breath was coming in quick gasps, and she struggled to slow it down, calm herself.
A dream. Just a dream.
No, that had been a nightmare. Pure and simple. In her experience, when they were so intense they were usually trying to tell you something. Warn you about something. Her head was pounding again, that now familiar pain she’d been living with for a few days and couldn’t shake. It had only grown worse, nothing shifting it – not even the really strong over-the-counter painkillers she’d had no choice but to buy and take, even though it went against everything she believed in. Poisoning her body.
It was starting to affect her life now, her livelihood. She’d already had to cancel her upcoming event at the hotel because she didn’t think she’d be well enough. No, not just that; she couldn’t hear the voices anymore because of it. Couldn’t hear them unless—
They were mumbling in her dreams apparently. The dead? Or were they? She couldn’t tell. Couldn’t hear anything clearly except her own voice, yelling at her to wake up – perhaps in more ways than one?
And why was she thinking about Mitch?
Understandable to some extent that he’d be on her mind, as he’d gone back to their home. Gone back alone. Particularly at this time of year.
It was then that she heard the noise, the shuffling movement not far away. The creaking. A carry-over from the nightmare, from the things in the darkness, the shadows and figures and … monsters? No, this was coming from the main part of her caravan, just through the bedroom door ahead of her. Ignoring the throbbing at her temples, the feeling that someone was crushing the back of her skull, Bella crawled down the bed – there wasn’t a vast amount of space on either side of her double in here – and reached for her nightgown which she’d left there. Wrapping it around herself, she clambered out and made her way towards the door.
‘Who’s out there?’ she asked in the most confident voice she could muster, sounding like she meant business.
No answer. But the noises continued.
There was no choice but to go out there and confront whoever was in her caravan; for one thing she couldn’t afford to be burgled. Didn’t have any insurance on this place, the site rental was expensive enough all year round. And people thought she was creaming money off the vulnerable? Pah, if they only knew!
‘You’d better get out of here!’ she barked, making her way into the caravan proper. ‘I mean it! You’d—’
She paused, seeing the outline, the shadow there. A single figure that should have been left over from the nightmare, but wasn’t. It was in here, with her. Had invaded her own private space.
A monster.
If this had been a film or TV show, she’d have woken up again and it would have been a double bluff. A dream within a dream, like that movie she’d seen at the cinema with that dishy Titanic actor, where they could enter people’s dreams and implant ideas. Extract them too. If only!
It turned, this shadow, to stare at her. Bella wanted to scream again, not at herself to wake up – because she was already awake – but for it to get out of her home. Get out and never, ever come back! But she just couldn’t get the words out, felt that heaviness in her limbs once more. Felt drunk, even though she hadn’t had an alcoholic drink in such a long time.
Then the shadow was moving towards her, rushing at her. Attacking her! She saw it. She felt it.
The monster in the darkness.
Chapter 7
‘Come on then, you little monster.’
He’d made a friend, it seemed. Mitch wasn’t sure when or how, but his father appeared to have adopted a cat. A stray, clearly – because it didn’t have a collar or anything – but for it to be in his house, it must be used to just coming in and making itself at home. Either slipped in the last time his aunty and uncle were here, or when he himself had entered, because Mitch couldn’t see any other way it could have got in. There were no windows open anywhere, certainly wasn’t a cat flap.
Looked like a stray, as well, its black fur clumpy and matted. But it also looked pretty well fed, which meant that either it was extremely good at hunting and killing or his father had been feeding the thing for a while. They were creatures of habit, cats, returned to the places where they felt welcome, especially where the food was plentiful. He’d had a friend once on the force who’d got a ginger tom, but his then girlfriend had mistreated it; used to kick it, shout at it. In the end, as much as it had lov
ed its owner, the cat had buggered off and found a home elsewhere. That’s what they did.
That’s what this runaway had done as well, apparently. Found another home, just like Mitch had done eventually when he left here in the first place. The jury was still out as to whether that had been a good decision or not, but this particular beast seemed happy with the way things were. Perhaps it had sensed Mitch was related to Thomas Prescott, but regardless of the way the pair had met – Mitch swinging that poker around like a maniac, freaked out by this clichéd jump-shock from a slasher flick – it hadn’t taken long for them to bond. If nothing else, and he had apologized regardless of whether the creature could understand him or not, the tin of tuna he’d found in the cupboard and put down on a saucer for the animal had seen to that.
Then, when Mitch had retreated to the living room again – shutting the cellar door, so the cat couldn’t get trapped in there like it had earlier – it had followed once it had finished the fish. After thinking about it for a few moments, it had hopped on the other end of the sofa and curled up, spending the rest of the night there with the interloper, having decided that actually he was okay.
Now, the next morning – and nursing one hell of a hangover – Mitch had woken up to find the cat gone, and even though he’d called it there was no sign of the thing. It had obviously found somewhere else to hide out.
However, when he’d started to prepare breakfast for himself (he couldn’t face anything more elaborate than dry toast, and that was only because he didn’t want to take paracetamol on an empty stomach) he’d heard that distinctive meowing again, the cat waiting at the back door.
‘Abandoning me already?’ But all it had wanted was to pop out and find somewhere to go to the toilet; it soon came back in again after he left the door open on the off chance. Now it wanted more food, so he dug around in the cupboards for something else to feed his companion.
Sardines in oil (there was a lot of fish in, which again tallied with the sudden adoption of a cat), which he’d placed on another saucer – and the living shadow had appeared as if by magic in the kitchen doorway. ‘Come on then,’ he said to it, putting down the saucer and grinning as it lapped up the tasty treat. ‘Don’t get used to it, mind. I’m only visiting. There’ll be new owners here at some point.’
Or would there? Hadn’t he been thinking last night, as he’d gone through those photos, that Green Acres might be quite a nice place to settle back down in? Crazy idea, because he was settled with Lucy already and she had her job in Downstone. But he was at least here until he untangled what had happened with his father’s death, then Mitch still had to go through the man’s belongings and such, organize the funeral …
The death first, then the rest. Which meant a trip to see the local plod, their station on the far side of Green Acres village, if Mitch remembered rightly. As he’d got himself ready to leave, the cat had found him again and started curling round his legs. It was more that it was marking Mitch out as its property than anything approaching affection, he knew, but again he couldn’t help smirking. ‘So, are you staying in here or heading out too?’
He got his answer when it turned its back on him and made for the stairs, sprinting up them. Probably where it had been when he woke that morning, nestled on one of the beds or something. If it was staying inside, and he’d shut the back door again by now, then he should probably put something down for the cat to use as a litter. He found a tray in one of the cupboards that had been used for painting, and filled that with old newspaper, making a mental note to buy some actual litter and proper cat food if his guest was remaining – and a large part of him hoped it was. Took the sting out of being alone here, to have another living thing around. Even gave him something … someone to talk to, now he didn’t have Lucy. He should really give her a call … Later. He’d do it later.
‘Okay, see you in a bit then,’ he called out – even though the cat was long gone – proving his point.
Though it was pretty hot again outside, Mitch hauled on his leather jacket and did up his helmet, glad when he saw his bike was still where he’d left it around the back. He wheeled the vehicle to the road, climbing on it and starting it at the same time. There were a handful of people dotted around, walking mainly, but not many – same as yesterday. They stopped and watched him, a person on a motorcycle like his obviously some kind of novelty in these parts. An ordinary cycle, yes, but his contraption …?
Pulling away from the curb, he guided the Honda along the street, heading back in the direction of his aunty and uncle’s, but instead of taking a right into that side street he carried on down the main drag. Wasn’t long before he came upon his destination, a converted stone house that hadn’t changed a bit since the last time he’d seen it as a child, with its blue door and light outside that helpfully announced: ‘POLICE’. He remembered how he’d spent a long afternoon in here waiting for his father to come and pick him up, after being caught scrumping for apples in Mr Patterson’s orchard. Hadn’t been his idea, but his mates had cleared off when they heard the man approach and he hadn’t been quick enough to get away.
Bloody hell, Mitch thought. He’d forgotten all about that till he saw the place again – probably blocked it out because of the bollocking he’d received from his dad afterwards. Flinging words like ‘respect’ and ‘the law’ at him, while little Mitchel stood quaking at his wrath. Looking back, it had probably just embarrassed Thomas in front of his neighbours in the village: a man of his standing in the place, with a troublemaking son. Not that Mitch had been, of course. No more than any other boisterous kid.
Mitch turned off the engine, took off his helmet, and parked the bike up outside the building – which had a living quarters for whatever officer was on duty upstairs, he seemed to recall. It should be safe enough, outside a police station, but he put his lock on the bike anyway, just to make sure. He could afford to lose neither the bike itself, nor the time it would take reporting it stolen and going through the motions. If there was one thing he did know, it was that it took an age to get anything done around these parts. Apply for a marriage certificate here and they’d be burying you together in the cemetery before it arrived. Assuming your death certificate had arrived, that was.
An exaggeration, perhaps. Both his parents and his aunty and uncle had got hitched here without a problem, though only one of those couples were still around. The other …
It was why he was here. To find out about what had happened to the last remaining half of that particular married couple, only when he tried the door he found it was locked. Mitch knocked several times, but no one answered. He’d be screwed if it was an emergency, wouldn’t he? Mitch checked the times on the door – and yes, it should definitely be open.
So, taking off his jacket as well, he decided to wait, sitting on the bike until someone showed their face. That was about forty minutes later, when a police car which looked like it should be in a museum pulled up behind him. The door opened, and out of this climbed a uniformed officer who looked just as ancient. A sergeant, judging from his stripes: a man who for all the world looked like Santa Claus, but with a blue outfit instead of red. With white hair and a massive, white curly beard, and cheeks as ruddy as the farmer who’d nearly collided with Mitch on the way here. He also had a belly to complete the look, the one his lookalike could allegedly shake like a bowl full of jelly when he laughed.
This man wasn’t laughing. Looked like he never cracked a smile, let alone chuckled. He glared at Mitch suspiciously, eyes narrowing as he put on his peaked cap – jamming it on so tight Mitch thought the material at the top might split. Then his eyes dropped down to the bike, before slowly travelling back up to Mitch’s face, never widening once.
‘Hi,’ Mitch called out, raising a hand in greeting and pushing himself up from the bike’s seat.
The man nodded. ‘Mornin’,’ came his own reply, and it was as if the fellow’s speech had been recorded and slowed down, like kids used to do when they were mucking about for fun; dr
agging out the word until it sounded like it was three or four syllables. Then he ignored Mitch completely and closed the car door, locking it manually with a key – rather than simply blipping it with a fob – before making his way slowly to the station door. There he stood for a moment or two, examining the other keys on his ring, before selecting the correct one and shoving that into the door to open it this time. A few moments after that, he was inside – without even asking what Mitch wanted or what he was doing sitting outside his nick.
Mitch sighed, head drooping. And, carrying his jacket and helmet, followed the sergeant inside …
Which was just as he remembered it, as well. Maybe a lick of paint since he’d sat on the slatted bench to his right, waiting for his dad, but nothing more. Now he used that bench as somewhere to put his jacket and helmet. The counter on his left was still the same, even some of the leaflets looked like they were from that time so long ago. Mitch frowned, because the sergeant appeared to have vanished – just like the feline at home (his dad’s home) had a tendency of doing – another magic trick. It took him a second to realize he’d gone through the door ahead of Mitch, closing that behind him, and was coming into view round the corner. Mitch waited. Then he waited some more … For the sergeant to take his place behind that desk, arms wide apart, leaning on and gripping the edge of it where for a brief moment Mitch could have sworn he saw indentations. Like he’d been wearing the wood away for decades and had got it just right.
It was only now that he looked up, evaluating Mitch once more and finding him lacking. ‘Aye?’ he asked in that strange slowed-down way, as if he existed in a different time zone to everyone else.
‘Yeah, hi. Hello,’ Mitch said again, which elicited no more response than it had outside. ‘My name’s Mitchel Prescott.’