by Ryan Casey
“What is it? Whatever…Whatever you want, man. Whatever the fuck you want. Just…just lower that gun. Lower it. Please.”
Lower that gun. Darren ran over Wayne’s words in his head, one by one. Lower. That. Gun. He tried to make sense of it. Tried to comprehend what Wayne was saying. A gun? Who would be carrying a gun in the north of England?
Before he had time to shout back to Wayne, he heard a series of shots.
Darren fell to his knees. The shots rang out around him. He heard crying out. Screaming.
“Please, don’t—”
“Stop—”
He panted. His entire body shook. He curled up against the wet, slimy mud of the trench and clenched his eyes together as the shots continued to fire. The screams gradually became less frequent. The rain waterfalled down onto his body.
And the shots stopped.
Darren eased one eye open. Peeked up at the top of the trench. Nothing but grey sky. More rain falling. He had to do something. He had to get away.
Then, footsteps. Footsteps getting closer to the top of the trench. Boots sloshing in the sinking mud.
Darren completely froze as the footsteps stopped at the top of the trench. The person was right above him. They could be staring down. Watching him. Waiting for him to squirm before firing.
But then, the footsteps started to move away. Somewhere over towards the digger on the left. He kept himself still. He wasn’t sure if he had much of a say in the matter. The shots. The screams. The footsteps.
“Lower that gun…”
Darren wasn’t sure how much longer he was lying there. He heard shuffling. Struggling. The sound of squelching, like a watermelon being sliced in half.
But he waited. Waited until he had a chance—a real chance to leave. There could be somebody out there still. Somebody preparing to fire. Somebody watching.
He waited for what felt like an hour longer, his body completely rigid. Mud dribbled down the side of the trench and covered his face. His jaw shook. His stomach turned. He’d have to get up. He’d have to get off Pendle Hill and he’d have to leave. They couldn’t find him here. They might suspect him. Think he’d been up to something.
He took a few deep breaths and steadied himself. His head spun after being laid down for so long. He stood upright and placed a hand on the ladder at the side of the trench, climbing back up it, step by step.
The bodies. They would be waiting for him at the top. Wayne’s body. He’d seen real gunshots on those Internet videos. It wasn’t like the movies. Eyes popped out of sockets. Pieces of skull shattered, sending the brain spilling out of the skull like a thick soup. He had to be ready. He had to be composed.
He lifted himself up the top step. His entire body went numb as he looked around.
There was nobody in sight.
The engine of the digger rumbled on. Darren took a few steps around the site. He couldn’t see any blood on the ground. Couldn’t see any signs of a struggle. Had he gone mad?
“Guys?” He peeked around the side of the digger, where the other trench was and the bulk of his team had been working. “Stop…Quit messing around now. Please.”
He stepped to the edge of the trench. Stared down it. His eyes widened. His legs turned to jelly.
He pulled himself away and threw up on the ground. This couldn’t be real. That couldn’t be…that couldn’t be them.
He took a few deep breaths then returned to the edge of the trench, staring down at it. He dialled 999 and held the phone to his ear with his shaking hand. This wasn’t right. All seven of them. Like…like that.
“Emergency, which service?”
“I…I…”
“Which service, please?”
“I…There’s been—there’s been a massacre. There’s been…Pendle Hill. Something’s happened.”
“Okay, I’ll put that through to the police. Pendle Hill—which region is that?”
The words buzzed through Darren’s ears as he stared at the trench. The bones. The skeletons, all of them circled in that pattern, with their arms pointing out like they were doing star jumps. Leg bones attached to the arm bones.
“Sir, can you please…”
And in the middle of the circle, a pile of heads. Pete’s head. Shenice’s head.
And on top of the pile, muscles and veins dangling and eyes staring out in bloodshot fear, Wayne’s head. Severed.
Chapter One
“I told you a hundred bloody times already—it went up that tree!”
Brian McDone tried to keep a straight face as he stood in the pathway of the terraced house on Stocks Road. The woman opposite him, who had greying dark hair and a line of fur above her top lip, gestured at the tree on the pavement with her flimsy arm.
“We’ve had a good look up there, Mrs. Wilson. We’re…We’re just considering the possibility that Mr. Tibbles might have ventured out of the tree while you weren’t looking.”
Mrs. Wilson shook her head. “Nope. I know my Mr. Tibbles. He wouldn’t go any further than that tree. Nope, not even if those bastard dogs next door chased him.” She raised her voice and shot daggers in the direction of next door.
“Well, we’re doing everything we can,” Brian said. He turned away from Mrs. Wilson and sighed as he walked down the pathway towards his colleague. “See anything, Scott?”
Scott Collins, who was an experienced community support officer with a good five or six years to his name, shrugged and glared over Brian’s shoulder at Mrs. Wilson. “Nothing of the feline persuasion. Old bat needs to give it a rest. Not surprised her cat went and did a runner on her with that stupid loud mouth of hers.” He winced as he turned to look up the tree, squinting, the lines on his forehead prominent when contrasted with his bald head. “Dunno why any man in their right mind would join community support. You had it all, up in that DS role. Even talk you were gonna get the big promo—”
“Is that a cat there?” Brian said. He hadn’t seen anything, but he just needed to change the topic of conversation. He didn’t like to think too much about the events of two years ago, when he’d finally packed in his job as a Detective Sergeant. The Nicola Watson case, the cutting…that was in the past. He was a new man now. A relatively stress-free job—unless runaway cats had something to say about it. A good relationship with his son, Davey. Amicable terms with his ex-wife, Vanessa.
And a smaller waistline since quitting the DS job. Which was the most important thing, of course.
“Just baffles me a bit, that’s all,” Scott added, as Mrs. Wilson started to spring to life again in the background. “I guess status ain’t happiness after all, eh?”
Brian smiled. “Indeed. Anyway, we’ve got bigger things on our plate right now, and it’s arriving at our location in approximately three, two…”
Brian felt a hard thump on his back. He turned around and saw Mrs. Wilson behind him. Brown earwax coated her ears. Needed a bloody good scrub, that’s for sure.
“Have you found him? Have you done your jobs yet?”
“Look, Mrs. Wilson.” Brian rested his hand on her shoulder. Time to bring out some of those old DS confidence tricks. “I’m sorry about this, I really am, but there’s no chance your cat is in this tree. We’ve looked. I swear to God, we’ve looked. Do you not think—just perhaps—Mr. Tibbles might have ventured a little further down the road?”
Mrs. Wilson opened her mouth to protest. Stringy saliva stretched out from her teeth. Her eyes started to go bloodshot. “It’s just…he’s all I have. He’s all I’ve had for years since Gregory died.” She lifted the sleeve of her stained brown cardigan to her face and sniffed.
Brian and Scott looked at one another. Scott raised his eyebrows and started to shake a few of the loose tree branches.
“I am sorry,” Brian said. “But there’s no need to be upset. I’m sure Mr. Tibbles will show up.” He cringed every time he said the stupid cat’s name. Mr. Fucking Ti
bbles. But people seemed to have these weird bonds with animals. Brian could never get his head around it, not really.
“I want compensation,” Mrs. Wilson said. “If—if you’ve lost my cat, I want compensation.”
Any speck of sympathy that had emerged instantly vanished when Mrs. Wilson uttered the “c” word. Brian moved his hand from Mrs. Wilson’s shoulder. Scott narrowed his baggy eyelids.
“We haven’t lost your—”
“He was up there when you got here,” Mrs. Wilson said. Her jaw was shaking now. Her face was red. She was showing off her fangs, like an angry old vampire. “He was up there and—and you’ve scared him. I just know it.”
“Look. Mrs. Wilson,” Scott said, grabbing a higher branch. “Your bloody cat isn’t up here.” He shook the branch rapidly upwards and downwards. Autumn leaves dropped down onto him. “He’s not up here, and we haven’t had anything to do with it. So I suggest you have a proper look yoursel—”
Scott’s words were drowned out slightly by a high-pitched squealing.
But then, they were drowned out completely when a furry grey creature tumbled down from the tree and smacked him on the face.
“Mr. Tibbles!”
Scott wrestled with Mr. Tibbles, who clawed into his face. “Get—get it off me! Get it the fuck off me!”
Brian rushed over to Scott as the fat cat continued to dig right into his face, refusing to loosen its grip. He grabbed its back and started to pull it away, but its nails wedged into Scott’s cheeks.
Brian couldn’t help but laugh. He tried to remain serious, but tears were almost pouring out of his eyes in amusement.
Eventually, Mr. Tibbles loosened its grip and went jogging over to its owner.
“Oh, Mr. Tibbles,” Mrs. Wilson said in a childish voice. “Mr., Mr., Mr.” She scuffed its matted fur as it stared back at Scott.
“Holy shit,” Scott said, pulling himself to his feet and wiping himself down. He had four large scratch marks on each of his cheeks. “Did it mark me? Did the fucker mark me?”
Brian’s lip quivered as he stared Scott in his face. Scott was tearing up.
“You…You look like you’ve been attacked by a miniature Wolverine,” Brian said, in as serious a voice as possible.
Then, after they’d bid Mrs. Wilson and Mr. “Wolverine” Tibbles a hasty farewell, Brian burst out laughing again.
Brian returned home that night with a smile still on his face.
He unlocked the door of his rented semi-detached house in the Fulwood area, near to the new hospital, and took a look down the street before entering. Some moron already had their Halloween decorations up. In fact, screw the idea of “already”—only morons put Halloween decorations up in the first place.
Morons and serial killers.
But still, it wasn’t a bad area. Quiet street. Neighbours who kept themselves to themselves. An improvement on that dingy city centre flat he’d spent six months living in, anyway.
He entered the house and wiped his feet on the doormat. “Honey, I’m home,” he called. Always felt a little bit of a tit saying it, but Hannah found it funny.
Well, she seemed to, anyway.
“‘Ello, officer,” Hannah shouted. “Come on through.”
He took off his jacket and placed it on the banister by the staircase. Brian could hear clattering in the kitchen/dining area. He could smell something delicious, too. Sweet. Rich. What was Hannah up to?
He poked his head into the dining area and saw that it was candlelit. Hannah rushed from the hob and placed a plate of what looked like chicken and veg onto Brian’s side of the table, serving it up on a plastic plate. “Chicken in red wine sauce. Happy first anniversary,” she said.
Brian froze. Lowered his jaw. Widened his eyes enough so that his girlfriend would catch on to his expression.
“Wait,” Hannah said. Her pearly white smile disappeared as her mouth closed. She twirled her frizzy hair. “Don’t say you…you didn’t forget, did you?”
Brian kept himself propped against the doorway and held Hannah’s stare. Sighed audibly.
Poor thing. He couldn’t trick her any longer.
A smile crept onto his face and he stepped into the room, showing off the huge bouquet of flowers in his hand. “Surprise,” he said.
Hannah rolled her eyes and pushed her chair away as she walked over to Brian. “You tit,” she said. She grabbed the flowers and examined them. “These are beautiful. Price tag still attached, I see. Great attention to detail, as ever.”
“You know me too well,” Brian said. He kissed Hannah on the lips. Dark-skinned, lovely brown eyes. He’d done alright for himself, in his forties and living with an attractive woman in her late thirties. He always knew he’d be quite the ladies’ man if he lost that bloody belly. Which he had. Plenty to be proud of.
“And what’s this I smell?” Brian asked, pulling out his chair and sniffing the plate. “Is this the finest canned ASDA Smart Price chicken in red wine sauce I see in front of me?”
Hannah winked as she scooped up a forkful of mixed vegetables and popped them in her mouth. “Complete with frozen veg from months ago and ready-made mash.”
“Ooh, you do know how to rustle a romantic meal up, don’t you? I guess with my attention to detail and your culinary love, we’re quite a match after all.”
Hannah grinned as they tucked into their food. She’d been good for Brian. They were good for each other, in fact. They met this time last year via the wonders of online dating—something that Scott bet Brian couldn’t find any success with no matter how hard he tried. But despite Scott’s lack of success with the opposite sex, Brian fast fell for his first date. He knew he liked her the second they headed into a posh Italian and Hannah suggested they just grab a takeaway instead. She had a worldview that matched his, but a slightly more positive spin to his cynical outlook. He’d been happy since he’d met her. Really happy. His career might have been “stable”, which was a kind way of saying “inane”, but he had a good personal life now. That was the priority.
After they’d finished the meal, they chatted for a few minutes about their days. Hannah was a freelance writer. She reviewed music and movies that she hadn’t even listened to or seen. Did the occasional opinion piece on the headlines, too. She had a way with words that could trick anybody. Stealing a living.
But of course, he couldn’t say that to her, after a hard day of wrestling with cats.
They cleared up and relocated to the lounge, where they sat in silence and watched telly, cuddled up on the sofa. They could sit in silence. Something nice that they both enjoyed doing. It made for a suitable prelude to the intense lovemaking that would go on later.
Damn, was she good in bed.
While he was supping on his third Cobra beer and starting to feel a little horny, the national news appeared on the screen of the wall-mounted television. He wasn’t really listening to it, but he recognised the setting as soon as it came on. He knew he’d seen it somewhere before.
“Hold on,” Hannah said, grabbing the remote and turning the television up, “is that Pendle Hill?”
The location clicked in Brian’s head. Hannah was right—it was Pendle Hill. The endless green fields, the creepy-looking summit. He’d spent loads of time walking that hill when he was younger, searching for witches. Rumour had it that you could hear voices from the top of it. Spirits. Ghosts.
And all sorts of other bullshit mumbo-jumbo.
But that wasn’t what held Brian’s attention right now. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen forced a frown out of him. He placed his beer at the foot of the sofa.
“Oh my word,” Hannah said, “That’s…that’s horrible.”
Brian stared at the screen. Images flicked to what looked like some kind of dig site, and then to a traumatised-looking individual with a balding head and bulging eyes.
But it was the headline that dominated the story. The headline, in bold, dr
owning out everything else.
Pendle Hill Massacre: Seven Confirmed Dead.
“Do you think it’s something creepy? Something supernatural?” Hannah turned the volume up even higher.
“…Horrific scenes of mutilation that are too grotesque to show on television…”
“What…Why would something like this happen? Why would it?”
Brian leaned over and kissed Hannah. He moved on to her neck and gave it a little nibble, then started to unbutton her collar with his teeth. She was breathing deeply already, right into her stomach, her legs widening and waiting for him.
Grabbing the remote from her hand as she breathed and sighed more audibly, Brian turned the television down as the Pendle Hill report came to a close.
As he indulged himself in his girlfriend’s smooth, bare skin, the former Detective Sergeant inside him couldn’t quite get that headline about Pendle Hill out of his head, as the images continued to flicker across the screen.
Chapter Two
Brian did the best job of ignoring the news he possibly could the following morning, but it wasn’t easy.
Hannah was in front of the television at breakfast, glued to the screen. She’d got up early, like she always did, to get her freelance work for the day out of the way. Finished as early as possible so she could spend the rest of the day “the way she really wanted to spend it”, as she put it. Brian dared not ask her why she’d bothered going into freelance writing in the first place if she didn’t enjoy it, not after the verbal tirade she’d given him last time he’d asked.
“See you later, Han,” he said, slipping a banana into the top pocket of his jacket.
“Yeah,” she called, half-heartedly. She scooped a spoonful of Cheerios up. Kept her eyes glued on the screen. The images of Pendle Hill, the deepening of the investigation there. Brian would rather not look at it. The thought of a massacre on his doorstep was unsettling at best, but tingled his curiosity at worst. Deep down, deep within, there was a craving to learn more about the events. To find out what was going on.