by Jody Medland
‘And he can’t catch it himself?’ questioned Joe.
‘He’s been trying,’ Andy informed him. ‘Said he came pretty close once, too, but it got away. All he ended up with was the beast’s damn claw!’
The search had been going on for forty minutes and Joe wondered how long they would continue before calling it a night. Not wishing to be considered as a whiney hunting partner or a chicken, he refrained from asking such a question. Instead, he observed.
Andy was an expert huntsman and his beady eyes gleaned clues that Joe would never have seen. Whatever logic Andy had implemented into the search eventually led them to a rather distinctive footprint that clung firmly to the soil. Andy observed it, put the back of his hand to it, felt the earth with his fingers before sniffing the end of his fingertips. It was a bizarre ritual that, again, Joe didn’t dare question. His own personal skills ended at being a good shot and he was fine with that.
‘It’s fresh,’ Andy somehow determined, raising his weapon, readily.
Out of worry, Joe did the same, anxiously looking around with every sense heightened. Suddenly, he noticed endless distractions. Infinite, identical trees made navigation impossible, an owl hooted, birds flapped their wings and insects could be heard calling – none of which Joe had noticed a short moment earlier. Funny how things seemed so different when one became spooked.
The men shone their torches one way, then the next. Finally, they heard significant movement coming from a nearby bush, which shook as they quietly observed it. Andy signalled for Joe to approach from the right as he slowly flanked from the left.
Christian was right. Thought Joe. This is nothing like clay pigeon shooting!
An eerie silence ensued as they slowly approached the bush, but Joe’s attention was diverted to a flailing branch of an overhanging tree, on which the leaves were wet.
What is that? Wondered Joe as he observed the liquid substance, which glistened as he shone his torch upon it. He edged closer to get a better look and became confused when another stream of the white, gooey substance dripped onto the leaves from above. Joe couldn’t help but look up. He saw a dark figure cowering on the branch. His heart told him the being was scared, but his head told him any hesitation could be fatal and so, instinctively, he fired. In retaliation, the beast threw itself on top of Joe, grabbing him firmly and biting into the flesh of his neck before rolling with him on the floor. The beast dictated the movement and ended up on top of Joe, standing on its two back legs and raising a sharp rock in the air before using all of its might to hit Joe repeatedly over the head. The makeshift weapon caused manic screams that soon disappeared, as did the solid structure of Joe’s pretty skull, which caved upon the impact of a particularly forceful strike.
It all happened so fast that when Andy finally managed to shine his torch on the being, it prowled towards him, its eyes black with evil and its mouth drooling in bloody excitement as it snarled, paralysing Andy with fear.
This was no panther. It was like nothing he’d ever seen. Not in all his years as a hunter. It was a walking contradiction. Its body was awkward, yet it moved efficiently. It was ugly, yet impressive. It was wild, yet intelligent. It took another step towards Andy as its body swayed like a line of daffodils in a summer breeze, looking almost elegant as it neared its next intended victim. Andy dropped his torch and retreated slowly, managing to keep the same distance between them as he considered his options. Without the light to aid his view, the beast was now an evolving electric blue membrane surrounding a sea of blackness.
Grrrr… it rumbled, backing the man further into the woodland.
Andy had seen how fast the beast could move and it sounded truly riled – a lethal combination for a deadly predator. Andy and the beast were locked in combat and so alert were both hunters that one wrong move would lead to their certain death. Andy knew that if he turned to run, his life would be ended almost immediately. Likewise, his instincts told him that if he raised his gun, the beast would tear him apart before he had chance to pull the trigger. Hunting was about patience; knowing when to attack and when to wait. These were the key skills to becoming a top marksman, and so Andy waited, watching the beast in the same unflappable way it watched him, waiting for a lapse in concentration, a misplaced step, anything that would give him leverage and enable him to take the shot.
At the worst possible moment, Joe’s body started twitching on the ground. Andy’s eyes could not help but flash a quick glance in the corpse’s direction. It was all the beast needed to grab a hold of the long barrel and pry the gun powerfully from his enemy’s grip.
Cussing his stupidity, Andy was certain he would meet his end. Trembling, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, wincing as he prepared to be torn apart… but the moment never came. Instead, the beast retreated, slowly stepping back towards the fresh pulsating corpse as it watched Andy disapprovingly. Andy did not know why he’d been spared, but he wasn’t about to question such luck and he ran as fast as he could into the night.
*
Certain parts of Exmoor, particularly during the latter hours of night, inspired an incredible sense of isolation, as though it were a small corner of the world that had yet to be discovered; as though man had never existed. It was over such land that Joe’s motionless eyes gazed up at the stars as the beast dragged his body behind him. He took it on a very private journey that led to a hidden cave. It was a place the beast knew well.
Once inside, the beast hoisted the body over its shoulder and moped towards a large pit in the ground, into which he lowered Joe’s body with great care. Once finished, the beast stood in silence, as if paying its last respects. Its eyes glistened in the dim light and a small stump of a tongue flapped around as it wailed sounds of sadness that echoed through the cave and beyond.
*
Amanda looked toward her window, perplexed. She wasn’t quite sure why. Had she heard something? No. Maybe it was just one of those things, like a person who experienced an earth tremor whilst standing outside – the body alerted them that something was happening, but with no physical objects such as, say, tables and chairs to dance across the room, there was no visual frame of reference to confirm what the body was experiencing and so the affected party would simply brush their feelings aside and continue with their day.
Amanda was emotionally on edge and was therefore thankful of the privacy she found in her room as she flicked through the photo album Margaret had given her. Each and every picture helped solve a little of the mystery.
There were photos of Malcolm smiling and actively engaging in play with others, snaps of Georgina posing for the camera with beautiful ocean-blue eyes and endless pictures of children Amanda had never met being taken care of by the residents. Finally, Amanda laid her eyes on Margaret’s late husband, Stanley – a dashing man with a far-reaching smile.
There were endless photos of Lydia within the album, a woman who seemed to be the main source of everybody’s happiness.
Towards the back of the book, however, the inflection of the pictures took a turn for the worse.
There was a shot of Christian sat despondently next to a cot where a small, monstrous hand reached out. Amanda could see that the picture had been taken in the attic. A shaft of light came in at an angle through the window in the roof, shining upon the cot as though its contents were some kind of miracle, but it was not the type of miracle the family embraced.
Amanda turned the page to see further pictorial evidence of the heavily disfigured baby. She had a very strong stomach, but the being – so small and helpless – stirred emotions within her that she did not know how to deal with. All she could do was cover her mouth in horror.
‘Oh my God!’ she whispered as tears streamed from her eyes.
She grabbed her Dictaphone, thinking aloud at great speed.
‘They had a child! Christian and Lydia. His name was Elijah,’ she said, her mind feeding her images as it always did when she was on to something. ‘There were complications.’
> Amanda envisaged the poor deformed baby crying in his cot with Christian stood over him, looking down at the child with sadness and regret. She then imagined Karen doing the same, except her face was bitter, twisted and resentful.
‘It’s likely Lydia died during childbirth,’ Amanda speculated. ‘To her loved-ones, it was an injustice that, one-by-one, drove them crazy.’
Amanda paused, closing her eyes as she thought hard. She imagined the attic in which the cot had been placed. She put herself in a reality where Elijah had grown older. She pictured him curled up in the corner of the room, scared and alone.
‘Elijah’s birth destroyed the family… so they grew to hate him.’
She played out a scenario where the door to the attic burst open and Christian walked in, readying a leather belt to help satisfy his look of retribution. Even her mind’s eye wouldn’t allow her to process graphic images of Christian beating his defenceless child. The thought was simply too horrid, and so all she could muster were brief, silent flickers of Christian’s overbearing shadow against the wall, like an old 8mm film of a man lashing out in silhouette.
‘They tortured him,’ whispered Amanda, tears of grief creeping from the corners of her eyes once more.
The thoughts that manifested in her head had entered the realm of heavy speculation, but Amanda’s one true gift had always been the ability to piece a story together by using seemingly disconnected information. This is what had destined her for journalism.
She pictured Elijah as an adolescent tied to the attic wall in a Christ-like manner. Given that she had not seen the isolation room and had therefore not witnessed the way David had been placed there, the detail she had depicted was uncanny.
In her vision, the abuse and neglect thrust upon Elijah had resulted in his limbs being gangly, his teeth being filthy and his nails long and dirty. She gathered that a person raised in such a state would have minimal body fat and badly malnourished skin. His hair would also be patchy – non-existent in some areas and long and matted through filth in others due to the fact it was rarely cleansed. She imagined the child being ridiculed and degraded by anyone who felt the need to vent their anger. At this thought, somewhat unsurprisingly, an image of Karen popped into her head. She imagined Karen approaching the boy and grabbing his hair firmly in her hand. It would have hurt Elijah greatly but he would have had no energy to fight.
‘Look at the state of you, you filthy little beast!’ Karen would say.
Beast.
Amanda gathered he got called that a lot. Even those who did not know Elijah and took to writing speculative stories about him in the press used the common phrase “The Beast of the Moors.” This would explain why Margaret had reacted so sensitively when Amanda used the term herself. After all, this was the person that she lovingly described as her grandson.
‘The trauma spread through the family and eventually they started to hurt others,’ Amanda continued, with sad confidence.
She was reminded of the plaque on the wall:
THE PRINCE HOME
EST. 1960
‘Most of them,’ she said, quickly correcting herself. ‘Not Maggie. She’s the only one who cares about these children,’ said Amanda, sounding more certain than she felt.
She had believed Christian to be innocent right up until seeing the way he looked over Elijah in the photographs. There was something about his expression – distant yet exuding the sense that a quiet storm was brewing beneath the surface – that made Amanda realise the home could not be run, nor such torture carried out, without him. Therefore, however wronged he might have been in his own life – and some could argue that he himself was a victim – it didn’t change the fact he was the glue that held it all together, and for that, he was certainly guilty.
‘And maybe Stanley…?’ added Amanda.
She remembered the writing on his headstone:
STANLEYPRINCE
A LOYAL HUSBAND AND LOVING FATHER
FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS
1902–1967
“He died of a heart attack, God bless him,” Margaret had previously told her.
The happiest Amanda had seen Margaret was when she spoke of her husband, when the love she held for him radiated from every pore of her body. A woman like Margaret would not have remembered him so fondly if he were a bad man, and the fact that Elijah had at some point escaped led Amanda to believe Stanley was partly responsible. She pictured Stanley cautiously entering the isolation room. He would have been doing some good deed such as maybe taking Elijah some food and water. Maybe as he approached Elijah, the boy customarily cowered in the corner, wondering what act of cruelty would be bestowed to him next.
‘One day, Elijah had enough…’ Amanda informed her Dictaphone, her mind running through endless possible story threads before landing on the one she believed most feasible.
She pictured Elijah studying the wall as a burly shadow grew on its approach. Suddenly, he flexed his claws and launched into his first attack.
‘…but he stood up to the wrong person.’
She imagined Elijah turning and plunging his claws into the man’s torso, an aggressive surprise that was enough to push Stanley’s heart too far. Amanda felt sure that Elijah would have been immediately regretful as he stood by and helplessly watched his grandfather die. He would have looked up and seen the door open and unguarded, maybe for the first time since his birth, providing the perfect opportunity for him to run free. The chances are he would have had no idea what he was running towards. It was very possible he had never seen the world beyond that room, but having nothing to lose he would have taken the chance. He would have roamed the moors as he had nowhere else to go and he would have needed to feast on the wildlife around him to survive.
‘And he’s lived wild on the moors ever since.’
Amanda remembered Gordon telling her how the “dog” would go to his window every night and how he couldn’t sleep without him. She recalled Georgina saying how Elijah wanted to help but that he was afraid of “them,” and how Margaret had said “he” wouldn’t let Amanda leave because he was likely to have seen her hitting David.
‘He’s not killing the children,’ Amanda concluded with a whisper. ‘He’s trying to protect them.’
She switched off the Dictaphone and fell into a stunned silence but moments later, the creaking of floorboards outside her bedroom snapped her back into reality.
‘Hello?’ she called, to which there was no reply.
She looked towards the door, paranoid that something unsavoury was plotting to confront her. It was at that moment she made a decision. When the opportunity arose, she would load the children into Walter’s car and get the hell out of there. She suddenly felt that if the children were with her, Elijah would accept she was trying to help them and therefore let her pass. Quite where the children would go, she wasn’t sure, but she knew anywhere would be better than there.
Amanda soon considered the alternative – the instance in which she would not be able to get away. The possibility of never leaving the home at all! She knew that if she didn’t make it home by the next day then Tony would come for her. That he knew precisely where she had gone and why she was there was the greatest thing she had in her favour. That, at least, offered some consolation.
Quickly, she pulled the textbooks and notebooks from the top shelf of the wardrobe and scribbled one final note to Tony. She skinned one of her pillows of its case and placed the books inside along with the Dictaphone and the photo album. She then examined the floor closely, selecting the loosest of the floorboards to tug at. The wood was quite limber and bent a surprising amount before one of the screws finally broke free of the adjoining wood beneath. Within the hollow flooring, Amanda positioned the makeshift sack into its new secret hiding place and then re-laid the wood back into its original position, making sure it didn’t appear to have been moved. She adjusted it a few times, pressing down on it as hard as she could before considering its placement from several angles in the room
. Once satisfied that her tampering would not appear obvious, she climbed into bed and attempted to settle.
It would be incredibly difficult to sleep, but she needed to rest, for tomorrow would be the day she finally tried to break herself and the children free.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Buried
Monday 14th February, 1972
Christian had been sat at his desk for only ten minutes morbidly reading a book on coffin designs when the phone rang.
‘Hello?’ he said, inquisitively, still engrossed in the book as he answered.
‘Wh-wh-wh-what was that?’ came the panicked voice of Andy, who was fighting for breath. ‘What was that?’ he repeated.
‘I take it you made contact,’ said Christian, finally paying full attention to the call. ‘I also take it from your tone that you let it get away.’
‘You never said it was like that!’ claimed Andy.
‘You mean you weren’t listening!’ Christian corrected him. ‘I told you it was quick, strong and dangerous.’
‘Strong? It’s fucking savage!’ Andy screamed in anger. ‘It took the lad apart,’ he added, starting to weep as he relived what had happened.
‘Pull yourself together!’ snapped Christian, coldly. ‘You’re supposed to be a professional!
‘Fuck you!’ Andy cursed, his emotions getting the better of him. ‘He’s dead. He’s dead! And what are you gonna do, eh?’
‘You knew the risks,’ Christian dismissed, heartlessly.
Andy breathed heavily as he collected his thoughts.
‘I want the other half of the money,’ he said, boldly.
‘You do, huh?’
‘Yeah. If not, I’ll go to police. And the papers,’ he threatened. ‘You know I will.’
In order to get Andy to agree to the hunt, Christian had spun an elaborate tale about how he had fallen in love with an endangered animal whilst on holiday. He said he was concerned for the animal – a rare breed of panther – which was due to be put down by its zookeeper and therefore bought it outright and had it transported back to England. Christian claimed that when the local authorities had found out, they demanded he either get the animal put down or send it back to where it came from. Their fear was that the animal would escape into the wild and wreak havoc among the community. Christian said he didn’t have the heart to do either and so he let the panther run free. However, due to the number of animals it had recently killed, Christian became concerned that it would cross-breed and breathe life into a hostile new species. This was the only story Christian could think of that tied all of the key points together in a way that was innocently motivated and appeared believable to somebody like Andy, who could never be accused of having the sharpest mind in town. As this yarn was fallacy; a complete work of fiction, Christian was not at all concerned about Andy shooting his mouth off as it would only make him look like a gullible fool. However, the audacity Andy had shown to try and threaten Christian was enough to make his blood run cold, and so he masked the bitter emotions displayed on his face behind the most understanding of voices.