Spawn

by Shaun Hutson

  Once inside, she was relieved to discover that she was alone. She locked herself in one of the cubicles and sat down on the toilet seat, rubbing both sides now, taking short breaths. The pain seemed to be moving deeper into her groin so she stood up and slipped her tights and panties down to her knees, probing gently at the lips of her vagina with her index finger. She withdrew the digit after a couple of minutes, her hand shaking, her eyes half expecting to see it stained with blood. The incident the other night had frightened her but the doctor had told her that slight bleeding was not uncommon so soon after an abortion. Bleeding from the navel however, was uncommon but a trip to her own GP had revealed no complications and, despite Andy Parker’s protestations, she had returned to work as soon as possible.

  Now she pulled up her underclothes and unlocked the cubicle aware still of the pain which seemed to be spreading throughout her abdomen. She felt a sudden wave of nausea sweep over her and just, made it to one of the sinks. Bent double over it, she retched until there was nothing left in her stomach. The pain, curiously, seemed to vanish. Judith spun both taps to wash away the mess, cupping some water in one palm and swilling it around her mouth. She looked up, studying her reflection in the mirror. Her face was the colour of rancid butter, the dark brown of her eye-shadow giving her the appearance of a skull. She pulled some paper towels from the dispenser and wiped her mouth, tossing the used articles into a nearby bin. Then, once again, she pressed both hands to her stomach.

  “Judith, are you all right?”

  The voice startled her and she turned to see Theresa Holmes standing just inside the door.

  “It’s OK, Terri,” she said.

  “You look awful,” Theresa told her. “Do you want me to fetch the first aid bloke?”

  “No, I’ll be all right. I just felt sick.”

  Terri crossed to the sink and stood beside her, the ruddiness of her own complexion a marked contrast to the palour of Judith’s. She was two years older and the women had been friends ever since Judith joined the firm.

  “A friend of mine, she had an abortion,” Terri said. “She had stomach trouble for months afterwards.”

  Judith smiled sardonically.

  “Thanks, Terri, you’re a great comfort.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. All I’m saying is, I think it’s common to feel bad soon after one.”

  Judith shrugged.

  “It’s been over three weeks now,” she said.

  She went on to describe the incident the other night.

  Terri frowned but could offer no helpful information or advice. She asked Judith once more if she felt fit enough to come back to work and the younger woman nodded.

  At two o’clock that afternoon, Judith Myers collapsed and was taken home, a slight swelling in her stomach noticed by no one.

  Twenty-Seven

  The doors of the cellar bulkhead rattled in the powerful wind and Paul Harvey grunted irritably, awoken by the sound. He sat, screwing his eyes up in an effort to re-orientate himself with his surroundings. It was dark in the cellar, the only light coming through the slight gap where the two bulkhead doors met. Outside, the moon hung high in the sky, a solitary cold white beam finding its way down into the subterranean gloom. The cellar was large, stretching far away from him on three sides. It ran all the way beneath the farmhouse but he had not ventured far from his present hiding place for some time now. Not during daylight at least.

  They had come, as he had expected. Two of them in one of their cars but, he had seen them and he had hidden. Pleased with his own cunning, he had gained entry to the house by breaking one of the small glass panels in the front door and simply wrenching the lock off with one huge hand. He had blundered around inside the empty, dust-choked dwelling until he finally found the cellar door. The rusty key still in the lock. He had unlocked the door and taken the key in with him. They had searched the house, he had heard them moving about inside, one of them had even mentioned something about a break-in but, when they had tried the door to the cellar and found it locked, they had gone away. Harvey had remained silent all the time they searched, the sickle held tightly in his grasp just in case. When one of them had tugged at the rusty iron chain on the bulkhead doors, Harvey had thought that they would discover him but his luck had persisted. Through the gap in the doors he had been able to see one of them in his blue uniform, speaking into the box which he carried and which seemed to answer him back. But, after what seemed like an eternity, Harvey had heard them return to their car and drive off. However, determined not to fall into one of their traps, he had remained in his hiding place. They would not catch him out again.

  The cellar had proved to be far more than somewhere to hole up. Harvey had found that it was full of wooden shelves, each stocked with dusty jars of home-made preserves, pickles and even some bottles of amateur wine. The previous owners of the farm had obviously gone in for that kind of thing and Harvey had been glad to find a seemingly endless supply of food. He’d scooped jam from jars with his bare hands, drunk dandelion wine until his head ached, devoured entire jars full of pickled onions, upturning the receptacle to swallow the vinegar when all the other contents were gone. But his ravenous appetite had proved his undoing. He didn’t know how long it was since he’d eaten – three, maybe four days. He’d lost track of time down there in that dank hole. The cellar smelt like an open sewer, splattered as it was with excrement and rat droppings. In the beginning the rodents had competed for the pieces of food which Harvey had dropped but now, as his hunger reached new heights, the rats themselves, as in the barn, had become the prey.

  Broken jars littered the floor, their contents now rotting and moulding. Lumps of glass lay everywhere, two of the wooden shelves had been torn down during one of Harvey’s frenzied moments. He had tried to eat some rotting marmalade which he scraped up off the floor but it had made him vomit and he sat in one corner now, his trousers damp and reeking of urine. Surrounded by his own excrement, the gnawing in his stomach seemed to fuel the anger which was growing within him. He had left the cellar just once, two nights ago, breathing clean fresh air instead of the fetid cloying odour of putrescence he had come to know so well. He had wandered over the fields, the lights of Exham acting like beacons, attracting him as surely as a candle would attract a moth. He had carried the sickle with him, its rusty blade tucked into his belt.

  Now he hefted it before him, running one finger over the cutting edge, pieces of dried blood flaking off along with some minute fragments of rust. He stood up, reaching for the key in his pocket, realizing that he would have to leave this place again. But, the night was his friend, it hid him. Allowed him to move freely. He began climbing the cellar steps towards the door, the gnawing in his belly growing stronger by the second.

  Liz Maynard held the book close to her face, peering through her glasses at the print before her. She was holding the paperback in one hand, the other she had balled into a fist beneath the sheet. As she read she would murmur aloud at each fresh development in the chapter, turning the pages with trepidation as the huge flesh-eating creature drew nearer to the hero and heroine who were trapped in a deserted house. She shuddered, lowering the book for a moment when a particularly powerful gust of wind rattled the bedroom window in its frame. After a moment she returned to the book, reading more quickly than usual now. The creature was stalking the young couple and Liz began to tug on the sheet in the anxiousness. The dull glow of the bedside lamp added even more atmosphere to the proceedings and she was completely caught up in her horrifying read. So caught up that she didn’t notice she was pulling all of the sheets and covers to her side of the bed.

  The creature in the book had found the young couple and was now chasing them.

  A hand reached up and grabbed her wrist.

  Liz yelped and dropped the book, looking down to see her husband glaring up at her, trying to claw back some of the covers which she had pulled off him.

  She let out a sigh of relief and glared down at Jack. />
  “You frightened me to death,” she said.

  “You were pulling all the bloody clothes off,” he protested. Then he smiled, picking up the book which she’d dropped. He glanced at the cover. It showed a creature with glowing red eyes and huge teeth, dripping blood. “How the hell can you read this sort of rubbish?” he asked, grinning.

  She snatched back the book indignantly and placed it on the bedside table with half a dozen others like it.

  “It’s very good actually,” she said, defensively. “Besides, reading this sort of book is good for you. It’s a medical fact, and so is watching horror films. It does you good to have a fright every now and then.”

  Jack nodded.

  “Well, the bloody tax man frightens me, without having to read about monsters from hell and things with two heads.” He exhaled deeply. “You know I don’t know what’s more disturbing, the fact that people part with good money to buy the damn things or that there’s someone somewhere who dreams them up. I mean, what sort of mentality must a bloke have to write a book like that?”

  “You’ve got no imagination, Jack, that’s your trouble,” she told him. “You should let yourself go every once in a while. Try reading one of these.”

  He snorted indignantly.

  “I should think so. There’s enough horrors in the real world without having to make them up.”

  She blew a raspberry at him and they both laughed. Married for twenty-eight years, they ran a small shop on the outskirts of Exham selling everything from fresh vegetables to newspapers. They were a rare and welcome commodity in the age of the supermarket and had a large and loyal clientele to prove it.

  Liz leant over flicked off the bedside lamp, pulling the covers up around her neck as she settled down.

  She was in the process of adjusting her pillows when she heard a distant crash. It sounded distinctly like breaking glass. She sat up, ears straining to pick up any other noise. The window rattled frenziedly in the frame for a second then the powerful gust seemed to ease and silence descended once more. Liz lay down again, ears pricked, heart thumping just that bit faster. She closed her eyes. Jack was already snoring softly beside her, he took a short course in death when he went to bed.

  The noise came again and this time she was sure it was breaking glass. Liz sat up, simultaneously shaking her husband. He grunted and opened his eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, thickly.

  “Listen,” she said. “I heard something.”

  Jack Maynard hauled himself up the bed and propped his head against the board at the top.

  “I know I heard something,” she repeated.

  “What was it?”

  She told him.

  “Probably the wind, love.” He smiled. “Or your imagination running away with you after reading that bloody book.”

  She was just about to agree with him when they both heard a much louder crash. This time it was Jack who reacted. He swung himself out of bed and walked to the bedroom door, opening it as quietly as he could. There was no light on in the landing and it was like looking out into a wall of blackness. A couple of yards ahead lay the staircase which led down into their sitting room. Beyond that, lay the shop itself. As he stood there, he heard unmistakable sounds of movement from below him. Hurriedly, he closed the door and padded back towards the bed.

  “I think there’s someone in the shop,” he said, quietly.

  “Oh God,” Liz murmured. “We’ll have to call the police.”

  Jack nodded.

  “I know,” he said, cryptically. “But just in case you’d forgotten, the bloody phone is in the living room. I’ll have to go downstairs anyway.” Even as he spoke he knelt, reaching beneath the bed and pulling out a long leather case. He lifted it up onto the bed and unzipped it, pulling back the cover to reveal a gleaming double-barrelled shotgun which he hurriedly loaded.

  Liz reached across and flicked the lamp switch.

  Nothing happened.

  She got out of bed and crossed to the main point, flicking it on. The room, however, remained in darkness.

  “Oh Christ,” muttered Jack. “The wind must have brought a power line down.”

  “Or someone’s been at the fuse box,” Liz said, ominously.

  He nodded, touching her cheek with his free hand, noticing how cold it was.

  “Jack, please be careful,” she whispered.

  “It’s probably just somebody larking about,” he said, reassuring neither Liz or himself. “I’ll give them a bit of a fright.” He hefted the shotgun in front of him. “You close this door behind me.”

  She nodded, watching as he moved cautiously out onto the landing, immediately enveloped by the inky blackness. He motioned to her to close the door which she did, resting her forehead against it for long moments, her heart hammering against her ribs.

  The wind swept around the shop, growling at the windows like some beast of prey.

  Jack Maynard could hear it too as he padded stealthily across the landing, moving with surprising agility for a man of his size. He paused at the top step and peered down into the gloom. The darkness was like a thick, clinging blanket wrapping itself around him as he stood there, breathing softly. He gripped the shotgun tighter but, he reasoned, with it being so dark he wouldn’t even be able to see the intruder if he decided to come at him. The bloody gun was useless in such impenetrable gloom. It was like trying to teach a blind man to shoot bottles.

  Cursing the power failure, Jack began to descend the stairs.

  The third one creaked beneath him and he stood still, a thin film of perspiration greasing his face. He could still hear some distant scrabblings from beyond, now certain that the intruder was in the shop. He moved more quickly down the stairs, the shotgun held across his chest, ready to swing up to his shoulder at the slightest hint of movement. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he flicked the light switch there.

  The room remained in darkness.

  Jack swallowed hard and moved cautiously through the living room, narrowing his eyes in an effort to make out the dark shapes before him. Some light was coming in through a window but most of that was masked by the large tree which towered outside. To his left lay the door to the kitchen. Straight ahead the door which would take him through into the shop.

  He banged his shin against the coffee table and almost overbalanced, stifling a yelp of surprise as he struggled to remain upright. He cursed silently and rubbed his injured leg, ears still alert for any sounds. Other than the howling of the wind, he could hear nothing. His heart jumped a beat and he strained his ears for the noises which he’d heard just moments earlier.

  Something cracked against the window pane and Jack swung round, bringing the shotgun up, his thumb instinctively jerking one of the twin hammers back. He saw that it was a tree branch which had struck the glass, the bony fingers of low branches clawing at the window as if seeking entry. He breathed an audible sigh of relief then, turning, decided to check the kitchen before progressing into the shop itself.

  It too was empty.

  As Jack stepped back into the sitting room the lights flashed on momentarily but the welcome illumination was all too brief and, seconds later, the house was plunged back into darkness.

  He reached the door which would take him through into the shop, his hand quivering as he reached for the key. He glimpsed the phone out of the corner of his eye. Should he call the police now? He inhaled deeply. Sod it, he’d have a look for himself.

  The lights flickered once more as he reached for the key and turned it.

  Paul Harvey heard the door open slightly as Jack Maynard entered the shop. He had heard the other man moving about in the sitting room moments earlier and so he had ducked down behind one of the three counters inside the main room. The one behind which he sought shelter was topped by tin cans and through those Harvey could see the man edge his way cautiously forwards, towards the front door. A small pane in the door had been broken and, as Jack touched it, the wooden partition was blown
open by a particularly violent gust of wind.

  The shopkeeper jumped back, the gun at hip height.

  Harvey saw the weapon and touched his chin thoughtfully. He looked up and saw the door through which the other man had come. Moving as swiftly and silently as he could, he scuttled towards it and disappeared inside the sitting room.

  Liz Maynard paced back and forth beside the bed listening for any sounds of movement from beneath her. She looked at the clock on the bedside table, then checked it against her own watch. Jack seemed to have been gone an eternity. The lights flickered on briefly yet again and she gasped aloud at the suddenness of it. What the hell was he doing down there? She hadn’t heard his voice. Why wasn’t he phoning the police? Perhaps whoever it was that had broken in had attacked him down there in the dark, he could be lying there now with his throat cut. Thoughts tumbled wildly through her mind. She sat on the edge of the bed but her entire body was trembling so she took to her pacings once more. Another glance at the clock. She would give him one more minute then, warning or not, she would go down after him. Her own anxiety about Jack had to a certain extent overcome her fear. She watched as the second hand swept round, marking off the minute.

  “Bastards,” muttered Jack Maynard.

  He was standing before one of the shelves in the shop. The jars had been taken down, the tops wrenched off and some of the contents spread over the floor of the shop. Remnants of half eaten fruit also littered the dusty floor. A can of soup had been gashed open with something sharp, the cold contents now gone. Jack frowned, whoever had broken in must have been really hungry if they were prepared to drink cold soup. He hefted the riven can before him, the shotgun cradled over his other arm. Other cans and jars had been taken, one of the shelves all but empty. Sweets, kept on the counter to his right with the newspapers, had also been taken by the handful. Kids? He shook his head. Kids wouldn’t do this. He put the can down wondering just who the hell would?