Spawn

by Shaun Hutson

  “Suspected ectopic pregnancy,” Maggie was told by a nurse standing close by. “The woman’s name is Judith Myers, they rushed her in about ten minutes ago. She collapsed at work.”

  Maggie frowned. She inhaled and took a closer look at the bulge in Judith Myers abdomen. It seemed to be pulsating.

  The doctor wasted no time, realizing that the woman’s life could be lost or saved in a matter of minutes. She set to work, something nagging at the back of her mind. She had heard the name Myers before, recently too.

  The initial incision was made and Maggie worked as fast as she was able until she finally exposed the bulging Fallopian tube. There were audible gasps about the theatre.

  “My God,” she muttered. “It’s a long way advanced isn’t it?” She took the instruments that were handed to her, a bead of perspiration popping onto her forehead. The bulge was very large and, impossibly seemed to be moving even as she watched it. The blip on the nearby oscilloscope dipped violently, the rhythmic high-pitched sound fluctuating alarmingly once or twice. A nurse checked Judith Myers’s blood pressure.

  “Her blood pressure is falling,” she said, anxiously.

  Maggie held the scalpel in one hand, realizing what she must do but her hands suddenly seemed leaden, her gaze riveted to that pulsing protruberance which was stretching her patient’s Fallopian tube practically to bursting point.

  Harold huddled in one corner of the room watching the foetuses. They lay still, only the almost imperceptible rise and fall of their chests signalling that they were still alive. But, as he watched, he saw the veins on their bulbous heads swell and throb and their eyes gradually darken until they seemed to be glowing with some mysterious black light that filled the room, drifting like smoke all around them. Their bodies began to shake.

  The blip on the oscilloscope was still diving wildly, the sound occasionally shutting down for brief seconds. Maggie swallowed hard, noting that the membranous covering of the bulging Fallopian tube was actually beginning to tear. She heard muttered words around her as she worked to cut the tube free. She called for a swab, alarmed at the amount of blood which seemed to be forming in the abdominal cavity. It was lifted, dripping crimson, from the danger area to be replaced a second later by another. Then another.

  A second split appeared in the thin wall of the Fallopian tube, the membrane tearing like overstretched fabric.

  “We’re losing her, doctor,” someone called and Maggie looked up to see that the oscilloscope pattern had almost levelled out.

  Harold opened his mouth in a silent scream as the entire room seemed to fill with a deafening roar. He clapped both hands to his ears but the sound continued. It was inside his head, it was all around him, filling the room until it seemed the walls must explode outwards. The foetuses continued to shudder violently, the veins on their bodies now turning purple, their eyes glowing red like pools of boiling blood.

  Maggie recoiled as the large bulge in Judith Myers’s Fallopian tube seemed first to contract and then erupt. There was a fountain of blood, pus and pieces of human tissue as the internal organ literally exploded showering those nearby with viscera. A young nurse fainted. The anaesthetist leapt from his seat and dashed across to Maggie’s side. Both of them turned to see that the oscilloscope blip had stopped bobbing and bouncing, it just ran in an uninterrupted straight line now, its mournful note filling the operating room. Maggie worked to remove the ruptured tube, trying in vain to save her patient’s life. There was blood everywhere, even on the large light above the operating table. Maggie herself wiped some from her face, gazing down almost in disbelief at the damage before her. The young nurse was being helped to her feet and supported out of the theatre.

  While another nurse checked the patient’s blood pressure for one last time, Maggie herself listened for any sign of heartbeat. There was none. She pulled a penlight from her smock pocket and shone it into the woman’s eyes. There was no pupillary reaction.

  Judith Myers was dead.

  Maggie untied her mask and turned to the nearest nurse.

  “Fetch a porter,” she said. “I want an autopsy done immediately.”

  Maggie, her smock and face spattered with blood, made her way back to the wash-room, her movements almost mechanical. She knew what she had just seen but she did not believe it. The ectopic pregnancy had been too far advanced. If her guess was correct, Judith Myers would have had to have been at least five months pregnant for her Fallopian tube to be in that condition. Myers. Judith Myers. Again she felt that nagging at the back of her mind. She knew that name from somewhere.

  She pulled off her blood-stained gloves and tossed them into the bin, washing her hands beneath the swiftly flowing water from the tap.

  The realization hit her with the force of a steam-hammer and, for long seconds she stood still. Thoughts tumbled through her mind and she exhaled deeply. She finished washing and pulled her white coat back on, heading out into the corridor. Before she took a trip down to the pathology lab, she intended visiting the records department. She had just remembered where she’d heard the name Judith Myers.

  It took the clerk in the records office less than five minutes to find the file on Judith Myers. Maggie took the file gratefully and walked across to the desk on the other side of the room. There she sat down and flipped the folder open.

  NAME: Judith Myers. DATE OF BIRTH: 14/3/57.

  REASON FOR ADMISSION: Clinical Abortion

  Maggie scanned the rest of the sheet, her eyes straying to the date of admission. She looked at it again. Could there have been some mistake? She doubted it. She herself had performed the abortion. She looked yet again at the admission date. Finally, clutching the file to her chest she got to her feet. She asked the clerk if she could take the file with her, promising to return it in an hour or so. Maggie left the records office and headed towards the pathology labs.

  It took Ronald Potter less than an hour to complete the autopsy on Judith Myers. Maggie sat in his office drinking coffee until the chief pathologist finally joined her. He sat down heavily in his chair and ran a hand through his false hair, careful not to dislodge the toupée.

  “Well?” Maggie said.

  Potter sniffed.

  “Well, Doctor Ford, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that it was an ectopic pregnancy. She died of massive internal bleeding.”

  “Did you examine the Fallopian tube itself?” Maggie wanted to know.

  Potter stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “Yes I did.” His tone was heavy, troubled even.

  “What caused the rupture to be so. . .” she struggled for the word, “so violent?”

  “Well, the curious thing is, I don’t know,” said the pathologist, colouring slightly. “The size and nature of the Fallopian rupture would indicate that she was carrying a foetus of over six months which as we both know is clinically impossible. But there’s something else puzzling.” He paused. “My examination showed no sign of a foetus, any embryonic life or even an egg. There was nothing in her Fallopian tube to cause a rupture of that size. In fact there was nothing in there, full stop.”

  “So you’re saying that she died of a condition that was not pathological,” said Maggie.

  “That’s correct. There was no evidence of any fertilized life-form in the Fallopian tube. It’s almost as if the swelling and the subsequent rupture were. . .” He grinned humourlessly.

  “Were what?” Maggie demanded.

  “It’s as if they were psychosomatically induced. There is no trace of foetus, embryo or egg in that woman’s Fallopian tube.” The pathologist exhaled deeply and traced a line across his forehead with one index finger.

  “Well, I found something too,” said Maggie, holding up the file. “How old did you say the foetus would have to be to cause a Fallopian rupture of that size?”

  “Six months, at least,” said Potter.

  ‘Judith Myers underwent a clinical abortion in this hospital less than six weeks ago.”

  “That’s imp
ossible,” said the pathologist, reaching for the file as if he doubted the truth of Maggie’s words. He scanned the admission sheet, his brow wrinkling. “There must be some mistake.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she confessed. “But, as you can see from the notes, I did the operation myself.”

  Potter sat back in his chair and shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  “A woman has an abortion six weeks ago,” said Maggie. “Then dies of a Fallopian rupture that could only have been caused by the lodging of a foetus at least six months old in her tube and yet you find no trace of any foetus. Not even an egg.”

  Both of them stared at each other not knowing what to say. The silence in the office was heavy, like a weight pressing down on them and Maggie was not the only one to feel spidery fingers of fear plucking at the back of her neck.

  Thirty-Nine

  PC Stuart Reed brought the Panda car to a halt outside the gate which led into the farmyard. The gate, like the fence it was attached to, was rotting. Pieces of broken, splintered wood jutting out like a series of compound fractures from the untended surround.

  The farm buildings themselves looked dark and dirty in the mid-morning sunshine and the slight breeze moved the weather vane atop the barn, causing it to squeak loudly like a trapped mouse.

  “Why the bloody hell do we have to check this place again?” groaned Constable Charlton. “I mean we’ve already been out here twice and there was no sign of Harvey.”

  Reed shrugged.

  “Sergeant Willis said we had to go over everything with a fine toothcomb,” said the younger man, glancing out at the collection of buildings. “I’d better check in.” He reached for the two-way and relayed their position to the station. Willis’s voice acknowledged the call.

  “Do you want to toss for it?” said Ray Charlton.

  Reed looked blank.

  “For the privilege of looking around,” Charlton clarified.

  “Perhaps we should both go,” said the younger man.

  “And leave the car? Sod off, if the Sergeant calls through and finds out we’ve both gone for a walk he’ll string us up by the bollocks.” Charlton studied his companion’s face for a moment then he reached for a walkie-talkie, taking it from the parcel shelf. “I’ll go,” he muttered, pushing open the door. He stepped out into a pool of muddy water and it was all Reed could do to suppress a grin.

  “Shit,” grunted Charlton and slammed the door behind him. The younger man watched as his companion trudged across the muddy ground, having to lift the farmyard gate out of the sticky muck before he could open it enough to squeeze through. Reed picked up his own walkie-talkie and flicked it on.

  “Why didn’t you jump it?” he asked, chuckling.

  Charlton turned and raised two fingers in a familiar gesture. He walked on, finding, thankfully, that the ground was becoming firmer. The sun wasn’t strong enough to dry it out but the chill wind probably helped to toughen up the top soil. He stood still in the centre of the yard and looked around. It was as quiet as a grave. To his right lay two barns, to his left the farmhouse itself. All the buildings had been searched before. When Harvey first escaped he and Reed had been ordered to scout the deserted farm and, as Charlton had expected, they had found nothing. That had been nearly three months ago and now they expected the bloody maniac to be still holed up here when, in reality, he was probably long gone and had been since the first day of his escape. However, Charlton’s cynicism did not take into account the three murders and he, as well as everyone on the Exham force, realized that the decapitations were Harvey’s trade mark. The bastard was still in or around Exham somewhere but he doubted if it was here.

  He decided to check the barns initially and made his way across the yard to the first of the large buildings. The door was open so the constable walked straight in, coughing as the smell of damp and rotting straw hit him. He peered up towards the loft and, glancing across at the ladder which led to the higher level, decided to check it. He reached for the walkie-talkie and switched it on.

  “Stuart, come in.”

  Reed’s voice sounded metallic as he replied.

  “Have you found something?” the younger man wanted to know.

  “No,” Charlton snapped. “And not likely to. I’m just checking the first barn.”

  He switched off the two-way and clipped it to his belt as he began to climb the ladder which would take him up into the loft. The floorboards creaked menacingly beneath his weight and the policeman stood still for long seconds wondering if the entire floor were going to collapse beneath him but then, cautiously, he made a quick inspection of the upper level. A couple of dead rats and some small bones were all he found. He knelt and picked up one of the bones. It looked like a tiny femur and he surmised that one of the rodents that inhabited the barn had served as a midnight meal for an owl. He tossed the tiny bone away and headed back towards the ladder, pausing long enough to tell Reed that the first barn was clear.

  It was the same story in the second of the buildings. It held just a couple of pieces of rusty farm machinery, otherwise the place was empty.

  “I’m going to check the house now,” Charlton said and started across the yard towards the last building.

  Reed, still watching from the Panda, saw his companion approach the farmhouse and was puzzled when he hesitated before it. The walkie-talkie crackled into life.

  “The door’s open,” said Charlton, a vague note of surprise in his voice. “Probably the wind.”

  “Do you want any help?” Reed asked.

  Charlton didn’t. He slowed his pace as he drew closer to the house, nudging the door back the last few inches with the toe of his boot. The hinges screeched protestingly and, as the constable advanced, he was enveloped by the overpowering odour of damp once again. The house smelt musty, closing around him like an invisible hand. He coughed and moved further into the room. It was a hallway. Straight ahead was a flight of stairs, now devoid of carpet, some of the steps were already eaten through by woodworm or rising damp. To his right lay a door, to his left another, this one slightly ajar. He hesitated, not sure which way to go first. He decided to look upstairs so, negotiating the rickety steps, he climbed to the higher level. The curtains had been left drawn up there and it was difficult to see in the almost impenetrable gloom.

  Three closed doors confronted him.

  Pulling the torch from his belt with one hand, Charlton reached for the handle of the first door and rammed it down, pushing the door open simultaneously. It swung back against the wall and he immediately brought the torch beam to bear on the contents of the room. There was an old chest of drawers, obviously too big to be moved when the owners’ left but, apart from that, there was nothing. The floor was thick with dust and a quick inspection told the PC that it was undisturbed.

  He moved to the second door.

  Once more the door opened with no trouble, this time into a cramped toilet cum bathroom. The taps were mottled and rusty, the bath itself crusted with mould. He closed that door behind him and moved across to the last.

  The door knob twisted in his grasp but would not turn. Charlton tried again, this time throwing his weight against it but still the door wouldn’t budge. He flicked off the torch and slipped it back into his belt then, taking a step back, he aimed a powerful kick at the handle which promptly dropped off.

  The door opened a few inches.

  Charlton, feeling unaccountably nervous, pushed the door open and stood motionless in the frame, eyes alert for any movement. As with the other two rooms, things were untouched and, almost gratefully, he reached for the two-way.

  “The upstairs is clear,” he said. “I’m just going to check the lower floor.”

  “Any sign of life?” Reed wanted to know.

  “There’s more life in a bloody graveyard,” said the older man and flicked off the set. Feeling somewhat more relaxed, he made his way back down the stairs, his heavy boots clumping on the damp wood.

  He looked into the sitti
ng room and found it to be empty then he passed into the last room in the house, the kitchen.

  He paused at the cellar door, his hand hovering over the knob. Last time he and Reed had been out here, they had left without checking the cellar but, this time, Charlton knew the job must be done. The lock was old and rusty but nevertheless strong and, at first, resisted even his most powerful kicks as he attempted to break it off. Finally, the recalcitrant lump of rusted metal dropped to the floor with a clang and the door opened outwards a fraction. The constable reached for his torch once more and edged inside the doorway until he was standing on the top step of the flight of stone stairs that led down into the all-enveloping gloom of the cellar.

  The smell which met him was almost palpable in its intensity and he raised one hand to his face in an effort to keep the fetid stench away. He shone his torch down, the beam scarcely penetrating the blackness. Cautiously, careful not to slip in any of the puddles of moisture on the steps, he descended, breathing through his mouth in an effort to counteract the appalling stench.

  He reached the bottom and shone the torch around, playing its beam over the floor, picking out the broken bottles, the shattered lumps of wood where some of the shelves had been overturned. His heart was beating just that little bit faster as he moved further into the dark recesses of the subterranean hole, the torch lancing through the blackness like some kind of laser beam.

  He stepped in something soft and cursed, looking down to see what it was.

  “Oh Christ,” he murmured.

  It was excrement.

  He winced and tried to wipe the worst of it off, realizing that it was of human origin. A sudden cold chill nipped at the back of his neck and he stood still, sure that he’d heard something. A low rasping sound came from close by. He spun round, his torch beam searching the darkness.