ONCE IN A BLOOD MOON
by
Mikey Campling
A Tale from the Dark
This story is dedicated to anyone who feels lost - I hope that your path will become clear.
A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.
-Oscar Wilde.
Mikey Campling
mikeycampling.com
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SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 2015
The creature is angry with me. It doesn't like it when I let the prey scream. A snarl trembles in my chest and I go for the man's throat, sinking my fangs into his flesh. For a heartbeat, the man lets out a strangled screech of agony, but I squeeze my jaws even tighter, crushing the life from him. There's a wet meaty crunch as my teeth meet in his bones, and it's all over.
The creature lets me open my mouth and I take a deep breath, enjoying the familiar scent of warm blood, although the man's dying breath is sour: tainted with the stench of fear and frenzied desperation. I lick the taste of him from my lips then I throw back my head and stare up at the cold night sky. The moon is bright and clear and a deep need stirs in my belly: a craving even stronger than the creature's lust for blood. I let its impulses flow through me and my chest tightens, forcing out a howl: a symphony of sadness and elation, sweet joy and bitter loneliness. And it's good—so good to pour my soul out into the gunmetal, moonlit night. I howl again. And again.
And why not? There's no one out here on the moor to hear me. No one at all.
NORTH YORK MOORS - SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 2015
Marcus Sutcliffe's yawn went on for just a little too long and he knew he needed to take another break from driving. It's not even nine o'clock in the morning here, he reminded himself, but his tired mind refused to accept it. His flight from the States had arrived just after midnight UK time and he'd foolishly decided to start the long drive north right away. Now, he was exhausted and the narrow road rolled on ahead through open moorland, with no town or village in sight: nothing but windswept heather and bedraggled sheep. He spotted a gravelly area at the side of the road and pulled his rental car onto it, parking as neatly as he could, despite the unfamiliar gearshift. "Goddamned piece of crap, goddamned stupid car," he mumbled. He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel and thought what he'd like to do to the idiot at the car rental who'd dealt out this offense to the automotive industry. Marcus had specifically stated that he must have an automatic transmission. Sure, he'd driven a stick shift before, but that was years ago, and in this goddamned country everything was on the wrong side.
He closed his eyes for a moment. It's just the jet lag talking, he told himself. A good night's sleep and he'd be as right as rain. And that was kind of appropriate.
He sighed and peered out through the rain-streaked windshield. It hadn't rained for the entire journey from the airport, but it felt like it. And it didn't help that the wipers seemed to have a mind of their own.
"Might as well get moving again," he muttered. He consulted his satnav. It had been okay on the main roads, but out here, where the roads seemed to wind around each other like amorous snakes, it was a different matter. The electronic voice was determined to either drive him to distraction or get him arrested for a traffic violation—he wasn't sure which.
He scanned the surrounding countryside for a clue as to his whereabouts: a sign, a landmark, a significant building—anything. But there was nothing remotely useful.
He cursed under his breath and prodded at a button on the satnav.
Calculating route, it said, followed by, You have arrived at your destination.
"The hell I have," Marcus said. He unfastened his seatbelt and climbed out of the car, immediately regretting his decision to leave his good coat packed in his suitcase. The cold rain plastered his hair to his scalp and trickled down the back of his neck, but he lifted his face and let the rain splash his skin for a moment, then he scraped his hand across his face and took a deep breath of fresh air. I hate to admit it, he thought, but that does feel better. He turned around but there was little to see here. There was open countryside on his left, and on his right the land fell away in a steep slope, hiding the landscape from view. He shut his car door and crossed the road, then leaned on the dry stone wall and peered down into the misty valley below.
"There you are," he muttered. Nestled in the valley was a scattered collection of farmhouses and a little way farther, huddled rows of gray stone houses stretched out into the distance. That must be Temple Ashton—the town he'd spent the last hour searching for. The cottage he was renting belonged to a farm on the moor, just a few miles outside the town. He shook his head in disbelief, then he climbed back into his car and turned the satnav off. I'll do better without that damn thing, he thought. Then he put the car into gear and drove on.
***
By the time Marcus eased the Ford through the gateway and into the yard at Great Leigh Farm, it had stopped raining and he was starting to enjoy himself. Yes, the roads were narrow, but they were quiet. He'd hardly seen another soul, and those cars that he had met, had slowed down to let him pass, their drivers acknowledging him with a small wave. It was all somehow very British. Now here he was at last, and the farmhouse didn't disappoint. It was a beautiful building, made from mellow limestone and roofed with rustic slate. Its walls were softened by a Virginia Creeper, the leaves already turning red, and there was a cheery glow from several of the windows. "Will you look at the place," he murmured. It was like something out of a Jane Austen novel. When the front door opened, he half expected Elizabeth Bennet to walk out wearing a smock dress and carrying a basket of flowers.
Instead, a tall, middle-aged woman stepped out and greeted him with a warm smile.
"Hello," she said as she walked toward him, "you must be Mr. Sutcliffe."
Marcus brushed his hands down the front of his jacket to straighten it, then extended his hand for a shake. "Yes. Great to finally be here. It isn't easy to find."
The woman took his hand for a brief shake. "Sorry. Didn't my husband send you directions? He usually deals with all that, but he's away."
"Don't worry about it. I made it here in one piece so it's all good." He hesitated. She was watching him politely as if she was expecting him to say something, but he wasn't sure what came next. The woman still hadn't told him her name, but English manners were a mystery to him, and he didn't want to start out on the wrong foot. He took a chance with, "Please, call me Marcus."
He must have got it right because she smiled. "Nice to meet you, Marcus," she said. "And you must call me Elizabeth."
Marcus stifled a laugh, turning it into a cough. "Sorry. I'm kind of tired."
"Yes. You've had a long journey. I expect you'd like to get settled in." She tilted her head to one side and gave him a concerned look.
Her eyes were hazel, Marcus decided. And her smile was warm. It made her look younger. And there was something about the curl of her lips that reminded him of Kate Winslett. He stood taller and pulled his stomach tight. "I'm fine. Really. The trip wasn't so bad." He gave her a smile. "Isn't that what they say about the difference between us? The British think a hundred miles is a long way and Americans think a hundred years is a long time."
Elizabeth laughed. "T
hat's very true. The farmhouse is over four hundred years old. And so is your cottage. Come on, I'll show you around."
Marcus let out a low whistle. "If only the walls could talk."
"Yes," she said. She looked down for a moment and when she looked up, her smile wasn't quite so bright. "Wouldn't that be marvelous?"
SUNDAY AFTERNOON - TEMPLE ASHTON
"Excuse me, is that decaf?"
Rob wiped the nozzle of the milk steamer then turned and stared across the counter. The customer was probably the same age as him, but this guy was a joke. From his elaborately styled hair to his carefully trimmed beard, the guy screamed hipster.
You're trying too hard, mate, Rob thought. And he had the urge to punch the guy in the face and break his horn-rimmed spectacles. Hell, they probably didn't have real lenses in them anyway. They were just a fashion accessory: part of the image.
"I asked for decaf," the man insisted. "But it looks like you've just given me the ordinary stuff."
Rob shrugged. "Yeah, well, I've made it now."
The customer's jaw actually dropped. He stood there, gaping, his mouth hanging open like a particularly stupid goldfish.
Rob smiled. "But of course, I shall make you a fresh cup at once." He turned away before the customer could say anything, and busied himself making the coffee. He hummed loudly and tunelessly. That was a good one. It irritated the hell out of people, but they were all too polite to ask him to stop.
He turned around and presented the coffee. "One decaffeinated, soy latte, extra shot, no foam."
"Thanks," the customer said, though without much enthusiasm.
Rob rubbed his hands together. The guy was clearly seething with resentment. Job done.
"Excuse me, Rob. Could I have a word with you a minute?"
Shit! Rob turned around slowly. Sandra, his supervisor, was standing at the far end of the counter, her arms folded tightly across her chest. "Sure," he said and sauntered over to her. She hadn't just seen all that, had she?
She fixed him with a look. "What the hell is the matter with you, Rob?" she said, keeping her voice low.
Rob shrugged. "I don't–" he began, but she wasn't in the mood to listen.
"Your mind's not on your job and you look a disgrace. You hair's a mess, you need a shave, you've got bags under your eyes."
He pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I didn't get much sleep last night. A lot of things, you know, on my mind and everything."
"A lot of tequila you mean. A lot of Jack Daniels."
Rob held up his hands in front of him, the palms facing outward. "No. No. I was doing college work until late. I'm retaking my exams. Trying to get into university. "
Sandra did not look convinced. "Listen, take a break for ten minutes. Get a bit of fresh air then pop into the bathroom and smarten yourself up a bit. Splash some water on your face or something. And flatten your hair down."
"Sure. Cool. No problem."
"And tomorrow," Sandra said, "you come in clean shaven or not at all."
Rob ran his hand over his chin. The stubble was pretty thick, but he'd thought he could get away with it. He'd thought it looked stylish. Also, he'd overslept and hadn't had time to shave. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. "I'll be back in ten minutes, yeah?"
Sandra nodded then walked away.
"Stupid cow," Rob murmured as he took off his apron. Maybe he wouldn't come back. Maybe he'd tell them where they could shove their job.
On the way out from behind the counter, he picked up the unwanted coffee he'd made. He may as well drink the damned thing.
Outside it was raining—a fine drizzle—so he didn't go far. He just took a few steps away from the coffee shop window then leaned his back against the wall. The street was quiet although a few people hurried by, their heads bent against the rain. He watched a tall woman for a while as she strode confidently along the street. There was something about her. She gave off an air of superiority, of strength. Rob found himself wondering what she looked like close up. Perhaps she worked in the town. But as he watched, a man standing quietly by the wall reached out to offer the woman a magazine. He was a homeless guy, selling copies of The Big Issue to earn a few pounds. Rob always bought a copy when he could afford it. But this woman turned on the poor man. "Get out of my way," she snapped and marched away.
Rob couldn't believe his ears. What a bitch!
He looked down at the coffee in his hand, then he crossed the road and walked up to the magazine seller. "Excuse me, mate, do you fancy a coffee?"
The man looked at Rob and frowned.
"It's all right, I haven't touched it," Rob said. He pointed to the coffee shop. "I work in there. I made it by accident. If you don't have it, I'll have to throw it away." He held the cup out.
"Oh, right," the man said. "Sure. Thanks," he took the cup and cradled it in both hands, then sipped it eagerly.
Jesus Christ, Rob thought. He's younger than me. He watched him drink the coffee. The guy had a hungry look: sharp, hawk-like features; intense dark eyes; a thousand-yard stare. Perhaps that was the expression you ended up with when all you ever saw was people hurrying away from you; when all you ever got was harsh words. "Listen, I've got to go back to... I've got to go."
"Sure," the man said. "Thanks." He looked at Rob, searching his face. He opened his mouth to speak then hesitated as if he was searching for the right words. "My name's Darren," he said.
Rob nodded awkwardly. "Okay, Darren. See you later. Mind how you go."
Darren smiled but Rob turned away and walked back to the coffee shop. He took a deep breath of fresh air. He'd had a nagging headache all morning but now it was finally fading. Maybe I did overdo it last night, he thought. The story he'd told Sandra was partly true; he had done a little studying. But then the urge had taken hold of him and he'd had no choice but to go along with it.
Rob frowned. He could never tell anyone about his night-time jaunts—they wouldn’t understand. It was a shame. Maybe if he had someone to share the secret with, it wouldn't seem so bad. Who am I kidding? he thought. What he did was wrong and no one would say any different. But it was so unfair. It was like an addiction; he couldn't help himself. It was just something he had to do. I'll go out again tonight, he thought. I know I will.
And across the road, Darren watched him walking away—watched him very carefully indeed.
SUNDAY EVENING
It's going to happen again tonight; I know it is. The sky is so clear and they say the moon will be especially big tonight—a blood moon, a super moon—and there's nothing I can do.
In the early days, I tried taking sleeping pills. I tried drowning my sorrows in vodka until I fell asleep, lying face down on the ground. I tried tying my feet together. I even bowed my head and prayed to the twisted god that made me this way. But nothing ever helped. Nothing ever prevented the creature from creeping into my soul.
I've spent the last hour pacing back and forth, checking the sky every five minutes. I've wrung my hands. I've cursed, I've covered my face with my hands and wept, sobbing until my tears ran dry. But the pain remains within me, like cancer, growing stronger with every fleeting minute.
A bitter taste rises to the back of my throat and I swallow it down. I run my hand over my face and it comes away damp with sweat, though my skin is cold. For a moment, I taste the creature's foul breath in my mouth and a wave of nausea washes over me. "No," I whisper. "I can't do it." But the creature is already here. I hear it whispering in the back of my mind.
I choke back a sob then start getting ready. I have to work quickly before it's too late. First, I lay out the old blanket, then I put the threadbare towel on top of it. I add a tattered cotton rag, then I check my stock of extra strength painkillers making sure I leave the packet open. It's a sad collection but this is my life. This is what I've become.
And I have no choice.
It's going to happen. Any minute now.
***
Marcus lay down on the bed and p
ulled the cotton sheets up to his chin. The bed felt a little damp, despite the fact that the cottage's radiators were almost too hot to touch. It must be the stone walls; they were two feet thick. The windowsills were so wide you could sit on them, and some of the windows had seats built in, complete with embroidered cushions. Yes, this "cottage" was quite some place. It was bigger than most people's houses. He turned out the light and closed his eyes. If Marcie could see me now, he thought. He sighed. Marcie would've loved this place, but she'd wanted out of their marriage and he'd let her go. What choice did he have? Even so, the divorce had left him bruised. This trip was his present to himself. He'd always wanted to go to Europe, and England especially. He had things he wanted to do here. Lots of places to see, lots of sights to visit. It was a pilgrimage, of a kind.
He let his mind drift. That usually worked. But not tonight.
"Goddamned jetlag," he murmured. But it wasn't just that. It was too quiet here: almost completely silent. There was no distant drone of traffic, no noises from neighbors. The cottage was separated from the farmhouse by a wide yard, and although there were other holiday cottages arranged around the yard, Elizabeth had told him they were all empty at the moment.
Elizabeth. She would be at home right now, perhaps curled up with a good book by an open fire, a log roaring in the grate.
For god's sake, don't even think about it, he told himself. The woman was married and he had enough complications in his life didn't he? He turned on the light and sat up in bed. What he needed was a belt of something. Scotch. He'd bought a bottle from the duty-free store at the airport. He'd left it down on the kitchen table.
Marcus swung his legs out of bed. The floor was cold and the rough carpet tickled the soles of his feet. He walked slowly across the room to the door.
He hesitated on the landing at the top of the stairs. The stairway was steep and long and the treads were too narrow for his feet. On the way up to bed, he'd stumbled and cracked his shin on the edge of a step. Now he saw that the dim glow from the landing light did not reach the bottom of the stairs, and with his brain buzzing and his body exhausted, Marcus wasn't sure he fancied his chances of making it to the bottom in one piece.
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