Master of the Moors (14 page)

In the corner of his eye,
something long, low, and lithe crawled through the fog. Stricken
with terror, Campbell was sure he'd glimpsed cerulean lights, like
flaming orbs of marsh gas set deep in a dark flattened skull before
the heavy veils occluded his view once more.

I don't believe in the
Beast of Brent Prior
, he told
himself.
There's no such thing.

Then a terrible rumbling
growl shredded the last vestiges of his calm and he ran, but
managed only a few feet before his legs were swiftly and cruelly
torn from underneath him. He slammed down on the cold wet earth, an
unvoiced cry becoming a whine in his throat as hot pain spread
across his face.
I've broken my
nose
, he thought with a strange but
welcome sense of dislocation, and rolled over on his back. Blood,
reassuringly warm, ran in rivulets into his mouth. He could taste
that old penny taste on his tongue.

Dizziness made stars of
the creature's eyes as it loomed over him.

I won't die here. Not
at
your
hands,
bastard!

Despite the crippling
pain, he rolled, scrabbled to his feet and staggered blindly away,
arms outstretched, the horrible burnt earth smell assailing his
senses like extensions of the creature at his heels. He spluttered
and wept with fear, glanced over his shoulder only to see the
lumbering form of something wiry but enormous, its eyes blazing
ice-white as it closed the short gap between them.

From hell. It must be something
from---

A thousand needles stabbed
his face and body as he came to an abrupt halt, his head jerking
back. He gasped as something bit his fingers, the palms of his
hands, drawing more blood from his trembling body as his legs
collapsed from under him. Still he did not fall and despite the
shock, he was aware of the sound of tearing as he was suspended in
midair. The vision had been stabbed from his right eye. Curiously,
there was no pain. There was, however, an abundance of debilitating
panic.

Oh Jesus God help me...

His fingers twitched.
Shuddering, he tried to swallow, wincing as the myriad spines dug
painfully into his skin like the teeth of a thousand snakes. It
felt as if he'd run into a wall of fishhooks. They tugged at him,
tearing, scissoring open his flesh. Fluid ran slowly from his
ruined eye.

Thorns
, he realized, with a smile that split and bled.
I've only gone and run straight into the bloody
brambles.

Breath plumed over his
shoulder, mixing with the fog. He went rigid with shock, which only
aided the thorns in slicing him open. Painfully, he jerked his head
away from the barbed black wall and felt the skin on his cheek
stretch as the brambles tried to pull him back.

"What...are you?" he
whispered. He hissed pain through his teeth, and ceased only when a
hand, undoubtedly human, gripped his shoulder.

"I already told you who I
am," said Stephen. "And I've come back for the hunt."

Through the haze and the
gnarled mass of brambles, suffused yellow light began to
materialize. The fog was lifting, and Campbell realized with grim
resignation that those fuzzy oblongs were lights from the windows
of the village houses. He'd found his way to the wall separating
the village from the moors. He almost laughed at the irony, but the
muffled sound of laughter brought tears instead. The farmers, he
guessed, pouring out of The Fox & Mare, perhaps joking about
the drunken doctor and his banishment from the tavern.

"Help me," he sobbed, but
knew his brittle voice had not carried far enough to reach them.
Sadness gave way to one final burst of bitter seething anger at
this final stroke of unfairness.

"I hope you burn in hell
you miserable
bastard
," he hissed, hot tears stinging the wounds on his
face.

"I already have," Stephen
said, his face an indistinct shadow in the corner of Campbell's
good eye. Fiery pain almost split the doctor in half and he
convulsed, lurching deeper into the thorns. This time he felt
nothing, and, as merciful unconsciousness swept its dark wings
around him, the laughter from the villagers faded, until there was
silence, broken only by the sound of flesh being rent
asunder.

11

She fell from her place on
the ceiling. The rope went taut and snapped in the air, jerking her
up and away from him, leaving her still-twitching feet to swing
like Poe's pendulum through Mansfield's field of vision. The rope
shuddered and bit against the rafters; she convulsed once, twice,
and ceased her struggling as he screamed a horrified silent scream
up at her swaying body, her toes just inches away from his
face.

Creeeaaaaak
.

The rope twisted, bringing
her motionless body around to face him, to look down on him. Then,
"He'll take the children," she whispered as her eyelids drifted
open, revealing the swollen ruby red eyes beneath.

Another
hallucination
, Mansfield told
himself.
She's not here. Cannot be
here.

He made a desperate silent
plea that this cruel parody of Helen would vanish, dissuaded by his
outright refusal to believe that she was here, now, swinging over
his bed, a frail creature death had painted blue. But when he
closed his eyes, the protection he'd hoped to find was corrupted by
the sound of the rope.

"You must listen, Jack.
You must heed."

He felt numb with horror,
and it was a merciful reprieve from the pain. Not that it had left
him. He could feel it lurking, waiting like an angry crowd behind a
flimsy door, waiting to storm the castle of his body once
more.

Go away...

He opened his eyes, and
she was there.

"You must die," she
whispered. "And you must die soon."

I wish I
could
, he thought then, and the admission
disturbed him. Until this moment, he hadn't thought himself capable
of such selfishness. It hurt, far worse than the agony that had
taken him over. The children needed him. He was supposed to be
there for them. That he could forget the most important part of his
life---such as it was now---was a lapse he could not forgive himself
for.

Why
, he thought, meeting Helen's crimson gaze.
Why are you here?

"If you live," she said.
"The children will die."

I don't
understand
.

"He wants the boy, and he
will take him when the time comes. But you are a threat the
children don't expect. They love you, and that love will blind them
to what the illness will do to you. Then, it will be too
late."

He stared, terrified at
the sight of her, willing her to leave, and yet her words nagged at
him. Could it be possible that she was more than just a
hallucination, a product of his feverish imaginings, a projection
of the disease?

I would never hurt
them
.

Her colorless lips
flickered a smile. "You won't love them anymore. It will make them
little more than victims."

Never hurt them.

"Hold your breath. It will
be so easy."

Never hurt...

"And in just a few moments
the pain will go away forever." The rope creaked as she leaned
forward to watch. "Save them, Jack. You couldn't save me, but you
can save them if you hold your breath and wish..."

Never
.

The silence then was so
thick he was afraid the slightest movement would shatter it. He
didn't dare believe she was gone. Only when the agony returned did
he know without doubt that he was alone. He opened his eyes to a
room blurred by tears, and wept quietly.

I'm so
sorry
, he thought and words flooded to his
mouth. He wanted to speak, to tell this terrible
representation---even if she was nothing more than a dream---that he
was sorry for everything, for all the agony he'd caused her in
those last few months, for no amount of physical suffering could
ever compare to the memories that plagued his mind, of her smile,
her laughter, the look of betrayal in her eyes when she'd found out
what he'd done.

The look in her eyes the
day he'd killed her.

He stared at the ceiling,
pain raging within him, and clenched his teeth.

"Do it, Jack.
Quickly."

Abruptly she was there
again, and plummeting toward him, the rope swishing behind her,
hair wild as the air whistled through lips frozen open by congealed
blood. Her eyes were wide and seething blood he could feel
pit-patting on his face.

"Do it," she said, and
then her face was the world, her eyes twin furious red moons
bearing down on him.

***

Kate sat on the windowsill
in her room, gazing out at the moors. The fog was beginning to lift
again, and for that she was thankful. It would make the walk to the
village hall and the dance that much easier. Besides, after Grady's
story, she didn't relish the idea of being so close to the moors
without being able to see what might or might not be lurking there.
In the fog, a bloodthirsty animal could kill them all and they'd
never see it coming.

She shivered, her breath
clouding the glass, and wiped away the condensation obscuring the
view beyond.

On a clear day she had a
perfect view of the moors, a vista that extended all the way from
Merrivale to the Two Bridges over the glistening River Dart. But
although the fog had dispersed, clouds had obscured the sun and
darkened the valley, hazing the moors, so that only the village
road was visible, a thin muddy strip that wound through the low
huddled houses, the fields rolling away from it like green wings
colored with patches of lichen and sphagnum and veined by rock
fences. There had been times, she recalled, when she had thought
she'd seen things out there, things she had told herself were
horses, even though the shape of them suggested something
different, something lower to the ground. On each occasion, she'd
blamed the local storytellers and their wild fantasies for what was
most likely an optical illusion. She'd listened to the village
tales of the fabled Beast of Brent Prior and feigned belief, only
because the old folk told their tales in a manner that suggested
belief was the only polite response, that such yarns were sacred
and ancient and foretold the doom that would befall those who
refused to heed the warnings that accompanied them. So Kate had
obliged, while secretly scoffing at the height of their tall
tales.

Today, Grady's story had
changed her mind for her. His tale, no matter how much he might
have embellished it in the spirit of the season, proved that
something was indeed out there and stalking the moors, or had been
once. She doubted it was anything as ferocious or diabolical as the
legendary Beast, or 'whist hound', as some of the storytellers
called it, but it was certainly something dangerous, as the
unfortunate Mr. Royle had discovered. What Grady hadn't told her
was what had become of the other party, the members of the hunt
that had continued on without him. She knew something terrible had
happened. That much she'd gleaned from a handful of nights spent
listening to her father reliving his nightmare in the parlor with
Grady and a bottle of brandy. But he had never been specific enough
to satisfy her curiosity, almost as if, on some level he'd been
aware that Grady's ears were not the only ones intent on the
conversation.

There had, however, been
mention of a shadow, a blindingly quick thing with white fire for
eyes, and now that Grady had told her his side of events, she
hungered to know more. But while sharing his account, the
groundskeeper had seemed uncharacteristically subdued, almost
reticent, as if he'd been sworn to secrecy, and that intrigued her.
She was convinced he wasn't telling her the full story and though
she'd heard tales aplenty, none appealed to her more than the one
no one seemed willing to talk about. Mr. Fowler the shopkeeper
bristled whenever she broached the subject. Mrs. Fletcher claimed
ignorance. The teachers hushed her when she mentioned the scraps
she'd heard from other overheard conversations. It seemed a black
mark in the village's history, and her father had been a part of
it, as had Grady.

She nodded slowly and
traced a line through the condensation until she had drawn a
dripping dog, its ears pointed, paws trickling into talons.
Whatever had happened, she was convinced it was responsible for her
father's illness. What she didn't know yet was how.

Finding out would be the next
challenge.

***

Tabitha hesitated on the
doorstep, a basket full of bed sheets clutched to her chest. Her
mother had asked her to take them in before the rain but it was
only as she was tugging the last of them from the washing line that
she'd noticed the man standing by the fence her father had erected
to keep the heather and brush of the moors from encroaching onto
their property.