High Moor

HIGH MOOR
by
Graeme Reynolds

For Donna

Prologue:

28th October 2008. Llanllugan, Mid Wales. 17.40.

The metallic shriek of the alarm clock cut through the silence, jarring John back to consciousness. He thrust an arm out to hit the snooze button, but found only empty air. A second alarm sounded from another room, its sound muffled through the heavy walls, then a third alarm joined the chorus, followed by the insistent beep of his wristwatch and the alarm on his mobile phone.

John's eyes snapped open. He sat upright in the leather chair, alert and fearful. He checked the time and looked at the sky outside. The clouds burned against the purple blanket of the approaching night.

Oh no.

He pushed himself up from the chair and started down the hall to the kitchen, his heart racing in time to the pulsating alarms.

Please, God. Let there be enough time.

Still groggy, John jerked open the refrigerator door and removed three large raw steaks, then applied the deadbolt to the back door before hurrying to the cellar. The steaks dripped blood on the wooden floor in his wake.

It's all right. I'm going to make it.

A bang resounded through the house, rattling the windows. Fireworks outside, much louder than they should have been. He'd left a window open.

Fear clenched John's stomach, fear and perhaps something else.

No. It can't start now. Not yet.

John sprinted from room to room as his heart raced, and sweat beaded on his forehead. The rising tide of panic numbed his legs. He knocked over a small wooden table as he hurled himself down the hallway. He found the open window in the study and wrenched it closed. It was almost dark outside.

He pushed aside the wooden cellar door, stumbling as he took the stairs two at a time. He reached the bottom, yanked open the heavy steel door, then doubled over as a sharp pain tore through his stomach.

John threw the steaks into the corner of the windowless, concrete room and shouldered the reinforced door closed. Its base scraping across the floor set his teeth on edge. Another burst of pain dropped him to his knees. Fire spread from his stomach to his limbs. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging them and blurring his vision. Panting now, he managed to reach across to turn the heavy key in the lock with unsteady hands. The key fell from his grasp and jangled as it bounced across the concrete floor.

Ignoring it, he kicked his shoes off and undid the belt of his jeans, when another spasm hit. The pain lanced through him in wave after agonising wave. Nothing else mattered but the acid-fire setting his nerve endings alight. The change began in earnest. John could think no more. He opened his mouth and screamed as fangs burst through his gums in a spray of bloodstained foam.

***

28th October 2008. High Moor, North East England. 22:50.

Malcolm Harrison thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and hunched his neck down in a vain attempt to warm up.

The dog stopped again and sniffed a wooden fence post, taking its own sweet time, oblivious to the rain and the cold wind that were making its owner's life such a misery.

“Have a fucking shit so we can go home, you bastard.” Malcolm growled at the animal.

The dog, a large good-natured Rottweiler called Samson, ignored him and trotted off to investigate the trees.

The dog had not been Malcolm's idea. He had known who would end up taking the thing for walks at all hours, in all weathers, scooping up the shit with a carrier bag. The wife and the kids had kept on about it for months, about how it would be good for home security as well as a pet for the children. There had been promises to walk it and take care of it, and yet here he was, following it round the park in the middle of the bloody night, with a pocket full of plastic bags, waiting for it to take a shit.

“Fuck it!”

The dog appeared from the darkness near the trees, running back to Malcolm. The great beast cowered behind his legs and whimpered, pushing in so close that he almost lost his balance.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you, Samson? Are you done yet?”

A branch snapped, back along the tree line.

A bolt of fear shot from his stomach, up his spine. Malcolm held his breath, the silent chill air reminding him just how isolated he was. The nearest house was a good four hundred yards away, and at this late hour there was not even a reassuring background hum of traffic. The faint twinkle of street lights on the far side of the trees could be seen, while to his left the park stretched out for almost half a mile until it reached the town centre.

“Probably just kids messing about,” he whispered to the dog without much conviction. His pace quickened as he made his way out of the park to the safety of his home.

For once he felt comforted by the presence of Samson, despite almost tripping over the animal as it strived to stay close to him.

Yeah, probably kids, or some druggie out there, but there was that thing when I was a kid and…

He forced the thought from his head, instead focusing on the rush of warmth he would feel as he came into the house.

I’ll dry Samson off, get a beer, sit in my chair then…

A growl came from the darkness. Thick. Guttural. The harsh amber glow of the sodium street lights bathed the first row of trees in an orange haze, but showed only pitch darkness beyond.

Malcolm pulled down the hood of his heavy coat and looked into the shadows, the rain forgotten now. Beside him, Samson snarled.

Was that movement?

Another growl came from the trees, longer and deeper than the first.

“I’ll set the fucking dog on you, if you don’t piss off.”

The growl went up an octave.

“You asked for it. Get ’em, Samson.”

Samson whined and looked at his owner.

“What are you waiting for, you soft shite? Go on, get in there.”

Samson snarled, barked a challenge, then ran into the darkness. Silence followed.

Malcolm stood rooted to the spot for what seemed like forever. The wind picked up again, driving the rain into his face, its steady hiss the only sound that reached his strained ears.

A rustle of leaves beyond the tree line. The hint of movement in the inky shadows.

“Samson?”

A bark shattered the silence. A deep growl followed, then a long high-pitched whine of agony.

The dog’s screaming! What the fuck could make a Rottweiler scream?

The sound broke Malcolm’s paralysis, and he sprinted down the path, leaving that awful sound behind. He crashed through the rusted iron gate, out into the street, then ran across the road into a dark lane between the houses. He slipped on something soft that squelched under his shoe, and almost lost his footing. Spurred by terror, he somehow regained his balance and burst from the lane, onto the street where he lived.

He cast nervous glances over his shoulder while he fumbled for his keys, then struggled to keep his shaking hands steady enough to get the key into the lock. The door swung open and he fell inside. After scrambling to his feet, he slammed the door and slid the deadbolt and chain into place. His heart pounded in his chest. He thought that he might be about to have a heart attack.

Karen, his wife, looked at him from the kitchen, with a can of lager in her hand. “Did you remember my fags, Malcolm? And where’s the fucking dog?”

***

29th October 2008. Llanllugan. Mid Wales. 06.49.

John awoke from dreams of rage. The cold concrete floor pressed against his naked body, and the bitter taste of blood lingered on his tongue. He opened his eyes, wincing at the harsh fluorescent light, and tried to stand up.

Nausea bubbled up from his stomach. He fell to his knees and retched. Dark brown liquid and chunks of meat splashed across the floor and his legs. He wiped his mouth in disgust and forced himself to stand.

The basement door remained closed and was still intact, with the exception of a few new dents in its steel surface. He'd made it. He stumbled across the room and reached up for the key, in its hiding place atop the door frame, but found nothing.

"Oh shit. Please, God. Don't tell me I ate the fucking key. Again."

He checked the door frame once more, then turned his attention to the shredded pile of rags that had been his clothes. He kicked at the pile and felt a surge of relief as the key skittered across the concrete floor, then dismay as it came to rest in the pool of vomit.

Holding his breath, he retrieved the key from the stinking puddle, unlocked the door, pulled it open, and ascended the wooden stairs to his house.

***

John emerged from the shower half an hour later, feeling much better. The rank animal musk on his skin had been scrubbed away, but despite washing his hair several times, it still smelled like wet dog. He cleaned his teeth until he saw flecks of blood on his toothbrush, then he got dressed and went downstairs to make breakfast.

Soon, the smell of frying bacon filled the house. John poured himself a cup of strong, black coffee and turned the portable television in the corner of the room on to the BBC news channel. He returned his attention to the bacon, flipping the rashers over while trying to ignore the rumbling of his stomach.

The news droned on in the background. A story about the impending financial crisis and the U.S. elections finished and another story began. John wasn't really paying attention, until he heard the reporter say two words. “High Moor.”

He picked up the remote control and turned up the volume. A female reporter stood in a park, attempting to look sympathetic and sensitive, when it was clear that she would rather be anywhere else than there. Someone off camera held an umbrella above her head, in an unsuccessful attempt to protect her hair from the heavy rain. Behind her, men in white forensics suits worked in a taped off area. One of them picked up what looked like a dog's hind-leg and put it in a white plastic bag.

“Over twenty years have passed since there have been any sightings of the legendary High Moor Beast, but today it is feared that it again stalks the countryside, after a local man and his dog were attacked in Coronation Park.

“It was here, by this children’s play area late last night, that the police discovered the remains of Samson, after they were alerted by his owner, Mr Malcolm Harrison.

“It is thought that the beast may be a puma or leopard, released in the late 1960s when the Dangerous Animals act was passed. In 1986 a local farmer shot, and killed, a large puma that was thought to be responsible for a number of deaths in the area.

“It would seem that without Samson’s brave sacrifice, his owner might have become the first human casualty of the High Moor Beast in over twenty years. Police are warning people to only leave the house after dark if necessary, not to travel alone, and to avoid wooded and rural areas.

This is Kate Monty, BBC News."

John's mouth hung open as he stared at the television, unable to process what he'd just seen. A shrill alarm rang out, shocking him out of his stupor. His bacon was on fire.

He removed the flaming pan from the gas, doused a tea towel in cold water and threw it over the conflagration that had been his breakfast. Smoke filled the room. He opened the window, then pushed the button on the smoke alarm. When the alarm refused to stop, he reached up, removed the cover, and disconnected the battery. Then, he sat on a barstool and rubbed his face with both hands.

"Puma? Puma my big fat arse. Shit."

He walked into the hallway, removed a business card from the table, and dialled the number.

The phone rang six times before a man answered. "John? It's seven-fifteen in the morning. Can't this wait until I'm in the office?"

"No, Frank, it can't. I'm not going to be able to do the Morgan job. You'll have to get Luke or Dan to do it instead."

"You can't pull this shit on me, John. We've got the specifications meeting this morning, and I need you there. No one else will be able to get up to speed in time."