High Moor

by Reynolds, Graeme

  Marie looked like she was about to say something, but bit back the words and took a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice was level. “Alright, John. I’ll come along. I’ll keep myself under control, but you better keep the bastard away from me, or I won’t be responsible for what I do.”

  John nodded. “You go and change, and then guard the perimeter. I’ll meet you back at the car once I get him. And, Marie? Make sure you stay out of sight. If I see anything that looks like a werewolf, I’m putting a bullet in it. There’s no way I will be able to tell if it’s you or Malcolm, so stay away unless we get into trouble. OK?”

  John did not have to be psychic to tell that Marie was unhappy with the arrangement. Her bottom lip puffed out, just as it had when they were children. “Marie? OK?”

  She nodded. “Alright, dammit. I’ll stay out of the way. You go and get your butcher friend, and I’ll watch your back. Now, look away while I change. And put my clothes in the car after, OK? Those jeans were expensive.”

  Marie walked into the woods and removed her clothes. John couldn’t help himself. He angled his head, looking out of the corner of his eye. He caught a glimpse of her creamy white flesh through the undergrowth and felt himself become aroused, despite the circumstances. Then he heard the sounds of bones breaking and saw the white skin vanish beneath rippling waves of light brown fur. He shuddered, and his ardour died as if someone had thrown him into an ice-cold river. He waited for a few minutes, to make sure that Marie had moved away, then retrieved her discarded clothes and locked them in the car.

  He removed the pistol from his pocket and chambered a round. “Here goes nothing,” he said to himself, then moved off into the woods to find his friend.

  ***

  The woods were silent as John picked his way through the bracken. No birds sang in the skeletal arms of the trees. It was as if the entire area were holding its breath in anticipation. He held his pistol out before him in his right hand while he followed the GPS on his telephone to the co-ordinates that Steven had given him.

  It took almost twenty minutes to make his way to Steven’s location. Twenty agonising minutes where he jumped at every shadow, and swung the pistol around at every whisper of wind in the bare branches overhead. There was no sign of Malcolm, or Marie. This did little to calm his nerves. He emerged from the trees, into a clearing, and gagged. The coppery stink of blood combined with the sickly sweet smell of rotting leaves, and the result was not pleasant. The body of a goat lay chained to a metal spike, with the head lying several feet away. He looked up.

  “Aren’t you a bit old to be climbing trees, Steven?”

  Steven peered over the edge of the platform. “Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on. Did you see anything on your way here?”

  John shook his head. “No, nothing. I’ve got someone watching our backs, but I don’t feel like hanging around here longer than I have to. Get your arse down from that tree, and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Steven connected a rope to his harness and lowered himself onto the ground. “Someone’s watching our backs? Who?”

  “It’s a long story. Grab your stuff and let’s go. I’ll fill you in when we get back to the car.”

  Their progress through the woods was slow and torturous. Brambles tore at their legs, and they met every noise with raised weapons and nervous expressions. Neither man spoke. John thought he saw movement through the trees once or twice, but by the time he brought his pistol to bear, the woods were silent and still once more.

  They'd been walking for almost ten minutes when a long howl echoed through the forest. John’s eyes widened, and Steven disengaged the safety catch on his rifle. Both men stood still and held their breaths for what seemed like forever, but was, in reality, a little under ten seconds.

  A roar of rage and pain erupted from the woods somewhere to the north of their location. The roar became a series of snarls and short aggressive barks intermingled with the sounds of breaking wood. After a few seconds, a pitiful howl of pain resounded through the forest, followed by another, deeper howl of triumph.

  John turned to Steven. “Oh my God. Marie. It’s gone after Marie.”

  “Marie? That woman you were with? What the hell is she doing out here?”

  “She’s not a woman. She’s a werewolf, and she’s out here watching our backs.” He clicked the safety catch off and plunged through the woods towards the source of the howling. After a seconds consideration, Steven shouldered his rifle and followed the younger man.

  John burst into a small clearing, bordered by a stream, and put his hand over his mouth. Blood was splashed across the tree trunks and grass, and several saplings had been snapped in half by the battle. The air was thick with the stench of blood and a sharper, musky odour that John didn’t recognise at first.

  Steven put his hand on John’s shoulder. “Come on, John. There’s nothing we can do here.”

  “There’s no bodies. Maybe she got away.”

  Steven shook his head. “You smell that? It’s wolf piss. The fucker’s marking his territory.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s challenging you. It’s taken your hairy little girlfriend and it's calling you out.”

  John’s lip curled up in a snarl. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost a growl. “Then I’d hate to disappoint the bastard.”

  Chapter 29

  13th November 2008. Coronation Estate, High Moor. 17.56.

  Malcolm Harrison had never been so ill in his entire life. Even a bout of scarlet fever in his teens paled in comparison to the way he felt now. Every muscle and joint pulsated with pain, and his entire body was sticky with sweat. He felt like he was on fire. The air inside the bedroom was hot and thick. He drew large gasping breaths that did little to satisfy.

  He propped himself onto one elbow and yelled out to his wife downstairs. “Karen, for Christ’s sake, will you turn the bloody heating down?”

  A muffled reply came from the kitchen. Irritation picked at his nerves and he shouted back, “What?”

  Thunderous footsteps pounded their way up the stairs, and Karen stood in the doorway with her eyes ablaze. “I said, you can get off your fat arse and turn the fucking radiator down yourself if you’re too hot. You got shit in your ears or something?”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m NOT FUCKING WELL. I work my arse off to provide for this bloody family, and the one time I need someone to do something for me, you go on like that. You’re an evil bitch, Karen.”

  Karen laughed. “You? Work your arse off? Don’t make me laugh. You wander around that school all day, mopping up piss and puke, then hide out in the basement, smoking spliffs with Billy. You’ve never done a proper day's work in your life.”

  Malcolm felt a familiar rage building inside. Starting off from a kernel of irritation, it fed on itself and became a living thing that made his hands tingle and his mind go dumb, so that only a single thought remained. He got to his feet and clenched his fists. “How many times do I need to tell you to talk to me with some respect? Do I need to teach you your manners again?”

  Karen flinched, then her face switched from fear to blazing anger in a second. “Go ahead, fat boy. Fucking try it. Our Darren said he’d break your legs if you laid another finger on me. Do you think he won’t?”

  Darren was Karen’s younger brother. He worked as a bouncer in the local nightclub and had won several cage fighting tournaments. The guy was six-foot-four of muscle and attitude. Malcolm knew that Darren would snap him in half given an excuse. The red mist behind his eyes subsided and was replaced by an empty feeling of impotence and frustration. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead fell to his knees and dry heaved.

  Karen’s face was a mask of contempt. “For God’s sake, you useless prick. Don’t puke on the carpet. Use the bloody bucket.”

  Sweat poured from Malcolm, sticking his nylon pyjamas to his skin. Waves of claustrophobia washed over him. He couldn’t breathe. Too hot. No air. He got to his feet and stum
bled past his wife and down the stairs.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she called after him, but he ignored her and threw open the front door.

  The cold air was heaven. Clouds of steam billowed from his body, and he walked barefoot down the concrete garden path into the street.

  Karen ran after him. “Malcolm, get back in the bloody house before the neighbours see you.”

  The moon rose above the roofline of the council estate, casting a silver sheen across the rooftops before becoming lost in the sodium glare of the streetlights. Malcolm felt something shift inside him, and he fell to his knees as pain shot through his body. Pain and something else. A pure, primal power that made his limbs tingle even as the pain drove bright daggers into his bones. It was within his grasp. All he had to do was reach out and claim it for his own. So he did.

  He felt Karen’s tentative touch on his shoulder. Fucking bitch. Always going on, always interfering and making me look stupid. Why won’t she just PISS OFF.

  He lashed out at her, with what he intended to be a heavy slap. Talons burst from his fingertips mid-swipe, tearing away the lower part of Karen’s face and throat. She staggered back, eyes wide in shock. Blood bubbled from the ragged wound, and she fell to the floor, grasping at the torn remains of her neck.

  The scent of blood filled Malcolm’s sensitive nostrils and hastened the change. He welcomed the pain and the power it brought him. He shed the remains of his flabby, old body and marvelled at the strength and boundless energy of the new, improved one.

  Karen dragged herself back towards the house, a trail of dark blood staining the concrete behind her. Malcolm tried to say, “Where’s your fucking brother now?” but all that came out of his mouth was a vicious snarl. He put both paws on the dying woman’s back and pinned her in place. She tried to plead for her life, but her words were lost in a bloody gurgle. Malcolm reached down and placed his jaws around the back of his wife’s neck, then bit her head off.

  The sounds of shouting and breaking glass came from inside the house. Malcolm drew back his lips in a snarl. Fucking kids. Can’t leave the little bastards alone for five minutes.

  He bit down into the shoulder of his dead wife and dragged the corpse back inside the house. A moment later, he retrieved her head and dropped it in the cat’s litter tray. Then he went to the living room to discipline his children.

  ***

  13th November 2008. Sandpiper Pub, High Moor. 22.43.

  Malcolm moved from shadow to shadow as he made his way around the outskirts of the car park. The taste of blood was still fresh on his tongue.

  If I’d known Karen and the kids tasted so good, I’d have eaten them years ago.

  After he left the house, the sensations almost overwhelmed him. He’d lain under a bush in Coronation Park and let the sounds, smells, and tastes of the town wash over him. After a couple of hours, he’d learned to process the information. It was as if a light had gone on in his head. He could smell the people in their homes. The myriad cooking scents from each household’s evening meal. The subtle undertone of fear in the household pets that cowered under beds and waited for the predator to pass. The sounds of passing traffic and the footsteps of the people walking the streets. The taste of pollution in the air from the exhaust fumes. It was like a man, blind from birth, seeing for the first time. Malcolm could hear, smell, and taste everything around him for a mile in every direction. He felt like a god.

  He moved back into the estate and wound his way through back alleys and gardens, leaving a chorus of panicked, barking dogs in his wake, until he came to Karen’s brother’s house. Darren walked their stupid little terrier at nine-thirty every night, so Malcolm waited behind a hedge for him. When his brother-in-law passed, he leaped from his hiding place and tore him into chunks of shredded meat before he even had a chance to scream. The terrier ran yelping down the street with Darren's severed forearm still clutching the lead. His task complete, Malcolm sniffed the air and then headed towards the town centre on a compulsion.

  ***

  Malcolm crouched beside a parked car and looked through the windows of the pub. It was quiet for a Thursday night. He saw only a few bored people standing at the bar and a group of drunken girls doing a terrible karaoke version of “I will survive” on a makeshift wooden stage. The sound hurt his ears, and he crept behind a line of green refuse containers to the other side of the pub. The walls reduced the grating cacophony to a dull shriek that bored into his nerves like a dentist’s drill. He considered going inside the bar and putting an end to the noise once and for all.

  I will survive? Not if I have anything to do with it, you won’t, you tuneless cows.

  Then the door opened and two people stepped out into the car park. Malcolm recognised one as Lizzie Fletcher, Karen’s mate. The other one was some bloke…Brian or something. Brian had his arm around Lizzie’s shoulder. Malcolm lay flat on the ground and waited.

  “It's crap in there tonight,” he said. “Where’s your mate, Karen? She’s usually a good laugh. Nice arse as well.”

  Lizzie pulled away and punched him on the shoulder. “Watch it, you. Don’t talk about my mates like that.”

  Brian shrugged. “All I’m saying is that I would.”

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. “That’s not saying much. You’d shag anything with a pulse.”

  “Well, I’m shagging you aren’t I?”

  “Not if you keep up with the gob, matey. Anyway, Karen had to stay in. That useless dickhead she married has ’man flu’ and she has to look after the kids.”

  “Is she married to that sweaty, fat bloke that hangs around with Billy Phillips?”

  “Yeah, the sad bastard’s a janitor at King's Close School. Anyway, enough talking about that loser. I want to hear about what you're gonna do to me when we get back to yours."

  Brian grabbed a fist full of Lizzie's backside and pulled her close. "Wouldn't you like to know…hang on, did you hear something?”

  Malcolm let out a deep, bass growl and stepped out from behind the bins.

  Brian backed away and put his hands out in front of him. “There. Nice doggy. Good boy.”

  Malcolm snarled. Patronising prick!. He leaped forward and collided with the man, knocking him onto his back. His head dove forward, and he chewed a hole in Brian’s abdomen. Brian beat at the creature and screamed for someone to help as tides of blood flowed from his ruined mid-section.

  Lizzie Fletcher stood motionless for a moment and then rushed forward, wielding her handbag like a mace. “Get off my boyfriend, you hairy piece of shit.”

  The handbag struck the side of Malcolm’s head with a savage crack, knocking him a step to the side. He snarled at her and the handbag came down again. This time it struck him between the eyes, setting off a bomb burst of light and pain inside his skull. He remembered something Karen had told him. Lizzie Fletcher kept a half brick in her handbag, for self-defence.

  He backed away and shook his head to clear his senses. Lizzie appeared to be in no mood to accept a surrender. She stepped over Brian’s motionless body and advanced on the blood-soaked werewolf with murder in her eyes. She raised the bag. Malcolm flinched and retreated into himself. Then the beast took over.

  Jaws flashed out at impossible speed and severed Lizzie’s arm just below the elbow. The rest of the arm was carried by the handbag’s momentum and sailed through the plate glass window of the pub. Shouts came from inside. Movement.

  The beast leaped forward and tore out Lizzie Fletcher’s throat in one swift movement and then ran off, away from the strange noises and offensive scents, out of the town and into the woods beyond the housing estate.

  ***

  14th November 2008. Mill Woods, High Moor. 02.48.

  The werewolf moved through the forest, as silent as a shadow. The taste of deer meat was still fresh on its tongue, but already the hunger was starting again. An irresistible urge to hunt, kill, and eat dominated its mind. The wind changed and it caught a musky animal odour, spiced with subt
le tones of pain and fear. More Prey. The great beast howled and ran off through the trees toward its next victim.

  The dark shapes of the trees passed in a blur of movement, and after a few minutes, the creature drew close to its prey. The smell of blood and fear overwhelmed its senses, and every instinct screamed at it to attack, tear, and eat the tender flesh of the goat. It crouched low to the ground and began to circle the animal.

  Wait. Not yet. Don’t you smell it?

  The beast tried to ignore the small human voice, but it was insistent. Irritated, it lay still and filtered the scents. There. Metal and oil. The scent of human sweat, muted but still close by, with a sickly undertone of illness.

  It’s a trap. He’s in a tree on the edge of that clearing, just waiting for us to take the bait.

  The beast was outraged. It could see the platform in the tree now, and in the moonlight it could make out rows of silver spikes wrapped around the trunk. Something about those spikes made it uneasy, and it shuffled back, unsure as to how it could get to the insolent human that dared to hunt it.

  The voice persisted, like an irritating gnat that buzzed just out of reach. Just lay low. Keep out of sight. He has to come down from there eventually. When he does, we’ll tear him apart.

  The man in the tree coughed. A wet rattle that grew in intensity until it seemed that he would not survive the experience.

  Now, while he’s distracted. We’ll send him a little message.

  The beast moved like liquid through the undergrowth. Swift and silent, it closed on the goat. Before the animal could so much as bleat in terror, a massive clawed paw lashed out and tore the goat’s head off with a single swipe.

  The urge to feed on the carcass was overpowering. The gushing blood enflamed its senses, and it bowed its head to feast.