Werewolf Stories to Tell in the Dark

by Anthony Masters

  ‘They’re over the fence,’ shouted one of the men. ‘I’d never have believed they could leap so high.’

  Eventually I took my turn at the spy-hole to see that dozens of wolves were now in the compound. A few were prowling but others had already found their victims, for some of our fellow refugees had not been as cautious as Father and his friends.

  ‘They’ve come for the meat,’ muttered my father, his face white and strained. ‘The meat they’ve learnt to crave.’

  One of the wolves bounded up to our door and flung himself against it, but fortunately it had been reinforced sufficiently to keep him out. As the disappointed young wolf gazed up at the hut, its hungry mouth running with saliva, for a fleeting moment I thought I recognized Divik’s clear blue eyes peering out from the dark fur.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Kim. ‘Did the wolves get in?’

  ‘No,’ replied Andros slowly. ‘My father and his friends made it a fortress. And then the next day the authorities decided to transfer us to another camp near a town, and took us away. I’m glad I’ve told you – it’s not something I’ve allowed myself to think about much.’

  ‘My cousin saw something she didn’t like to remember,’ said Anne. ‘But I knew Sarah was covering up when she came to stay last year. I managed to get the story out of her in the end, and I’m sure she also felt better for telling me.’

  5

  The Padding of Paws

  Sarah’s stepfather was the captain of an oil tanker, the Protex, and he had invited her and her mother on board for a short trip through a remote part of the Norwegian fiords. Jack Peters had only recently married Sarah’s mother, and as his relationship with his stepdaughter had immediately been difficult, he had invited them both in an attempt hopefully to create more of a family unit.

  But rather than drawing the three of them closer, the voyage only emphasized Sarah’s sense of isolation. Her mother and stepfather seemed totally absorbed in each other, and although Jack Peters tried to involve Sarah, she deliberately ignored him, for her initial dislike had now hardened into hatred.

  Sarah took every opportunity to avoid them – a little difficult on an oil tanker, however large it was. As a result, she roved the decks until she knew every steel plate and almost every rivet. Some of the crew tried to befriend her but she snubbed them, so it wasn’t long before she was dubbed ‘that sulky brat’ and even overheard one crewman saying to another, ‘Wouldn’t fancy that little misery for a daughter.’

  But Sarah continued with her aloof martyrdom, almost beginning to enjoy it, rejecting all her stepfather’s attempts at friendship, despite her mother’s increasing concern.

  The Norwegian cliffs, craggy and bleak by day and dark-cloaked at night, were as oppressive to her as her mother’s relationship with Jack Peters, and as the Protex sailed through the deep, watery canyons of the fiords, the black rock on either side became as narrow as her unyielding attitude.

  Then, early one evening, having decided against lingering over supper and listening to her stepfather’s nervous heartiness, Sarah took yet another walk down the long deck of the tanker. Half-way down, she saw a man in a protective suit emerging from a ladder that disappeared into one of the vast, empty oil tanks. When he saw her, he immediately looked furtive, and Sarah saw that there was a gash on one side of his face which was weeping blood.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked hesitantly.

  The man looked alarmed and began to hurry away. ‘I’m all right,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Just slipped and cut myself, didn’t I?’

  But when he had gone, Sarah continued to pace the already darkening decks. There was something at the back of her mind, something wrong about that gash. Then she realized that it didn’t look like a gash at all. It was much more like a bite.

  ‘A bite?’ Jack Peters laughed uproariously. ‘What do you think I’ve got down there? Alsations? Guard dogs? We don’t need those on the Protex – I’ve got enough dogs in my crew.’ He laughed again. He was almost as wide as he was tall, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his muscular, square-framed body. Her stepfather had a Viking beard, a deep tan and a shock of white hair. Jack was certainly a striking figure, thought Sarah, but he was so – so obvious. How could Mum have married such a stupid old sea captain?

  ‘I’ll tell you what, though,’ continued Jack Peters. ‘We have got a few bits and pieces in those tanks. Crate or two of whisky, a few spare car tyres, couple of tape decks and speakers – even a china tea service we picked up at Lancom. They’re presents for some old mates who’ll give us a few gifts in return. I like my vodka – and a fur coat for your mum. And what about some jewellery for you, Sarah? Make a young woman of you at last,’ he finished patronizingly, while she scowled at him fiercely.

  ‘You’re no more than an old smuggler, Jack,’ her mother chided with an indulgent smile.

  ‘Perks,’ he grinned. ‘Perks make the world go round. So I should steer clear of those tanks,’ he said. ‘Apart from being loaded with contraband, they’re deep and dangerous.’

  ‘Sarah wouldn’t dream of climbing down into one of those, would you, dear?’ said her mother.

  ‘She’s still a bit of a tomboy, Lizzy,’ laughed Jack.

  Tomboy? Sarah would rather die than fit such a dated description. ‘I wouldn’t go near the filthy things,’ she snapped, and stalked out.

  Nevertheless, the tanks did begin to fascinate her. Why had that man been so furtive? Why did the gash look like a bite? At least there was something to interest her on board the Protex, to take her mind off her misery.

  Casually, she returned to the tank and gazed down at it in the darkness. Lit by the harsh spotlights on deck, the steel had turned a strange grey-white colour and no longer looked hard and firm. In fact, the lights seemed to give it a slight rippling effect. Tightly gripping the top of the ladder, Sarah peered cautiously downwards; as she did so she caught a faint sound echoing up from the darkness below.

  At first she couldn’t identify it, but when she heard the noise again she felt a creeping, bitter cold welling up inside her. Something alive was in the tank. Something that was growling.

  The coldness slowly faded and was replaced by a surge of anger. For some reason Jack Peters was lying. He must have dogs down there guarding contraband a good deal more valuable than the ‘perks’ he had mentioned. One of them must have bitten the crewman she had seen earlier. So was Peters a drug-runner? Was the tank stacked with illegal goods? Slowly, an interesting plan seeped into Sarah’s mind – so interesting that she could hardly believe her good fortune. If she discovered that Peters was a crook, then surely her mother would leave him. But first, Sarah had to find out what was inside the tank. There should be some kind of inspection panel. If she could find a high-powered torch and open the panel she might be able to see down into the tank. That way she would not be in danger from the dogs.

  Sarah realized that she had seen a large torch in one of the stores she had visited on her daily prowls. She knew she would have to be careful, for there were several crewmen on watch and if she were seen she would be in big trouble as well as being completely humiliated.

  Leaning forward again for a last check, Sarah saw what she thought might be the inspection hatch. Retreating carefully, she walked casually away. At last she had the chance to rescue her mother from that horrible man.

  No one was in the store, and Sarah found the torch easily. So far so good. She glanced at her watch. Nine. She had at least another hour before she would be expected to go to bed.

  Sarah strolled back to the tank, and when one of the crew passed her she pretended to look up at the stars, muttering a sullen acknowledgement to his greeting so that she could keep to the role she had created for herself.

  Once he had gone, she hurried over to the ladder and, carefully looking around her, scrambled down and crouched by the hatch, sliding it soundlessly across. At once a pungent smell filled her nostrils – a smell that was rank and strong. The dogs must have been cooped
up below decks for a long time, she thought. How cruel Jack Peters was.

  Sarah flicked on the torch, but to her acute disappointment discovered the beam was weak and pale, only penetrating a small portion of the darkness below. Then she froze. She could hear a monotonous padding sound which was incredibly chilling. Sarah held her breath, her ears straining to catch the sound, which had a distinct rhythm, as if all the paws were moving in one direction and then another, prowling together in a pattern that was repeated over and over again. That and the rank, raw smell made Sarah rigid with fear. These animals weren’t dogs. But what could they be?

  Intensely curious, Sarah peered down into the darkness and was just able to pick out a narrow ladder leading into the tank itself. It was very steep and vanished into the blackness below, but she knew she couldn’t back out now. Sarah resolutely swung herself on to the ladder, and began to climb down.

  The beam was too weak to pick out anything, but Sarah continued her blind descent. Eventually she paused again, listening intently. The padding had stopped and there was not the slightest sound from down below; instead there was a sense of waiting, of watching. If it hadn’t been for her overwhelming desire to incriminate Jack Peters, Sarah would have raced up the ladder and never returned to the tank again, but somehow she forced herself on, the waiting silence deepening. Slowly, hesitantly now, Sarah pulled out her torch and swung it below her in a wide arc, but the beam had become even weaker. Then she saw the winking lights.

  Sarah was so terrified that she almost fell off the ladder. What were they? The little red lights were unmoving but by now she was paralysed with fright. It was impossible to judge how far down this black pit she had come and how much further she had to go. Sarah shuddered; she couldn’t decide whether to go up or down, and when she tried the torch yet again she found that the battery had almost given up completely. Sarah grasped the cold metal of the ladder, pressed her forehead against a rung and wondered what she was going to do next. She felt exhausted, her limbs nightmarishly heavy.

  Then something sprang up at her with a yelp and Sarah immediately realized what the little red lights must be.

  The red eyes gazed at her; she could smell fetid breath, hear snapping, salivating jaws as she clung to the ladder. Then a paw brushed her shoe and the howling began as the pack jumped at her in frenzied hunger. Sarah screamed and screamed again, dropping the torch, kicking out, loosening the pack’s grip.

  Desperately she hung on to the sides of the ladder and hauled herself up, nausea rising and a great feverish heat in her head. Then, above her, Sarah saw light.

  *

  She could just make out a voice from above, urging her on.

  ‘I can’t move,’ she muttered.

  ‘You must.’ When Sarah gazed up she could see the man in the protective suit, his torn cheek covered by a dressing. ‘You must climb.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She clung on, sobbing in abject fear. Then she made the mistake of looking down.

  In the now powerful beam of her would-be rescuer’s torch, Sarah saw the pack salivating up at her, their yellow teeth sharp as needles, their eyes hungry. They wanted her. They had to have her. She could see the hunger, feel the hunger. It was utterly compelling and Sarah knew she had to give herself up to them, for their need was so much greater than hers. She began to slide down the ladder, until she was within metres of their jaws.

  Sarah whimpered, still clinging on, the pack bounding and snapping, yelping fiercely. Her giddiness increased and the wolves swam in front of her eyes. The ladder seemed insubstantial, the torch above her simply coloured light, the man’s face a blob.

  ‘Sarah, take a grip on yourself. Now.’

  ‘They need me.’

  ‘They’re hungry. They want you, Sarah. You have to fight – fight them out of your mind.’

  He was right. There were voices in Sarah’s head now – as commanding as that of the man above her. More so. The voices kept repeating her name over and over again, some wheedling, others inviting. They were voices she recognized – friends, relatives, her mother’s …

  ‘Come to me, darling. I need you. I want you to help me. Come to me now.’

  ‘I’m coming, Mum,’ she cried.

  ‘No!’ The voice was much nearer now and she felt his boot on her knuckles, grinding painfully until the pain was greater than the power of the voices in her head. ‘Climb,’ he said. ‘Climb.’ Slowly, painfully and unwillingly, Sarah climbed up the ladder, away from the deadly clamour.

  ‘Sarah, darling. Sarah, are you all right? Try and say something to me.’ It was her mother’s voice again, but this time softer, and the air around her was fresh and salty with a light, dancing wind that spoke of life and hope.

  The man in the protective suit and her mother knelt beside her. Standing a few metres away was Jack Peters. He was no longer buoyant and hearty; instead his face was grey with despair.

  Her mother looked up at him and Sarah could see that there was no anger in her eyes – only sorrow and suffering. She knew now that she would never be able to divide them.

  Jack Peters spoke slowly and quietly. ‘In a couple of hours we’ll have reached the deepest water in these fiords. Then I shall be able to drown them.’ He paused and then continued. ‘I was told the pack was cursed and I’ve been paid to drown them. Of course, it’s all nonsense. They’re just wolves, that’s all. But the villagers at Lancom are very superstitious …’

  Cursed, thought Sarah. Of course they are.

  Lying sleepless in her bunk, Sarah heard the terrible howling as the wolves were discharged, the huge steel plates revolving, the bottom of the tank sliding away, the pack drowning in the surging cold of the dark, deep water of the fiord. Sarah turned over, burying her face in the pillow, but she couldn’t shut out the cries that now sounded so pitifully human.

  ‘Did any of the wolves survive?’ asked Ian.

  Anne shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’ Then she added more firmly, ‘I’m sure they didn’t. How could they?’

  No one replied. Suppose they had reached the mainland. The thought of their strong forelegs pulling them out on to some rocky shore filled Alan’s mind.

  ‘I’ve got a story,’ Terry said.

  6

  The Prisoner

  The Grove Estate was steel grey, gloomy and desolate, composed of six high-rise blocks. The flats were scheduled for demolition in the near future, but for the moment were being kept open for a few sitting tenants and some families that had become homeless and were being temporarily rehoused.

  Tim’s family was a case in point. His dad had been a builder, but when he went bankrupt their home had been repossessed and the council gave them accommodation on the estate. The squalor of their new surroundings came as a severe shock; their small semi-detached house, with its rockery and strip of lawn, had always been so clean and neat. The entrance to their tower block was full of litter and the lifts were filthy, covered in graffiti, smelt horrible and were often out of use, which meant that the few remaining residents had to clamber up and down concrete stairways that were always sinister in the permanent half-light.

  Street gangs roamed the wasteland below and the blocks echoed day and night with their shouts, the revving of stolen cars and the plaintive howling of the occasional stray dog. Tim’s father described his family’s feelings exactly when he said that climbing up to their flat on the tenth floor was like ‘ascending into hell’. Worse still, the Parkers had arrived in a heat wave and the rancid smell was at its height.

  They only had one neighbour – a reclusive middle-aged lady who, the housing officer said, was called Mrs Bishop and had a daughter of about Tim’s age called Angie. But the Parkers never saw any sign of Angie – only Mrs Bishop returning with heavy shopping bags and a surly nod. Another mystery was that there was a complete absence of graffiti on the tenth floor and none of the marauding, vicious-looking street gangs ever came near.

  A few days after moving in, Tim started at his new school. The lift wasn’t
working, so he was about to run down the concrete stairs when he noticed the very first piece of graffiti he had ever seen scrawled across the wall. Normally it simply bore the stark legend FLOOR TEN, but now Tim saw that the word BEWARE had been added.

  Tim heard the sound of footsteps clacking down the passageway behind him and Mrs Bishop emerged, looking angry, with a tin of white paint and a brush. When she saw Tim she paused uneasily.

  ‘Morning,’ Tim muttered.

  ‘They’re at it again,’ she said. She put down the can, opened it, dipped her brush in and began to slap paint over the word. ‘The council ought to be doing this. But you never see them. Not round here.’

  ‘I’d love to meet your daughter,’ began Tim innocently, seizing his opportunity. ‘There’s no one around here my age.’

  ‘Angie doesn’t go out,’ snapped Mrs Bishop dismissively. ‘Not anywhere.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Angie go out?’ asked Tim hesitantly.

  ‘Sick.’

  ‘What kind of sick?’

  ‘You’re curious, aren’t you?’ Mrs Bishop’s voice was razor sharp.

  ‘Sorry …’ The last thing he wanted to do was to offend her. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘She’s been sick for a long time,’ Mrs Bishop admitted grudgingly.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Tim persisted.

  ‘She’s got a weak heart, poor mite. The doctor’s ordered complete rest, and unless Angie gets that rest –’ Mrs Bishop’s voice shook, and Tim was shocked by the fear in her eyes. He felt very sorry for her; she was obviously on her own and without help.

  ‘Can I do anything for her?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Oh no. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all,’ replied Mrs Bishop, the barriers going up again.

  ‘I wouldn’t excite her.’

  ‘I’m sorry …’