AFTER DARK
by
Mikey Campling
A Tale from the Dark
This story is dedicated to creators everywhere
your work makes the world a little brighter.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that.
-Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
Mikey Campling
mikeycampling.com
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Table of Contents
title page
dedication
Get Free Books
Friday Night - The North Sea
Saturday Morning - Whitby, North Yorkshire
Saturday Afternoon - The Steps to Whitby Abbey
The Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Whitby
The Crescent, Whitby
Thank You For Reading
Coming Soon
Also by Mikey Campling
Connect With the Author
About the Author
Copyright
FRIDAY NIGHT - THE NORTH SEA
The dog swims. It swims with every fiber of its frozen muscles, fighting the crippling cold with every fierce surge of hot blood pumping through its shriveled veins. In this pitch-black night, struggling against this seething mass of stinking salt water, there is nowhere to swim to, but still it swims. There is no other choice.
A wave breaks over the dog’s head, stinging its eyes, its nose. The dog blinks and pushes on, stretching its neck high, straining to keep its muzzle above the waterline. It cannot stop, cannot give in. It has to live, has to survive.
But tonight the sea is hungry. And its unforgiving grip is cruelly cold: cold enough to stop the dog’s heart; cold enough to drain every last drop of energy from the creature’s exhausted body. And soon, the dog’s muzzle dips below the surface. It splutters, chokes and drives its legs hard against the icy water, striking out against the wintry fingers that claw at its belly and pluck at its sodden fur. It shakes its head and blows the freezing water from its nostrils. Its paws thrash through the water in a frenzied, desperate effort to stay alive. It raises its head, its eyes wild, staring into the darkness. And this is when it sees them.
Lights. Warm, yellow lights, twinkling through the distant mist. The kind of lights that mean people, warmth, shelter. The kind of lights that mean safety, that mean life.
The dog feels a growl building at the back of its throat. Its heart beats stronger. And now it will swim, it will make it to those lights, to those people. And as it forces its legs to plow on through the icy water, it knows that whatever else might happen, it will live.
SATURDAY MORNING - WHITBY, NORTH YORKSHIRE
Detective Sergeant Lowry made his way carefully down the steep path. He glanced at the waves crashing against the cliff face far below. He could taste the salt spray on his lips, feel it spattering against his cheeks. The chill early morning air leached the heat from his fingers. He paused and rubbed his hands together. It didn’t help. Christ, he thought, what a job.
The rough path had been trampled and churned by those who’d been first on the scene, and now it was treacherous; a slippery blend of smooth shale and slick mud. Lowry looked down the slope, toward the huddle of hunched figures who’d gathered where the waves broke against a cluster of fallen boulders. They’d be watching him, wondering what was taking him so long. He took a breath and walked on, keeping his eyes on the path. Always on the path.
At last, Lowry grunted and stepped down from the slope onto a patch of shingle. Thank god for that, he thought. He pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets and picked his way among the boulders toward the group of men. There was no need for crime scene tape in this desolate spot, and no need to show his ID. They all knew why they were here, and it wasn’t a duty any of them would’ve chosen. As Lowry approached, there were nods of recognition from a couple of uniformed officers who were standing guard, but the crime scene crew merely glanced in his direction and carried on with their grim work. Lowry looked at the photographer. The man was fussing with his camera, wiping the salt spray from his precious lens.
“You’ve finished?” Lowry asked.
The man nodded. “Not much choice,” he said. “The tide’s coming in. We’ve had to do the best we can.” He glanced over at the rocks. “A few more minutes then we’ll all have to go.”
Yes, Lowry thought, back to your warm lab. But he gave the man a sympathetic nod and moved on. The Medical Examiner, Doctor Myers, was kneeling down as best as he could on the rocks, and Lowry stood behind him. He took a deep breath of damp air and looked down at the body.
The young woman had come to rest on her side, her arms and legs splayed awkwardly against the jagged rocks. Her long dark hair was plastered across her face, and the contrast made her pale skin seem almost pure white. Her mouth hung open and her eyes stared out into nothingness. Lowry looked away, but the image of her face would stay with him. It was always that way, especially with the younger ones. He ran his eyes over her twisted body. Her coat looked expensive. It was black leather and would normally have reached almost to her ankles, but now it was twisted around her legs and flecked with strands of seaweed. Her dress was long too. It looked as though it was dark red or burgundy, but it was hard to tell when it was soaked in seawater. The color was more obvious, though, in her calf-length boots. They were bright purple and each was adorned with a row of silver buckles.
Lowry sighed and Doctor Myers looked up, his expression grim. “I hate to say this,” he said, “but we’ve got another one.”
Lowry’s shoulders slumped. “Show me,” he said.
Myers moved the collar of the woman’s coat a little to one side, exposing the side of her neck.
“Christ,” Lowry muttered. And there on her neck, was the last thing he wanted to see: cut deep into the woman’s pale skin, directly over her jugular vein, was a single pair of puncture marks.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON - THE STEPS TO WHITBY ABBEY
Jen reached out and shook Matt’s arm. “Stop it!” she hissed.
Matt smiled. “Why? Everyone counts the steps. It’s just what you do.”
“Yes, but you’re the only one doing it in hexadecimal.”
Matt laughed. “Relax. Geek is the new chic.”
Jen shook her head. “Not when you do it,” she said. “When you do it, it’s just... geek.”
“Just keep walking,” Matt said, “I want to, at least, have a look at the Abbey before it closes.”
Jen sighed and took hold of Matt’s hand. “You know,” she said, “you can be very immature.”
Matt grinned. “It’s part of my charm,” he said and moved forward to the next stone step. “Now, where did I get up to?”
“10, F, 8, 3, B, 2, 7,” Jen called out.
“No, don’t do that, I’ve totally lost my place now.”
“Oh dear,” Jen said. “We’ll just have to talk to each other instead.”
Matt shook his head and looked away. “Come on,” he grumbled. They walked in silence for a while, holding hands and watching the other tourists climbing and descending: the excited children running whenever they were allowed, the teenagers dragging their feet, the middle-aged couples looking faintly bemused, and the most elderly with walking sticks and determined expressions. And, of course, there were the Goths.
“There’s another two,” Matt said, as they passed a young couple. “That’s twenty points to me.”
Jen glanced at the couple, taking in the young man’s frilled white shirt that puffed out from the top of his red paisley waistcoat. His top hat was adorned with a ribbon of matching P
aisley and his black frock coat was studded with two rows of silver buttons. Quite an outfit, she thought. But the young woman’s frock was to die for: voluminous scarlet taffeta overlaid with a layer of intricate black lace. It oozed Edwardian authenticity and must’ve been hand-made. Jen pouted and looked down at her own attire: sensible warm coat over chain store jeans and regulation canvas shoes. “Don’t make fun of people,” she said.
“I’m not,” Matt said. “I’m just mucking about.”
“Well don’t. I’m not playing your stupid game.”
“All right,” Matt said. He paused and took a breath as they climbed the next step. “But you know, they dress like that to attract attention don’t they?”
Jen dropped his hand and stared at him. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
Matt stopped walking and turned to her. “Well, it’s true. And they’re getting on my nerves, cluttering the place up. All I wanted was a quiet weekend: a cottage by the sea; walks along the seafront; nights in by the fire.”
“Well, maybe you should’ve checked there wasn’t something going on, like, I don’t know, a Gothic festival.”
Matt gave her a withering look but carried on as though he hadn’t heard her. “And what do we get? Every pub is full of people looking like extras from a second-rate horror film, every café is packed out. We have to queue up for everything.”
Jen glanced anxiously from side to side. Matt was raising his voice and a group of elderly ladies was looking in his direction. One of them raised her eyebrows and said something. The other ladies laughed and shook their heads. “Matt,” Jen said, “stop making a fuss.”
“I mean, look at that guy.” Matt hooked his thumb toward a man leaning against the metal rail. “He looks like he got sacked from the freak show for breaking the dress code.”
Jen looked at the man in question. His black leather outfit, with its zips, straps, and buckles, was not the strangest she’d seen that day. But there was something about him. Something... unsettling.
He stood alone. His face was hard, his skin pale beneath his back-combed jet-black hair, and his cheeks sunken. He stood still, almost rigid, and stared into space, ignoring the passing tourists, his mouth fixed in a cruel sneer. And suddenly Jen realized: he’d heard what Matt had said, and he didn’t like it. She felt the skin prickle at the back of her neck. She turned back to Matt. “Just be quiet,” she said. She glanced back at the Goth. He hadn’t moved, but even so, it wasn’t a good idea to hang around. She took hold of Matt’s arm and urged him towards the next step. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get up these damn steps.”
But Matt hung back. “Don’t pull me,” he said, “I’m not a child.”
“Then stop bloody well acting like one.” She let go of Matt’s arm and carried on alone, stomping up the steps as fast as she could. It was the only way to get Matt moving.
Matt sighed and ran a hand over his face. He was in trouble now, there was no doubt about it. He glanced back at the leather clad Goth. Freak, he thought. But then, almost as if he’d read Matt’s mind, the Goth slowly turned his head and looked Matt in the eye. His stare was cold and hard, an unspoken threat, and Matt felt the blood drain from his face.
He swallowed hard and looked away, then turned and hurried after Jen. One of these days he’d learn to keep his mouth shut. Just my luck, he thought, to get beat up by one of the Lost Boys.
***
Johnny watched the couple hurry away. That’s right, he thought, run. Who the hell did these people think they were? Bloody tourists. What gave them the right to stare, to leer, to take his photo and make stupid remarks?
“Ignorant,” he muttered. A middle-aged man gave him a sideways look as he passed by. Johnny stared at him. Go on, he thought, say something. Give me a reason. But the man was already moving away and looking firmly ahead.
Johnny snorted and looked further up the steps. The young couple was together again. The man had his arm around her waist. Lucky bastard, he thought. He didn’t deserve a woman like that. She was nice. And she had brown eyes. He liked it when they had brown eyes.
He ran a finger across his lips. Maybe I’ll see you later, he thought, after dark.
***
As the sun slid slowly toward the horizon, the great dog lay on its side on the sand and stretched its legs to get some life back into them. It had slept all day, sheltering in the shade of a shallow cave at the base of a cliff. But despite its long rest, when the dog arched its long back its muscles burned with the familiar ache of old injuries. It bared its teeth. The men on the boat had made very free with their heavy boots, their lengths of thick rope.
And now it whined and worked its stiff jaw. Remembering the moment when it had finally fought back: the simple ease of its teeth slicing into the men’s salty flesh; the glorious spurting of hot blood; the rich, delicious tang of fresh blood on its lips, its tongue; the maddening, vivid stench of it. Wonderful. If only there’d been more time to enjoy it.
But no. The men had rallied, drawing their long knives, their vicious clubs, and there’d been no choice but to escape, to dive into the wild black water. The dog shivered. The cold had seeped into its bones. But it had survived. And now it was free - free to live as it liked, free to hunt, to feed.
Its stomach groaned and the dog rolled onto its front and pushed itself up to its feet. The sea breeze was growing cooler now and the dog flexed its powerful neck muscles and raised its snout to sniff the salty air.
It licked its lips. Its throat was dry. The thirst was almost overwhelming. But when the dog stepped forward, its legs buckled beneath it and it crashed down onto the sand.
It growled and struggled to stand, but it was no use. The dog closed its eyes and rested its head on its front paws. It exhaled loudly. It needed to rest and regain its strength. But not for too long. Because soon it would be dark, and then it would be time. Time to hunt.
THE CHURCH OF ST. MARY THE VIRGIN, WHITBY
Jen leaned against the stone wall that bordered the churchyard and looked out to sea. The long nights of the northern winter were drawing in, and although it was only late afternoon, the weak sunlight was already fading. And below the brooding sky, the North Sea was a restless mass of seething gray water. She plucked at the collar of her coat, pulling it tighter around her throat, and watched a boat dawdling home toward the harbor. She wondered where it had come from. From the flock of gulls that followed in its wake, she guessed it was a fishing boat, home from a long day battling against the biting wind and cruel waves. Just the thought of it made her shiver. I hope they caught something, she thought.
She turned and looked back toward the church. Matt was in his element, darting among the rows of crooked gravestones, his long coat flapping in the breeze, as he took as many photographs as he could. Jen sighed. She’d be expected to appreciate Matt’s handiwork later and he must’ve taken a hundred shots of the ruined abbey. Still, she had to admit that the gravestones had a melancholy beauty; their hard lines softened by centuries of sea spray. She thought of the grieving families who must’ve thought these monuments would last forever. How sorry they’d be to see their epitaphs eaten away, their loved ones long forgotten beneath a crumbling headstone.
She smiled sadly. Life was too short to stand and mope. She dug her hands into her coat pockets and walked to Matt’s side, trying hard not to step on the graves.
“Are you all right?” Matt asked. “You look cold.”
Jen stood close and Matt put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him and looked up into his eyes. “Do you mind if we go?”
Matt glanced around the graveyard. He’d be happy to stay and take photos until it got dark. “I suppose so,” he said. “What do you want to do? Get something to eat?”
Jen nodded. “In a while,” she said. “But I’d like to go down and walk by the sea. Before it gets dark. ”
Matt looked toward the sea. “I think the tide might be coming in. There won’t be much beach.”
“
I know. We’ll find somewhere.” She snuggled closer and rested her head against his chest. “It’ll be romantic. Just you, me and the waves.”
***
“Can I help you, sir?”
Johnny snapped out of his reverie. He turned to the shopkeeper. The man was a joke, a cartoonist’s idea of a bookshop owner: a threadbare tweed jacket, a limp mustache, a pair of large round spectacles. “No,” Johnny said, “just browsing.”
The shopkeeper pursed his lips. “It’s just that we do have a specialist section for customers with your... interest.”
Johnny grimaced. What the hell would you know about my interests? About me? The words battered against the sides of his brain, aching to be free. But there were other ways to fight back. Other ways to swat this petty little man down. “Really?” he asked. “You have a section on hematology?”
The shopkeeper rocked back on his heels. “Ah, well...”
“Because that’s my interest,” Johnny said. “I’m doing a Ph.D. At the University of York.”
“I see,” the man said.
“I work with blood.” Johnny grinned and leaned closer to the little man. “Lots of it,” he whispered. “Gallons.”
The shopkeeper cleared his throat. “I was just trying to help,” he said. “A lot of visitors like our local history section.”
Johnny rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. But listen, ghost stories and fairy tales are not histories.” Johnny was raising his voice now, enjoying the look on the little man’s face. “And I’ve got news for you, Bram Stoker wasn’t a historian, he was a bloody novelist. Not even a very good one.” Johnny looked around the shop. A few heads were turned toward him, but most people were busying themselves, scanning the shelves and pretending they hadn’t heard. Johnny waved his hand toward a gaggle of teenagers dressed all in black. “All this dressing up,” Johnny sneered. “It’s pathetic. They’ve no idea.”
After Dark Page 1
