Nightmare Valley

by David Longhorn

  Unless she's getting ready for a bit more rumpy-pumpy, he thought.

  He cursed under his breath. It had never occurred to him that the mystery woman might be going to the woods for another sexual assignation – that she might have another lover besides Wakefield. The idea made him angry because it introduced a complication. He would not risk encountering another man.

  The whore, he thought. Typical small-town trollop. Probably charges 'em for it.

  Larkin waited for the mystery man to appear, but there was no sight of anyone else. And instead of lying down, the woman set off again, walking deeper into the woods. Puzzled, he resumed his pursuit, but after a few seconds, she stopped again. This time, to his bafflement, she took off her shirt and hung it on a low branch. She removed her jeans, and slung them over a bush. Then she turned to look directly at Larkin, and waved.

  “Hello, big boy!” she shouted. “Come and get me!”

  Larkin's stomach lurched in confusion.

  How can she see me? It's impossible in this gloom!

  He felt an urge to turn and flee back to his cottage. As if sensing his indecision, she turned her back to him, wiggled her behind, then stuck her hand in the air, showing a middle finger.

  “You scared, then?” she called over her shoulder. “What's the matter, old man? No more lead in your pencil?”

  Anger welled up again, the fury blotting out all reason. Larkin could not bear a woman laughing at him, mocking him, making him feel weak. He began to crash through the underbrush, all pretense of stealth gone.

  “I'll show you who's scared, you little slut,” he growled.

  She giggled, dodged behind a large tree trunk. Larkin charged on, almost falling over a root. When he rounded the tree, she was nowhere to be seen. Then he saw a pale shape a dozen yards away.

  How did she move that fast?

  Shrugging off the thought, Larkin resumed the chase. But by now he was feeling his age. His blood was pounding in his ears and his knees seemed liable to give out. Hatred and the deep-rooted need to hurt the woman gave way to physical distress, and he slowed down, then stopped, bent double and started wheezing.

  Without turning to look back, the pale figure halted too. Then the woman turned and started to walk back towards him.

  “Losing interest, Jack?” she shouted.

  Something about her voice seemed strange to him. It seemed thicker, and deeper than before. A sense of unease came over him. This was not the way the drama was supposed to unfold.

  No good if they're willing, he thought. Got to be scared.

  She got closer, and he straightened up, made a fist, preparing to knock her down as soon as she came within reach. As she got closer, the night-vision goggles revealed more of her face, her body. Again, he sensed something wrong. Her limbs seemed thinner and longer than before. Her fingers had grown, and the nails were now several inches long. Her face was much less attractive, too. In fact, she looked hideous, her mouth protruding like a muzzle, her eyes tiny black beads inside deep sockets.

  Without thinking, Larkin began to retreat. The woman dropped to all fours and bounded forward. Larkin gave a cry of alarm as she leaped and struck him square on the chest. He fell flat onto his back, lashing out with his fists. None of his blows seemed to have any effect on the monstrous being. Its inhuman face came closer and he saw that the tubular mouth was lined with needle-like teeth.

  “What's up, Jack?” it breathed. “Changed your mind halfway through the game? I don't think so!”

  “Get off me!” he yelled, trying to shove the nightmarish being away.

  “Now you're hurting my feelings!” it replied. “Toying with a girl's affections!”

  He felt vicious teeth sink into his flesh and then, with a sudden jerk of her head, she ripped away most of his nose. The pain was unbearable. He gave a gargling scream as blood flooded his mouth.

  “Turnabout is fair play,” growled the being.

  “No!” he moaned. “Let me go!”

  The creature laughed.

  “Can't do that,” it crooned. “You might go and tell tales, get me into trouble.”

  “I won't! I promise I won't!” he screamed.

  The monster shook its head.

  “Let's cut to the chase, Jack,” it said. “We both know what it is you're really afraid of.”

  It plunged vicious talons between his legs. There was a ripping sound, an excruciating blast of pain shot through him, and he saw the monster hold up a near-shapeless clump of flesh.

  Through the agony, Larkin felt himself grow suddenly cold. Blood loss had become critical. He knew that he was about to die. All his hatred, rage, and lust had long since evaporated, replaced by a basic, desperate desire to live. Then that, too, flickered out like a candle in the night.

  Chapter 4: Creatures of Light and Darkness

  The next morning, Denny got up and had breakfast at the Black Swan. Her order was taken by Phoebe, the grumpy teen who tended the bar in the evenings. In response to Denny's hearty 'Good morning!' Phoebe managed a grunt and a frown. An attempt to discuss the weather failed and Denny gave up on small talk.

  She sent a message to Gould, phrasing it carefully. 'Couple of possible leads,' she wrote. 'Will check out kids today if possible.'

  Mel emerged from the kitchen with Denny's scrambled eggs. They began to chat while Phoebe sat at another table playing with her phone. It was just after eight when Denny saw Isobel Bavistock clearly for the first time. The little girl, clad in a neat school uniform, emerged from behind the bar as Mel was refreshing Denny's coffee. Isobel had large blue eyes, a spray of freckles across her nose, and very fair hair in bunches.

  “Hey, who's this?” Denny asked, making sure to beam at the child.

  Isobel just looked blankly at the newcomer, then stared down at her shoes.

  “Aw, guess she's shy,” Denny said to Mel. “And real cute!”

  “Didn't used to be so shy,” Mel replied, with a faint smile. “Gone a bit quiet lately, though.”

  The woman bustled around the bar, putting on her daughter's coat, then scooping up a pink satchel with a unicorn logo.

  “I'll just walk her along to school, now,” she said to Denny. “Anything you need, just ask Phoebe.”

  Yeah, right, thought Denny, glancing at the sulky waitress. No doubt about her being a real person. No Interloper could be that miserable.

  Denny watched as Mel took her daughter outside. She had noticed the small school as she drove into town. It was about fifty yards from the Black Swan. Denny's table was in the bow-fronted window, and as she looked out, children of Isobel's age started going by singly and in groups. None of them were accompanied by adults. Yet Mel Bavistock was clearly unwilling to let her daughter venture out alone for even a few minutes.

  When the landlady returned, they chatted some more. Denny talked about the weather and her journey from London before casually working her own – purely imaginary – niece into the conversation.

  “Yeah,” she said, “my sis worries about her, says she doesn't really make friends, she's too quiet, kind of nervous all the time. I guess she has a point, but sometimes kids just go through quiet phases, don't they?”

  Mel gave Denny an appraising look, then shrugged.

  “Well, I suppose they're all little individuals,” she said, picking up dirty plates. “And Isobel's not as chatty as she used to be. But that's not surprising. She had a bit of a fright a while back.”

  “Oh, that's too bad,” said Denny, putting on her most sympathetic expression.

  “It was nothing, really,” Mel began, “but at the time we all got a bit worked up about it. I suppose what happened to poor Marie Wakefield was in our minds.”

  “What happened?” asked Denny. Then, seeing Mel hesitate, she added quickly, “No, I shouldn't ask. None of my beeswax.”

  The landlady took the plates out to the kitchen, then returned with fresh coffee and an extra cup.

  “Phoebe,” she said. “Washing up won't do itself, will i
t?”

  The teen stomped out sullenly. When she was out of earshot, Mel sat down at Denny's table.

  “You know,” she said, “maybe talking to someone from outside Machen would help. There are some things about it all – I don't know. It just seems like …”

  Denny was leaning forward, smiling encouragingly, but Mel was no longer looking at her. Instead, the woman was staring out of the window, mouth open. Twisting around, Denny was confronted by two small faces looking in. They were a boy and girl, both ginger-haired, also wearing the now-familiar school uniform. They were gazing straight at Mel, their green eyes unblinking.

  “Who are they?” asked Denny.

  “They're the Hawkes twins,” said Mel hastily, standing up. “Isobel's friends. I'd better be getting on, if there's nothing else you want?”

  “No, I'm fine,” said Denny. “If you feel like talking later I–”

  “I'm all right, really,” Mel interrupted, turning away. “I'll be out back if you need me for anything.”

  Denny stared as the landlady rushed out of the room, then looked back out at the two children. But the twins had already gone. Denny finished her toast in silence, as the cup of coffee Mel had poured for herself grew cold.

  ***

  Gould tried to concentrate on routine work but his thoughts kept returning to the prisoner in the sub-basement. It had been weeks since he had seen the Interloper in the flesh. The thought of encountering it again made his skin crawl. Yet, at the same time, he knew that it might hold the key to easing his own guilt. The guilt he felt at failing to save his little sister from the Interlopers decades earlier.

  Eventually he gave in to temptation, closed the file he had been working on, and clicked on the security system icon. As a senior operative, he had access to the various closed-circuit cameras around the installation. However, he found that this did not extend to the one in the special confinement room numbered 101. The number irked him more than it should have.

  Benson being pretentious again, he thought. As if it's all just an intellectual game.

  Gould got up and walked along the corridor to the Security Watch Room, where he found a small team supervised by Forster. Among them was Jim Davison, one of the survivors of the 'Malpas Massacre'. A wall of screens showed various parts of the foundation's complex HQ. A single large screen in the middle of the array was currently showing the atrium.

  “I was wondering when you'd show up,” said Forster. “Now our guest is awake. Bring up the cell, Jim.”

  The large screen flickered, and Gould felt his chest tighten as the creature called and Lucy appeared. It was no longer clad in little girl's brightly-colored pajamas, but a white hospital smock. The creature lay on its side, knees drawn up. Shackles were attached to its ankles and wrists. A black metal collar was fastened around its neck and, like the shackles, chained to the cell wall.

  “As you can see,” Forster said, “it's reverted to its human form. A perfect facsimile of a child. According to Zoffany, you'd have to conduct a fairly detailed examination to determine that it wasn't human. Apparently, there are some inconsistencies in the heartbeat, things like that. Zoffany reckons a brain scan would show more radical differences, but of course that assumes we can get that thing into a scanner.”

  “If this footage gets out, we'd be in for it,” added Davison. “Nobody would believe it's not a little girl. Human trafficking, child abuse, God knows what.”

  Gould nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  Why did I want to see that thing … that monster?

  “Because you wanted to see her face again,” said the prisoner.

  “What – what did it say?” Gould stuttered.

  Forster and Davison exchanged a significant glance.

  “That's the first peep we've had out of it since the escape attempt,” the security chief explained. “It obviously knows you're watching.”

  “I can bring her back,” said Lucy, looking straight at the security camera. “How about that, Edward? Would you like your sister back?”

  Gould felt the room start to spin and clutched the back of Davison's chair.

  “Maybe you shouldn't be here, Ted,” said Forster quietly.

  The rest of the team was pointedly not looking at Gould. He shook his head.

  “I know all about its tricks,” he pointed out. “And so do you. They're all deceivers by nature.”

  “That's not what he's thinking, guys,” Lucy said. “But you knew that already, didn't you?”

  “I don't suppose we can speak to that thing from here?” Gould asked.

  “No, no need for that,” Forster replied. “We just have directional mics in the cell.”

  “Okay,” Gould said. “I'll let you get on.”

  Back in his office, he tried to resume his routine admin work. But the creature's words haunted him. He thought of his failure to save Lucy, the real Lucy, decades ago.

  I was just a little boy, he said. I could hardly fight those things.

  But he still condemned himself for losing her.

  After an hour or so, he gave up on work and signed himself out. He needed fresh air in his lungs, oxygen in his brain. Walking in a nearby park, he watched as a young woman supervising her small children as they fed the eager ducks some bread. The birds, Gould knew, should not be fed bread. There was even a warning sign right next to the family.

  It's bad for the ducks, he thought. But they crave it, nonetheless.

  He thought of the Interlopers. They clearly craved entry to the human world, a dimension radically different to their own. And it was definitely bad for them, the very laws of nature differing from those in the Phantom Dimension. The Interlopers encountered at Malpas, for all their ferocity, had literally fallen apart after a few hours in this reality. The laws of physics, as humans knew them, acted like some corrosive acid.

  So why isn't the Lucy-monster decaying? Gould asked himself. What is different about that particular one?

  The question had been posed many times before, most notably by Benson and Zoffany. The foundation's experts on biology had struggled to answer it. The tentative hypothesis was that Lucy represented some kind of new, improved model – a super-Interloper. It was an obvious notion, and might well be true. But now a different, if related, idea began to form in the back of Gould's mind. He pondered what it would take for a being to adjust to a different kind of physics. As he continued his slow walk around the duck pond, one possibility occurred to him.

  Some kind of shield – but what kind of shield would protect a being against natural laws?

  A little girl in fairy wings rushed by, brandishing a plastic wand topped with a tinsel star.

  Magic, thought Gould. Nice, simple answer that solves nothing.

  ***

  After breakfast, Denny changed into outdoor gear, including some new hiking boots, determined to explore Machen and the surrounding countryside. She had been careful to bring a waterproof coat with substantial pockets. Into these, she put her phone, along with the only weapon she had, which was a small can of cheap hairspray. Tasers and police-style pepper spray, she had been informed, were as illegal as guns for civilians.

  What had been a fine morning had become overcast and blustery, with the threat of rain later. Her first destination was St David's Church at the end of the main street. Her route took her past the school. As she came abreast of the school gates, a bell rang and children flooded out into the yard. Despite the cold, damp weather, they began to play games and simply race around with childish energy.

  Same in any country, she thought, smiling.

  Then she noticed that three children were not moving, just standing in the corner of the yard. As she grew nearer, she saw that the three were Isobel Bavistock, and the Hawkes twins. They were looking straight at her with blank, unblinking expressions. She then became aware of something else. Although the schoolyard was full of little kids burning off surplus energy, none of the others came too close to the silent, unmoving trio.

&nb
sp; Could be imagining it, she thought. Then she saw a young woman looking across the yard at her from the school's main doorway. A teacher had spotted a stranger paying attention to the kids. Denny resumed her walk to the church.

  When she got there, the building itself seemed unremarkable. She had seen dozens like it on her drive from Hereford. She went inside to check out the internet commentator's claims about a war memorial. Inside she found some leaflets, but none mentioned military matters. She began to scrutinize the walls, searching for some kind of plaque.

  Sure enough, she found one, listing casualties from World War Two. She snapped a picture with her phone, then decided to examine the rest of the interior for anything out of the ordinary. She soon concluded that St David's was a remarkably dull edifice and was about to leave when the vicar appeared. He introduced himself as the Reverend Samuel Arkwright.

  “I'm Denny,” she said carefully. “Over here getting a dose of good old English culture.”

  “Well, that's very heartening,” said Arkwright, who was a plump thirty-something with a receding hairline. “An American visiting after the tourist season's over, braving the English weather. Perhaps our fame is spreading?”

  “I guess so,” she said. “One of the things that attracted me to Machen is folklore, myths and legends, all that quaint stuff you get in the Welsh borders. Do you have anything along those lines here?”

  “Along those lines?” queried the priest, raising an eyebrow. “I doubt it, not really my area. Although–”

  Arkwright paused and looked past Denny. She followed his gaze to a featureless, whitewashed wall.

  “There was a mural painted there,” the priest explained, indicating the wall. “Way back in the Seventies someone uncovered it during a refurbishment. They covered it up again almost at once. But it was quite something, by all accounts.”