by M. V. Stott
There had been a scream; not in my head, not in whatever weird thing that was I’d just experienced, but out here, in the night. Not a fun scream, not a people playing around and being young and boisterous drunk scream. No, this was a blood-curdler. A for-God’s-sake-won’t-someone-please-help-me scream.
I ran towards the sound.
As I burst out of the dark of the alley into the comparatively bright square, my foot kicked something heavy and I found myself sprawling and tumbling at speed into the cobbles, my head bouncing painfully as it connected briefly with the ground.
I lay for a few seconds, getting my breathing under control and trying to decide whether to throw up or not. I went with not. I pushed myself into a sitting position, the world tilting, and gingerly fingered my throbbing temple. I could already feel a lump rising like I was a cartoon cat who’d just been bashed over the head with a frying pan.
Feeling stupid for not looking where I was going, I peered over to see what I’d tripped over. I was expecting to see a bag of rubbish, or perhaps a tree root pushing up from a crack in the cobbles. What I wasn’t expecting to see was the body of a woman with her throat torn out.
No, I wasn’t expecting that at all.
2
Pain in my head forgotten, I shuffled on my knees to the prone body laid out flat on her back before me. I swallowed, throat dry, a metallic tang invading my mouth that made me want to gag.
‘Hey…’ my voice emerged an arid whisper. ‘Are you… are you… okay…?’
Yes, it was a stupid question, but if I might be forgiven in the circumstances, it’s not every day one trips over a violently murdered woman.
She looked to be in her late thirties, her eyes still wide and staring blankly up into nothing. What was the last thing those eyes saw? At what point had she realised her life was about to be given a violent, painful full stop? I felt a fist of anger clench in my stomach.
Now I was closer I could see that not all of the blood on the ground was random splashes and sprays, some of it had been placed in deliberate patterns. Shapes that looked almost occult in nature and made me feel strange to look at.
Had the tramp done this to her? She’d come this way, but surely she hadn’t had enough time; but then where was she? Would she really just run away after stumbling across a dead body?
Hand shaking, I reached out and tried for a pulse just in case I was wrong. I wasn’t wrong. I shivered, not because of the cold of the night, but because her flesh was already cold, which was, well, wrong. This had happened recently. The blood was still wet, recently spilled. She should still be warm to the touch, or warmer than she was at least. I looked at the ragged tear in her throat, blood still pooling out onto the ground, soaking her long, red hair that was splayed out around her. What could do that? A knife? Or—
—Another scream.
Okay, okay, this was too much. This was all much too much. Someone had just been murdered and the killer was somewhere close. This was dark and scary and dangerous and it was stupid to even think about going forward rather than back. I’m no hero, I should have been getting as far away as possible and calling the police so they could get their arses over there to sort things out. So why were my stupid feet carrying me towards the danger?
Stupid, stupid feet.
I crossed the little square in record-breaking time and raced down another alleyway. This time it didn’t open up, but turned left, then right, before I finally emerged onto a back street behind a row of shops. As I stepped out I had the forethought to look at the ground, to make sure I didn’t go tumbling over another dead body.
No dead body. That was a good start.
I looked around, eyes and ears straining for any indication of danger, my every nerve ending feeling like it was tingling, achingly alive. There were large overflowing bins and metal skips. Gates leading into shop backyards. Another alley in the distance, leading the way out. Plenty of places to hide. To lurk. To pounce on anyone foolhardy enough to investigate.
Everything sounded quiet. It was like the back alley was holding its breath to see what happened next. I hoped it was something nice and not at all deathy.
‘Okay, Joe, get a hold of yourse—’
Something moved: a shape, a dark patch of the world, something my eyes wanted to ignore.
It leapt from the shadows and barged into me. I went down, reaching out, trying to grab hold of something; some clothing, a limb, anything. My fingers brushed against something soft and cold and—
—Hunger, Hunger, Hunger—
So many screams, so much blood, and Christ, the need, the need, it never stops, never decreases, it’s just there-there-there demanding more and they scream as I approach and I like that, I exist for that moment, and then the feast! The feast! I can gorge on their fear and their real—
—It was gone as quick as it started, the terrible hunger, the taste in my mouth, the overpowering need to gorge on… on awful things. I pulled away, teeth bared, fingers digging painfully into my chest. Wincing, I pulled my hands away and sagged, panting, glad that whatever had just happened was over.
But of course it wasn’t over. There was more horror to come.
I looked to where the… the thing, the dark shape, emerged from… and saw two feet sticking out. Another woman. Another corpse. What the hell was happening? All I’d been doing was a little light stalking and I’d stepped into a nightmare.
‘Help… help…’
She was alive! Holy, buggering, shit, she was still alive!
I scrabbled over on my hands and knees to find her curled up, bloodied, but still breathing.
‘Ha ha! Fuck you, you murdering twat!’
I must have surprised the attacker; spooked them before they finished the job!
‘Please… please…’
‘Hey, hi, it’s okay, don’t worry, it’s okay.’ I burbled these and other words at the woman, relief and joy coursing through my veins as my hands fluttered over her, trying to make sure she wasn’t suffering from anything immediately life threatening, like a cleaver sticking out of her neck. She flinched away at first, or at least tried to.
‘I’m still in me. I’m still in me.’
‘What? What d’you mean?’
‘Don’t take it, please, please, it’s mine, it’s…’
‘It’s okay, don’t panic, you’re going to be okay. What’s your name?’
But that’s all she managed to squeeze out until she shuddered once and passed out. I yanked out my phone and dialled for an ambulance, hoping to God, to Buddha—to whatever those alien ghost things Tom Cruise believed in were—that she’d hang on until they arrived.
***
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