High Moor (13 page)

The full moon illuminated the clearing with a soft silver light as Mr Wilson, the scout leader, clambered out of his tent. Flickering shadows played across the rows of canvas, and muted fragments of conversation, interspaced with sporadic giggles, came from within.

“Lights out you lot, I mean it.”

Instantly, the torches inside the tents flicked out and silence descended. Moments later, the whispering started again. Mr Wilson sighed. It was always the same on these camping trips. A ten-mile hike tomorrow would drain some of the boys’ excess energy, but tonight he doubted if any of them would get much sleep.

He winced at a flash of pain in his abdomen. He should never have let the children help cook the evening meal. The fact that the chemical toilet had mysteriously exploded did not make his situation any easier. He had his suspicions as to the identity of the culprits, but a search of Michael Williams’ and John Simpson’s rucksacks had not yielded so much as a box of matches. Tomorrow he'd get the little bastards to clean the toilet out and see how funny they thought they were then. He picked up a shovel and a roll of toilet paper and headed off into the trees to take care of business.

His cramps intensified as he made his way through the woodland, and his stomach made tortured rumbling sounds. Once he was far enough away from the camp, he dug a small pit behind a towering sycamore, dropped his pants and sighed with relief as he released the pressure on his insides.

A twig snapped somewhere to his left. His sphincter tightened in a reflex action, and pinched off the half-expelled turd. He winced in disgust. His peripheral vision caught a blur of movement in the darkness. Another branch snapped.

“Get back in your tent, now. If I have to come over there, then whoever this is will be going home, first thing in the morning.”

The woods were silent, apart from the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. Then another twig snapped, this time off to his right. Still crouched over the pit, he swung his torch up towards the source of the noise and caught a fleeting glimpse of white against the darkness.

“Do you think I’m joking? I can assure you this is not in the least bit funny.”

A thick, guttural growl came from behind. He got to his feet, trousers still around his ankles, and span around, sweeping the torch like a searchlight. The woods were silent.

He wiped himself down and refastened his trousers. “Little bastards, we’ll see who’s laughing when I get done with you.”

What if it’s not the boys playing silly buggers? What if it’s something else?

For the first time, Mr Wilson felt a small hard knot of fear forming in his stomach. He picked up the toilet roll and filled in the pit as quickly as he could, then set off through the trees towards the campsite.

The bracken at his feet erupted in a flurry of noise and movement. Mr Wilson let out an involuntary shriek before realising that he'd disturbed a family of pheasants roosting in the undergrowth.

He leaned against a tree. “Jesus.” The fear started to subside, and he felt a mixture of relief and utter foolishness. He’d been coming to these woods for over fifteen years. There was nothing more threatening here than the occasional badger.

A branch snapped directly behind him. He felt hot breath on the back of his neck. He span around, waving the torch before him like a sword.

The torch light reflected off white fur. Sharp claws dug into his arms and sliced through flesh and muscle until they hit bone. Powerful arms lifted him off his feet. He looked into the slavering maw before him and opened his mouth to scream.

The beast’s head drove forwards and dug its lower jaw under his chin, while its upper jaw clamped down on the top of his head. Flashbulbs of agony exploded across his head as fangs penetrated his skull. The pressure was unbelievable; he could hear bone crack, the sound echoing inside of his skull. His mouth was clamped shut, his scream locked inside him as the creature bit down. His jawbone shattered, then was severed by razor sharp teeth as they cut through his flesh. He could smell the hot stench of the creature’s breath, mingled with the metallic tang of his own blood as it gurgled in his throat. His skull splintered as the force of the bite increased, and Mr Wilson knew no more.

***

23rd May 1986. North Road, High Moor. 23:45.

Steven's CB radio crackled into life. “Hello, Sarge? Is there anyone there?”

He picked up the handset and pressed the talk button. “We’re here. What’s your status?”

“To be honest, I’m not even sure if I should be bothering you with this. A truck driver called in and reported that he’d seen a werewolf on the Durham road.”

Carl and Steven exchanged worried glances. “Did he say where? Or what direction it was heading?”

“I’m sorry, but are you taking this seriously? I spoke to him and he’s more than a little worse for wear from the drink.”

“In the absence of any other reports of large predators, yes, I’m taking it seriously. Now where was it, and which direction was it going?”

“According to the driver, he’d gotten out of his truck to relieve himself and saw the thing burst through a hedge near the old railway bridge. He locked himself in his cab, and the werewolf took off across the fields to the southwest.”

Carl unfolded a map and turned on the vehicle's interior light. Steven pointed to a road that ran from east to west.

“That’s where we had the sighting. There’s not really anything southwest of there for miles. Just open fields, the odd farmhouse, and Fenwick Hall.”

“What’s Fenwick Hall?”

“No one lives there now. It was a stately home, but was taken over by the county during WWII to house children from the cities. After that it was a special school. It’s been closed for about five years. No one really uses it now, except for…oh no.”

“What?”

“The boy scouts. They sometimes use the grounds for camping trips during the summer. If they're there this weekend, and that’s where it’s heading…”

Carl’s face turned white. “It’ll be a massacre. How far out are we?”

“It’s clear across town. It’ll take us at least ten minutes to get there.”

The CB crackled and Steven realised that he’d been holding the handset in a white-knuckled grip with the talk button pressed.

“Sarge,” said Constable Phillips, “I can be there in five minutes. I’ll check it out and make sure that everything is alright.”

“No, meet us on the road outside the hall, Constable. Don’t go in there by yourself. Do you read me?”

Static answered Steven. Cursing, he turned on the siren and pushed his foot down hard on the accelerator.

***

23rd May 1986. Fenwick Hall, High Moor. 23:47.

A long shrieking howl echoed around the clearing.

Lester Berryman sat upright in his sleeping bag and turned on his torch.

“What was that?”

Dylan Smith put his head under his pillow in an attempt to block out the light. “It’s just someone’s dog. Go to sleep fat boy, and turn that bloody torch off.”

“That didn’t sound like a dog.”

“That’s because it’s the Fenwick Hall Werewolf,” said Brian Morris. “It comes out on the full moon and eats fat cry babies like you.”

“Piss off, Brian, there’s no such thing as werewolves.”

“No, it’s true. It comes in the middle of the night and drags the fattest kid it can find out to the forest and then it eats him. That would be you.”

Lester clutched his torch tighter and huddled down in his sleeping bag. When he spoke, his voice wavered. “There’s no such thing. Now stop going on about it or I’m going to tell Mr Wilson.”

“You better not piss yourself, Lester. I don’t want to wake up floating in a lake,” said Dylan.

“Maybe we’d better make him sleep outside, just in case. Grab his sleeping bag.”

Lester kicked out at Brian as he leaned across and dragged the sleeping bag down.

“Have you seen his pyjamas, Dylan? They’ve got fucking bunny rabbits on them.”

“Get off, you bastards. I’m telling Mr Wilson, and I’m telling…”

A dark shadow passed over the tent, and they heard heavy breathing outside. Lester’s eyes widened in terror.

“It’s come for you, Lester. It’s going to get you,” said Brian.

The dark shadow rose up and the canvas bowed as something pushed against it. Guy ropes snapped. The tent poles creaked.

“John, Michael, go fuck yourselves. You’re not fooling anyone,” said Dylan.

The only response was a deep, drawn-out snarl. Five huge claws punctured the heavy canvas sheet and slid down, slicing through the fabric with a terrible ripping sound. Lester pointed the torch at the gaping hole in the tent and screamed.

***

Andrea Hicks was less than impressed as she lay in the scout leader’s tent, waiting for him to return. She had been seeing Colin Wilson for almost three years now and had even taken the assistant scout leader’s job so that they could spend time together, away from his wizened shrew of a wife.

These camping trips were the closest thing that they had to spending a weekend away. Unfortunately, they had to share that time with twenty-five screaming brats who delighted in making her life as difficult as possible. Then, to top it all off, as soon as she'd crept into his tent, the stupid old bugger had gotten an attack of the shits and disappeared into the forest.

“Way to go and spoil the mood, Colin,” she muttered, and pulled her jeans back on. The daft old sod could spend the night on his own.

A howl came from outside, so close that it seemed to be right outside of her tent. Then the screaming started.

She flung open the canvas door, ready to give the little bastards a good telling off.

A huge, white, muscular shape leaned into a tent and thrashed around inside. One of the poles had already collapsed, and the canvas rested over the rest of the creature as it fed. Dark stains spread across the fabric. Black viscous liquid dripped from the doorway and pooled on the ground outside.

A surge of adrenaline shot through her; her heart lurched as she took in the terrible scene.

Oh God! The boys. That thing's eating the boys.

She grabbed a hand axe and ran across the clearing, screaming Lester, Dylan and Brian’s names, praying for one of them to answer. All she could hear was her own voice and wet tearing sounds from inside the tent.

She swung the axe at the white shape, and the blade bit deep into the monster’s flank. It roared in pain and tore itself free of the tent to face its attacker.

The beast stood over seven feet tall. Ears lay flat against its head. White fur stained black with gore. Wet, glistening pieces of meat hung from four-inch talons. A tattered fragment of fabric, decorated with blood-soaked bunny rabbits was caught in its teeth.

“No,” she screamed, and lunged forward with the axe, burying the blade deep in the monster’s chest. It snarled in pain and swiped at her with a huge, blood-soaked paw.

***

The campsite was in pandemonium. Boys dressed in pyjamas ran screaming into the woods while others cowered in their tents, weeping in terror. John and Michael burst from their tent, fully dressed, in time to see Miss Hick’s head sail free from her neck and land in the embers of the campfire. Hair ignited, and the head burst into flames, the skin melting like wax.

Michael pulled a firework from his bag, lit the fuse, and pointed it at the creature.

“You killed my brother, you fucking cocksucker,” he screamed, as an incandescent ball of fire shot from the end of the firework and hit the werewolf square in the chest. It exploded with a thunderclap, and the monster fell back in shock. Michael reached for another firework. John grabbed his arm.

“For fuck’s sake, Mike. You're just pissing it off. We’ve gotta go. Now.”

The boys ran back along the trail toward the main road. The werewolf shook its head and, identifying its attacker, dropped to all fours and bounded across the clearing in pursuit.

“It’s coming. Run, for God’s sake, run.”

***

Constable Phillips turned into the Fenwick Hall estate and turned on the strobe light. Blue flashes illuminated the dark woods to either side of the vehicle as he drove along the gravel path to where the scouts camped.

He saw shapes on the road ahead. Two boys, sprinting towards him, their faces tear stained, contorted in terror and exhaustion. Behind them, something bigger--much bigger--was closing the distance with ease.

“Oh fuck…”

He slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt. He threw open his door as the boys raced past him, drew his pistol, and pointed it at the approaching monster.

OK, remember the training. Aim, breathe, squeeze.

He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, bloody safety catch.”

Then it was on him. Claws like kitchen knives tore through his abdomen, spilling entrails into the dirt. Blood sprayed across the side of the car. The werewolf thrust its head into the gaping wound and bit down, snapping ribs like dry twigs, and emerged with the unfortunate police officer’s heart in its fangs.

***

“The graves. Get to the graves,” said John, panting with exertion and sheer terror.

Michael nodded and urged his leaden limbs to give him more speed. He risked a glance behind and saw the werewolf drop the dead police officer to the ground and resume the chase.

John reached the mausoleum first and squeezed through the iron bars, flattening himself against the cold granite tomb. Michael was halfway through when the werewolf caught up.

Michael screamed as he was dragged back through the railings. John grabbed his arm and pulled with all his strength, but he might as well have been trying to resist the pull of a truck. The werewolf plunged its head forward and closed its jaws around Michael’s side. Ribs snapped and blood sprayed out from the wound. His scream turned into a wet gurgle as the fangs ruptured his internal organs.

“Get off my friend, you fucker,” screamed John and thrust a lit firework into the creature’s eyes. A shower of green sparks cascaded across the beast and ignited fur. It howled in agony and slashed out with its claws, slicing through the skin on John’s arm, but releasing Michael. Ignoring the pain, John dragged his unconscious friend through the railings to the relative safety of the old mausoleum.