Ian Logan pulled up the zip on his leather jacket and shivered. He stood beneath the swaying sign of “The Black Swan”, fumbling in his pocket for the packet of Marlboro and a box of matches. Thanks to the gusting wind, it took him three attempts to light the fag but finally he succeeded and, hands dug deep into his pockets, he started walking.
Other staff members, another barman included, were also leaving and Logan muttered cursory farewells to them. They all seemed to have cars except him and nearly all of them were going in the opposite direction. Even the one vehicle that was going his way sped past without offering him a lift. Logan exhaled deeply, his breath clouding in the night air.
He glanced at his watch and saw that it was approaching 12.15 a.m. He was usually home by half past eleven at the latest. He could imagine Sally’s reaction now, almost hear her whinings as he walked in the front door. Moaning that his supper was spoiled, asking him where he’d been. He worked six nights a week, the only other day he spent at home listening to Sally moaning about how he should get a better job so that they could move into a decent house.
He decided to take a short-cut. There was bound to be an argument when he got in anyway so he might as well get it over and done with.
He cut down the lane to his left, knowing that he could be home in ten minutes. He quickened his step, the cigarette bouncing up and down between his lips as he walked.
The lane was dimly lit at the best of times but now, with the witching hour twenty minutes old, all but three of the lamps had been extinguished. There was the odd porch light on outside one or two of the cottages but, apart from that, the lane was wreathed in a heavy gloom. Visibility was made all the worse by a writhing mist which seemed to have settled over the fields. Blown by the wind, it seemed to ooze over the hedges like some kind of ethereal sea whose waves moved in slow motion.
Logan glanced at the white-washed cottages as he walked. Each one had its own drive and there was hardly one which did not boast two cars. These private dwellings stood out in marked contrast to the estate on which he lived. It lay a mere few hundred yards down the lane and the staid uniformity of the council houses offered a marked contrast to the gleaming individuality of these expensive properties. Perhaps Sally was right, he thought, it would be nice to live in a place like that. He was contemplating that thought when something moved away to his right.
He glanced round, slowing down only slightly, squinting into the blackness in an attempt to see what had made the sound. He heard a shuffling, scratching noise and, a moment later, a hedgehog scuttled out from beneath one of the hedges and trundled across the lane. Logan smiled to himself as he watched it disappear into one of the gardens opposite. A few yards further on another of the tiny creatures was splattered across the road. Cars sometimes drove down the lane and, obviously, this one had squashed the unfortunate hedgehog. It had been there a long time for, even in the gloom, Logan could see that its flattened remains were stiff, giving it the appearance of a spiky frisbee. He smiled at his analogy and walked on.
There was a farmhouse on the right. Painted black, it was almost invisible in the darkness but, from inside, he could hear the barking of a dog. The bloody thing had gone for him a couple of times in the past and he passed by hurriedly despite the fact that the animal was safely penned in the building. He walked another few yards and came to a rotting wooden stile. Beside it a bent and battered sign declared:
FOOTPATH
The so-called footpath led across a field and came out right opposite his own house. He decided to risk the many cow-pats which littered the field and cross it in an effort to get home quicker. He put his foot on the bottom plank of the stile and hoisted himself up. It creaked ominously under his weight and for a second he thought it was going to collapse but, as nimbly as possible, he swung himself over and landed with a loud plop in the mud on the other side.
“Sod it,” he said, aloud, scraping some of the glutinous muck off on the bottom plank. That done, he set off across the field.
The light from the lane diminished to a point where his only guide was the odd light burning in the houses which backed on to the field. It was virtually impossible to see more than fifteen or twenty feet ahead. The crispness of the night air made the smells around him seem all the more prominent and he winced at the strong odour of cow dung. The ground was soft despite the frost and he almost slipped over twice, the second time shooting out a hand to grasp the fence which ran alongside him. He yelped in pain as his groping fingers closed over some barbed wire. Logan stopped dead, fumbling in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief, dabbing at the small cuts and muttering irritably to himself. He reached into his coat pocket for his fags and lit one up, puffing at it for a second before moving on.
The field was separated from the nearest house by a double row of trees, the ground in between each one thick with underbrush. Gorse and blackberry bushes grew in rampant abundance, in many places reaching shoulder height. There was a powerful smell of rotted vegetation in the air and Logan muttered to himself as he walked.
A twig snapped close by and, instinctively, he stepped back, the noise sounding thunderous in the stillness of the night.
His foot sank into something soft and he realized that it wasn’t mud.
“Bloody cows,” he groaned, shaking his foot.
However, his complaints were cut short when he heard another sound – the low rustling of bushes being parted. Logan squinted into the thick underbrush but he could see nothing. There was a moment’s silence then the sound came again, closer this time.
A fox perhaps? Probably another hedgehog.
He swallowed hard and walked on, quickening his step for reasons he himself was not sure of. The other stile which marked the far end of the footpath was less than a hundred yards away and Logan could see the light from a nearby house beckoning him. His feet made squelching sounds in the mud and, as he walked, he glanced towards the trees nearby.
There was a loud scratching sound in the bushes less than two feet from him and he opened his mouth, allowing a small gasp to escape his lips. A sibilant rasping sounded so loud in the stillness and, at last, Logan broke into a run. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the light ahead of him but it seemed to be a million miles away.
Beside him, the snapping of twigs seemed to grow to deafening proportions and he realized with horror that whatever was in the bushes was keeping pace with him.
His mind sought an explanation. It wanted to find a logical answer but all he could think of was getting to that bloody stile and clambering out of the field.
It was fifty yards away and he was still running, the bushes actually moving beside him now, some pushed over by his invisible companion. He could not bring himself to look for fear of what he might see.
Thirty yards.
The light ahead gleamed brighter and Logan found renewed strength in his legs as, beside him, he heard a low whining sound.
His breath was rasping in his lungs, his mouth dry.
Ten yards and he could see that stile. It was broken in two places and for that he was grateful, because it meant he wouldn’t have to waste time clambering over it.
Five yards.
He almost fell, slipping in another cow-pat. His arms pinwheeled wildly for a moment but he retained his balance. The perspiration was now heavy on his face, his breath harsh and almost painful. His legs ached from running and he could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.
There was a loud screech and a snapping of wood to his right, so close it seemed that it was coming from inside his own head. Something burst from the under-bush and flew at him. He tried to scream but couldn’t find the breath. He went down, face first into the mud, rolling over quickly, his eyes bulging and terror winding icy tendrils around his throat.
The cat which had leapt out of the bushes at him was already scampering off into the darkness, a mouse held firmly in its jaws.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, wiping his face and dragging himself to his feet. For long seconds he stood there, trying to regain his composure. He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, holding it for a second before exhaling in an audible sigh of relief. His clothes were splattered with mud and cow dung and he tried to brush it off with his hands. What the hell would Sally say about this? He suddenly found that he could smile and, as he watched the cat loping off across the field, he began to laugh.
“Bloody idiot,” he said to himself and, still chuckling, he clambered over the stile.
The dark shape which loomed behind him seemed to grow from the blackness itself. Where gloom and night air had swirled around, there was suddenly something tangible.
Ian Logan thought he had heard a gust of wind but what he did hear, all he heard, was the arc of metal as the weapon descended. The scream was locked in his throat. His eyes bulged wildly as he saw something metallic glinting above him. The dark outline of. . .
Before he had time to discern the shape, his throat was slashed open.
Darkness became eternal night.