Guy Smith - The Lurkers

This was crazy—there was blood running down the door, scarlet and wet, so thick that some of it was already congealing!

Peter couldn't hold back his scream this time, a loud cry of fear and mental agony, knowing that he hovered on the brink of that dark chasm once again. Maybe it would be easier to slide into its cooling blackness, an oblivion that would destroy the mounting terrors of this awful place.

It wasn't blood, it couldn't be ... too bright . . .

No, it wasn't blood, even though a tiny hysterical voice somewhere inside him was screaming out that it was.

It was red paint, still wet, daubed on the woodwork within the last hour or so. He could see brushmarks in the form of a large cross, although in places the paint had run.

Peter almost screamed again. He clutched at some rotten trellis work and brought a shower of wet snow down on himself. A crudely painted cross that was not yet dry . . . They had been here whilst he was away, knowing that he couldn't escape, that he would be forced to return here.

But for God's sake why?

There could only be one answer to that: they had warned him and their warnings had gone unheeded. Their patience had run out and tonight they would come for him.

The lurkers had daubed the mark of death on the door of Hodre.

Peter checked every room, shotgun at the ready, hammers at full cock. Only when he had ascertained that there was nobody inside the cottage did he breathe a sigh of relief. For one awful moment he had feared that they might already be here. But they weren't; they were waiting for night to fall.

He peeled off his saturated freezing clothing and changed into rough working denims, wishing that Janie had had time to renew all the curtains in the cottage. . . He couldn't shake off the unnerving feeling of being watched all the time; that was how they wore you down, just watching you until you couldn't stand it any longer.

For God's sake, I don't want to stay here. I'll go. You don't have to do this to me. I'll leave Hodre and I'll never come back \ He would have left there and then, only there was no way out. The choice wasn't his; he had to stay—but he wasn't giving in. He had the gun, he wouldn't make it easy for them. He'd take a few of them with him!

The change of clothing and the warmth from the Rayburn had brought back his resolution to fight. Anger, too, because they had no right to do this to him. And they were preventing him from getting on with his book; that in itself was a cardinal sin.

What the hell had happened to Peters? Certainly a terrible blow of some kind had smashed his skull, killing him instantly. But who had done it and for what reason? And where was Don Peters' poaching partner, Mick Bostock? Was he lying out there dead in the drifts, too?

Peter found himself doing a host of unnecessary things that he would not have bothered with under different circumstances. Like checking the doors to ensure that they were all locked and bolted, although that had been his first task upon his return to the cottage. And lifting the telephone receiver to see if by some miracle it was working again—but of course it wasn't. Then cleaning the shotgun again; he might need it very soon.

A tiny portable transistor radio stood precariously on the mantelshelf. It had been one of Gavin's presents last Christmas, and Peter wondered why the boy had not taken it with him; probably because it wasn't much good, more of a crackling toy than anything else, cheap imported junk.

Nevertheless Peter switched it on, primarily because he needed something to break the silence. Anything.

I should be listening for them coming.

The transistor crackled over a background of unrecognisable pop music, some disc-jockey shouting to try and make himself heard above it. Maybe he realised that people somewhere were foolish enough to buy three quid trannies like this and was doing his best to help them. Not that Peter was interested in the DJ's verbal garbage. It was just another human voice, even if it did sound like a dalek. In a while, Peter grinned wryly to himself, he'd end up talking back to it—and that would be a damned sight worse than talking to himself.

It was at that moment that the light dimmed, flickered. And went out.

Darkness! Maybe he'd slipped down into the black abyss of oblivion at last and his brain had burst because he couldn't stand any more. But he knew he hadn't because the DJ was still gabbling incessant nonsense, putting another disc on his ever-spinning turntable, and he certainly wouldn't be in the chasm of nothingness. Which meant Peter was still in Hodre.

The sudden plunge into darkness didn't come as a mind-shattering shock. Possibly his nerves were acclimatising to a series of crises so that they accepted them. He found himself wondering why the power had failed. Doubtless a cable somewhere had snapped under the weight of the snow. Or maybe it was something simple like a blown fuse. He'd better check . . .

The voice coming from the transistor had changed from inane rambling to a more serious tone. And the music seemed to have faded from the background but he couldn't be sure because the crackling was louder again.

'. . . a news-flash.'

, Peter tensed in the darkness; it was as though he had the telephone receiver to his ear and the voice was talking to him, giving a message of vital importance: You can't afford to miss it. Listen carefully, it's a bad line. And bad news.

' . . . break-out earlier today . . . police have launched a massive search . . . people in remote areas of these . . . warned to stay indoors after dark . . . this man is ... life-sentence for the murder of ... police spokesman said today . . . known to be dangerous . . . warned not to approach him if seen , . . contact your local police station or tele-. phone . . . believed to be heading in ... Welsh mountains ...

The crackling wasn't entirely the transistor; a buzzing in Peter's ears somehow seemed to be related to the pile-driving headache and the drumming of his pulses. The DJ's stupid banter began again, with the kind of sick joke that might scare the hell out of anybody living alone, something about 'watch-out if there's a knock on the door; it could be that escaped maniac dropping in to listen to Record Roundup.' Bloody idiot!

Heading in the direction of the Welsh mountains. . . Peterfelt himself go cold. An escaped maniac on the loose, heading for the Welsh mountains. Here. Hodre!

That was stupid, letting his imagination run riot. The Welsh mountains covered a huge area; the fugitive could be anywhere. That in itself was a disconcerting thought.

First he had to try and get the power restored, if that was possible. He groped, found his torch and went in search of the fusebox. The pantry was the best place to look.

Right first time. And all the fuses were OK. At least, they seemed to be; he couldn't find one that had blown, and anyway there didn't seem to be any spares. That meant it was a cable somewhere, brought down under the weight of the snow or . . .

He went back into the kitchen and picked UD the gun and cartridges. Upstairs was the obvious place to withstand a siege. The bedroom window commanded a wide view of the ^<'vered slopes and the stone circle. The enemy didn't to come that way, though. They might circle round and ic in from the front. Even so, they had to mount the stairs "to get to him, and he could hold off an army that way. Provided the attackers were human. Of course they were. Hadn't he wounded one, drawn blood? If the blood had come from that cowled white figure.

The bedroom was cold and Peter could see his breath as he forced the small window open. He'd have to leave it open because the glass was frosted up and he'd never see outside otherwise.

The starlight seemed brighter than the previous night, a glittering landscape of frozen whiteness only broken up by patches of shadow. He loaded the gun, rested it on the chest beneath the window and began his vigil. It was going to be a long cold night.