Free Eldren: The Book of the Dark by William Meikle Page A

moment of silence as they looked at the body at their feet.
    Then Ian began to cry and the spell was broken.
    “Come on.” Nick Bayliss said. “We’ll collect our money from Dickie tomorrow.”
    The rest left, and Tony’s heart sank as he saw Isobel chatting with Bayliss on their way out. She didn’t look back at him as he bent to help Ian. He didn’t even notice the fine mist that was beginning to seep in through the small window in the corner of the room.
    “Come on Ian,” he said. “Let’s have a look at that head.”
    The bigger boy sat up, still whimpering as Tony parted the hair at the back of his head and whistled.
    “You’ve going to have a hell of a lump there.” He said appreciatively. “How do you feel?”
    “Like a piece of shit,” Ian said and giggled. Tony joined him, relieved that his friend had come to no great harm.
    He froze as a voice from the corner called his name.
    “Tony,” it said, and he almost recognized it.
    He turned towards the corner, looking over Ian’s left shoulder and only now saw the gray mist that obscured the shadows.
    “Tony,” it said again, and a figure emerged out of the mist...a red-eyed figure from his nightmares. There was more flesh on the creature; red sinews and muscles showing under a paper thin, almost transparent skin…watery, almost pink, blood running sluggishly from a weakly pumping heart, clearly visible between the ribs.
    It all came back to him: the stone slab, the darkness of the cave, the still, lifeless body of his friend, the flight through darkness into the light. He stepped back as the creature moved towards him.
    “Hey, Tony. What’s the matter?” Ian said as Tony stepped away. Tony couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, his throat was dry and locked tightly shut. He could only moan, wide eyed, as the taloned hands reached out and grabbed his friend by the shoulders.
     
    ~-o0O0o-~
     
    The wind had dropped outside and, although the window was open, blue tobacco smoke hung in wispy layers at waist height. Although it was nearly eight-thirty the sky was only just beginning to lighten in the east, the onset of morning being delayed by the thick fog that hung over the valley.
    Brian was trying to concentrate on his newspaper but his thoughts kept returning to Sandy’s story from the night before. He was brought out of his daydreaming by Margaret Brodie; the physical education teacher nicknamed ‘Jean’ by the bulk of the staff. He thought that Margaret was beautiful...five-foot-four feet of pure sex appeal.
    He’d first really noticed her last year at a staff against pupils hockey match. Brian hadn’t played very well having spent the bulk of the game following Margaret’s legs around. There was something about short green hockey skirts that always got to him.
    Today she wore her hair tied up, which was a pity. She had one of the fullest heads of hair he had ever seen, long, full of body and a deep auburn color that glowed in the sun and looked like smoke in the moonlight.
    At one time Brian had harbored high hopes for his future with the hockey player. They had met a couple of times for drinks and she seemed to have enjoyed herself in his company but he had always got tongue tied when on the point of taking it any further.
    That had all changed with the arrival of a new young PE teacher who had swept Margaret off her feet and who was now, as rumor had it among the pupils, ‘screwing her arse off’.
    “Ah Brian,” she said as she approached, “The very man I wanted to see. Are you still all right for the guitar class after school? I’m afraid that I won’t be able to make it so if it’s okay by you, you’ll be on your own. Do you think you can cope?”
    Brian had to force himself to concentrate, to drag his eyes higher than the level of her chest.
    “Aye, I would think so Margaret. It’s not as if they’re a rough bunch and there’re only six of them. I’ll teach them something calm and soothing. Neil Young, or an old folk