Free Abigale Hall by Lauren A Forry

door jamb. A fall in the other direction would have sent him tumbling onto the hardwood floor below, the wrought-iron banister having been long since removed to support the war effort. He continued to the third floor, keeping his body pressed against the far wall until he safely reached his door.
    As soon as he unlocked his flat, he ran to the sitting room, slipping on the day’s post as he went to the window which overlooked the street below. All that moved was a shadow in the mews opposite. It could have been anything – a cat, a neighbour, anything. Peter drew his curtains and waited several minutes before switching on the lights. His nerves, though stilled, remained fragile as he scooped the post from the floor. The first envelope gifted him a paper cut as his uncoordinated fingers slit it open. He sucked on the sharp sting as he read the brief missive, his nerves returning tenfold as his eyes pored over the unwanted words.
    *
    It was late, but this would not wait till morning. He needed answers now. He pounded his fist on the door. He wouldn’t stop until it was opened.
    â€˜Miss Haverford. Miss Haverford!’
    â€˜Who is it?’ Bess’s voice carried into the hall. So she was home now.
    â€˜Peter. Peter Lamb.’
    â€˜It’s late, Peter.’
    â€˜I know. But I need to speak with you. Urgently.’ He straightened himself up, tried to sound like his father.
    â€˜I’m in no state for visitors. Please, go home.’
    â€˜Not till you tell me about Eliza. Where is she? Where has she gone?’
    There was a pause. The door barely opened, stopped by the chain. Bess seemed disinclined to remove it. Peter was about to demand entry when he noticed her face. She was without make-up, and her pale complexion and unpainted lips drew more attention to the bloated black bruise under her left eye. Conscious of his staring, she turned her head away.
    â€˜Eliza is no longer your concern.’
    The door closed, leaving Peter standing there alone, the letter from Eliza crumpled in his fist.

5
    Only a sliver of moonlight shone through the dirtied windows, but it was all Eliza needed to see the framed photograph on her bedside table. Despite her exhaustion, she was unable to sleep. She was accustomed to having her sister beside her and, while grateful for not having to share this tiny bed, she couldn’t shake the sensation that a part of her was missing.
    A shadow passed by the window. Eliza shrank back. There were all sorts of stories about what lurked in the Welsh hills, legends easily conjured up by her tired mind. She focused on the photograph instead – she with her mother, father and baby Rebecca outside the Royal Pavilion in 1935. She was five years old and Rebecca about six months. Eliza remembered the smell of salt water, a seagull leaving a mess on her pink dress and Rebecca crying at night. They went to Brighton every summer up until the war. It was where her parents had met. They had taken hundreds of photographs over the years, had bought dozens of souvenirs, and this was all that survived. The war took the rest.
    Unable to sleep in the bright moonlight, Eliza rose to shut the curtains. Her fingers froze around the fabric, unable to draw them closed. Outside stood a beast. It possessed the outline of a dog, but one larger than any natural animal of the earth, its bristled fur black and matted. Hellhound, she thought. The beast that appears to those about to die. It turned its misshapen head towards her, eyes glowing red, white fangs reflecting the night-time glow. It lifted its muzzle upwards, prepared to howl.
    She yanked the curtains shut and cowered beneath the window, hugging her knees to her chest while she waited for the sound which would pull her soul from her body and send it to the demons below. Silence rang in her ears. Steadying herself, she peeked through the curtains. Only the empty lawn remained. Two days of exhaustion must have been playing tricks on her