Free Nightsiders by Gary McMahon

into the car and headed for Oval Lane. It was a short drive, but a pleasant one, and even in his current state of agitation he could enjoy the sight of the trees and the fields and the ancient farm buildings dotted along the horizon. A series of low hills rose into the distance, like the spine of a fossilized dragon, and he felt a strange sensation of being uplifted from the norm as he viewed the scene through the windshield.
    He drove up the narrow access road and parked the car. He was just about to get out when his mobile phone rang. He picked it up from the dashboard and answered it.
    “Rob,” said Sarah, breathless. “Is she with you? Is Molly there?”
    He closed his eyes. “No, she isn’t with me. What’s happened?” He tightened his grip on the phone; plastic creaked close to his ear.
    “She’s gone again, with that boy. Connor’s here, but she’s not. I was in the shower when I heard the door slam, and when I came out, Connor told me the boy had called her on her phone and she’d rushed out to meet him.” There was panic in her voice, but she remained in control. There was no danger, not yet; at least they knew who Molly was with, even if they did not know this boy personally.
    “Have you called the police again?”
    “No. Do you think I should?”
    He paused, thinking about the question. “No. They won’t do anything anyway. As far as they’re concerned, she’s just messing about with some boy we don’t approve of: that’s not a crime. Stay there with Connor and I’ll see if I can find her.” His finger slid over the button that would terminate the call, but did not press it.
    “Where are you, Rob?”
    “Nowhere,” he said, thinking that was exactly where he was: nowhere at all. Nowhereville. He pressed the button and the line went dead.
    He got out of the car and walked over the gravel drive, stopping at the porch. The sound of birdsong was like a recording. This time the outer door was open, so he stepped inside and rapped his knuckles against the inner frame. He did not knock again; he just waited for someone to answer. He had the feeling they knew he was there, waiting, and they would come eventually, when they were ready for him.
    Nathan Corbeau opened the door. He was wearing a faded muscle vest and a pair of soccer shorts: Robert could not identify the team; he did not recognize the team logo. The man’s upper torso was wide, almost square in shape, and his arms were well defined and hairy. His skin was dark, almost swarthy. “Hello, stranger.” His smile was huge, and hungry.
    “We need to talk.” Robert held his gaze, refusing to budge even an inch. He remembered the rape, the aftermath, and the promises he and Sarah had made both to each other and to themselves. He was not a victim; he would never be a victim again.
    “Well, come on in, loverboy.” Corbeau stepped back and to the side, opening the door wider.
    Robert stepped across the threshold, recalling something he had once read about vampires having to be invited in before they can enter a person’s home. “Thank you.”
    Corbeau led him along the hallway and to the living room doorway. The wallpaper was scratched and torn, and somebody had spray-painted crude obscenities from floor to ceiling. The living room door had been removed from its frame. The wood around the absent hinges was rough and jagged, as if it had been hacked at by a dull blade.
    “We’re decorating, so you’ll have to excuse the mess.” Corbeau led the way into the living room, smiling.
    Monica Corbeau was sitting on the sofa, one hand buried in a slit in the cushions and pulling out the padding. She was wearing some kind of housedress, open to the waist, and no underwear. Her breasts hung loose; there were food stains on her skin. She turned to him and smiled, chocolate stains on her teeth and rubbed into her messy hair. “We weren’t expecting visitors,” she said. “If you’d called ahead, we could have dressed up and made a bit of an