Dark Shadows. Edmund Glasby

as the ground beneath his feet or the chill mistiness in the air. Whatever wickedness had been perpetrated in this foul place had left an unholy residue; a lingering trace of vile corruption which, alongside the memories of what he had seen, was enough to make the skin crawl.

      Still, he had the gun. And hadn’t Sarac said that these things would stay underground during the day? Maybe the enemy agent was even now lying bleeding to death in the main room, in which case it would only take a minute or two to finish him off and retrieve the papers. Didn’t he owe it to those others who had died back in Istanbul?

      Myers cursed. Mustering his courage, he moved forward, gun held out before him as though it were a talisman which would keep the darkness at bay. At the doorway, he could see the main communal area much as he had left it that evening, the tables set as though in readiness for another evening’s gypsy revel—in addition to the odd little bit of abduction, attempted murder and shape-changing skulduggery. Apart from that, it was dark and empty. Fresh blood stains lay spattered on the floor.

      He made his way in. In the gloom, he could just make out the bar and the door beyond. To his right, around the corner was where the stairs up to the first floor began. After a brief pause, during which he wrestled the mental image of the dreadful horde from his mind, he made his way over to the foot of the stairs. Looking down, he could see more blood. Sarac had definitely gone this way. Treading carefully, aware of the many shadowy shapes, he edged forward, his body pressed tightly against the wall.

      Before him the stairs ascended into the gloom.

      Myers found it hard to look up, to push his vision into the darkness. In his mind, he could see the many sets of red eyes that peered out from the shadows.

      There came a creak from overhead.

      That same cold prickling that he had felt inside the mine crept unwelcomingly up his back. Slowly, he started up the stairs, afraid now that each step would fall on a rotten tread and that he would crash through into a dark cellar where he would soon find himself surrounded by thousands of flesh-hungry monsters.

      The sound came again, the unnerving creak of tortured wood. It sounded like either a clumsy step on a loose board or the slow rocking of an old-fashioned chair. This was becoming truly nightmarish. The hand which grasped the gun was shaking and the desire to just turn around and flee was almost overwhelming.

      Somehow, Myers kept moving, trying his best to convince himself that there were no bogeymen lurking under the floorboards or grotesques ready to spring out of the dark places.

      In the shadowy darkness, he reached the top of the stairs and started along the corridor. The door to the room at the far end, the one in which he had spent the night was wide open. The creaking was coming from this room and it was here the trail of blood led.

      What madness drove him forward he would never know. Stepping out into the doorway he peered inside.

      Shadows shifted, drawn back towards one corner, as though to conceal further the ragged form that sat huddled in its rocking chair, absently flicking through the contents of the file. It was a horrid thing, an ancient, wizened being, wrapped in a tattered shawl, its greenish, furry arms wiry, its face more shrivelled and rat-like than any of the others—apart from the brass-rimmed pince-nez it had resting on its whiskered snout. Its pink-red eyes were rheumy and burned with an intense malevolence. It was festooned with dusty amulets and terrible gypsy trinkets.

      Uttering unholy curses, the matriarch of the vrkolak—a veshtitsi, an ancient, vampire-witch—rose arthritically from her chair.

      “God save me!” At point-blank range, Myers fired his remaining three bullets into it. It was only then that he saw the battered and bloody form of Sarac lying in one corner. He was still alive, the impotent crucifix warped and blackened at his feet.

      The horror slavered and spat, the bullet wounds closing up and vanishing.

      Knowing there was nothing else for it, Myers snatched the file from the fiend’s claws and ran out of the room. Several of the papers went astray but he was past caring. If and when he returned to England he would retire from espionage. Become a postman or something. To think that he would have been offered to this horrendous thing sent an uncontrollable shudder of revulsion through him. He lost his footing and tumbled down the stairs. On hands and knees he crawled out of the tavern into the sunlight dreading at the last moment that he would feel the thing grasp him and pull him back inside; into the shadow-filled interior.

      Desperately, Myers stumbled towards the car. He stopped and peered back at the upper storey windows with their thick curtains trying not to imagine what horrible fate lay in store for Sarac. Had there been any bullets left he would have shot the Bulgarian, as an act of mercy. Throwing the case onto the passenger seat, he set about fiddling with the wires. The engine sparked into life and he was reversing out. Soon he was speeding away as yet unaware of the two puncture marks on his neck just below his collar.