Creed by James Herbert Page A

all he needed, a frigging bad night. Just can’t settle into a steady sleep, keep stirring, waking for a second or two, drifting off again. Mind’s not settling down, that’s the problem. Maybe a smoke would soothe the old think-box. No, too tired to get one. Need to rest, heavy day tomorrow. Count sheep? Deep breathing would be better. Six seconds in, eight out, from the stomach, not the chest, fill every corner, then expel every last bit of puff. One, two, three . . .
    He yawned with the fourth breath, spoiling the rhythm. Start again.
    Up to five when a noise from somewhere brought air to a halt halfway up his throat.
    What was it? What the fuck was that?
    He stared at the ceiling. Grin mooching around. Had to be. Cats were born to be night moochers. But Grin was too lazy even for that. She rarely woke up even when he arrived home at two or three o’clock in the morning. Still, tonight might be the exception. She might even be on the prowl for mice, God help us! Maybe the cat had more sense than he’d given it credit for and had actually heeded his warning. Don’t let me down, Grin, go get the little buggers. It’s better than exile.
    But the next noise was too heavy to have been made by the soft paws of a prowling cat. It sounded like a footstep.
    And there was another.
    Creed stiffened. Judas, there was someone in the house. He swallowed spit. He listened again. Nothing now.
    Could’ve been creaking floorboards, old timbers. Yeah, yeah, that was it.
    But that wasn’t a floorboard shrinking, nor was it a footstep!
    ‘Oh Christ,’ Creed whispered as he sat up, still clutching the pillow. Somebody was rummaging around upstairs. He listened intently and prayed there wouldn’t be another sound.
    There was though.
    Creed groaned inwardly. What the hell was he supposed to do? Go up there, confront the burglar? No bloody way. Ring the police? Whoever it was would hear. What then? Get out fast, he answered himself. Leave them to it, it was only property, after all; flesh and bones were more sacred.
    And our hero would have done just that had it not been for one thing. The sounds had come from directly overhead and directly overhead was his photographic room. Creed’s livelihood was up there. Files, records, cameras, film stock, equipment. Shit, his history was there! The accumulation of his years as a photographer, shots he’d taken for himself, ‘overs’ he’d kept from numerous jobs, transparencies, black-and-whites. All the best from twelve long years of working his butt off. Okay, pal, you’re in trouble; nobody was taking away any of that stuff. Only over my dead bod—Get serious, Creed. Equipment and stock could always be replaced, new shots could always be taken. This guy might be dangerous.
    Didn’t the police always maintain, though, that in most burglaries, the burglar was more frightened than the victim? With his luck, he’d get the villain who was fearless. Creed’s grip tightened on the pillow.
    Only the inescapable fact that there was precious else that he could do finally drove him from the bed. He tugged on his dressing gown – nothing like nakedness to make you feel utterly vulnerable – before peeking through the open doorway. Again he held his breath and listened, realizing he hadn’t heard another sound for a while now.
    Could be, he tried to reassure himself, could be it really was only mice. Rats, even. He shuddered. It was possible. Yeah, it was likely. Those bastards could make a hell of a noise, and in the dead of night sounds were amplified anyway. Anything might sound like footsteps once the imagination got itself into a tizz. Sure, and rats could easily get in through the rafters of these old buildings. Didn’t he read somewhere that rats were taking over the city? Good idea for a book there. Somebody ought to do it. So where was Grin? Why wasn’t she up there sorting them out?
    He could see across the hallway into the kitchen, but that didn’t help at all. The question was,