The Man Who Built the World by Chris Ward Page A

that monster. Just his imagination, and in his line of work he knew as much about that as anyone.
    But what had happened? The line that separated reality and nightmare had blurred, and each had encroached upon the other, like two coloured liquids merging through a porous membrane. Everything became difficult to define.
    He had seen Bethany, and she had been beautiful. Sleeping.
    Hadn’t he?
    ‘Damn it,’ he muttered, shaking his head. He couldn’t remember clearly because he had been too drunk.
    He did remember his father asking if he wanted to see his sister, as an adult. Perhaps he had seen her. The image had been as clear as the church that rose before him, and he knew it was her. He could tell from the shape of her face. She had aged, for sure. But she hadn’t changed much, the only difference was that the dark seed of beauty she had possessed had now bloomed into a violently colourful flower.
    He had seen her body; that was it. It had to be. It had been resting upstairs ready for burial, allowed to be at home for one final night. Spooky, but then everything about that place was, always had been. Memories and drink had brought her back in his dreams, even when his consciousness remembered nothing.
    Nightmares.
    Damn it, why do I have to drink so much?
    A sudden movement caught his eye, in the darkness across the village green. Someone moving in the dark, no: scurrying . Clutching something to their (her?) chest. He paused at the gate, watching. Then, before his mind could catch up with the decision, he began to follow.
    The drizzle had stopped, and as Matt pursued the figure up the gently inclining street towards the cattle grate that marked the entrance to the moor some half a mile distant, it was replaced by thick fog. Matt found it difficult to keep the figure in sight. He did his best, getting as close as he could without being seen, whether it meant crouching behind parked cars or backing into the damp, dewy hedge, becoming more and more certain with each step that something wasn’t right. He couldn’t quite place it, but until he could, he would follow silently, trusting his whim.
    The wind had died and the air smelt of wet foliage, a thick, juicy smell like damp linen. Cold wrapped itself around him, caressing his face and hands with its chill, as the last houses of the village gave way to a gradually ascending country lane, hemmed in on both sides by tall, wild hedgerows. As the figure hurried off into the darkness ahead, the writer’s inquisitiveness that had carried Matt this far suddenly died, replaced by a nagging fear. He stumbled to a halt, unsure whether to continue.
    Then he heard the sound.
    Shattering the silence like a hammer through glass: a baby’s piercing cry.
    Matt froze, but only for a second. He now understood what the figure was carrying. He started to follow again, increasing his step to catch up.
    The hedgerows on both sides of the road began to drop in height, until finally they fell away completely where the road was split by the old cattle grate. He had always seen this as the true boundary of Tamerton, for Dartmoor stretched away beyond. From the top of the hill you could see the moorland rolling away impressively into the distance on a clear day, though now of course it was shrouded in dark and fog. Dartmoor as a concept had always enthralled and daunted him in equal measures, its vastness, its rugged beauty, and the tales that came associated with it. As a boy he had always wanted to set a novel here, but after things had happened he had dropped the idea. Now, as he thought of the endless miles of open moorland, he felt a fresh surge of creativity unlike any he had felt in months. Maybe a novel about Dartmoor could revive his fortunes.
    Up ahead, he heard the figure clattering across the grate, and he hastened to follow, brea king into a run along the last stretch of road. But as the cattle grate appeared out of the fog in front of him he felt a sudden lethargy, and he pulled up