Whitby Vampyrrhic by Simon Clark

quivered.
    â€˜Don’t worry, Sally.’ She squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘I’m here. We’ll get you safely to the hotel, just you see.’
    â€˜But the man said it was closed.’
    â€˜He must be mistaken.’
    â€˜Beth, I hate it here. It feels all wrong. Like a bad dream . . .’
    â€˜Look, I’ve found your umbrella. Come on, it’s time we found a nice warm bed. We’ll feel better in the morning.’
    They left the station to find mist creeping through the town. Turning right, as directed, they followed a road that ran alongside a river. Bitterly cold air nipped at their exposed faces. A spiky ocean scent filled Beth’s nose. To avoid drawing the attention of enemy bomber pilots, the town had been completely blacked out. No lights showed through the windows. Street lights had been extinguished. No cars ran along the streets. The few people who had disembarked from the train had already vanished into alleys that led off the main road.
    As they walked, arm in arm, lugging their baggage best they could, Beth tried to make out some of her surroundings. To her right, a greasy-looking river oozed towards the sea. It carried tree branches: skeletal arms that thrust outwards from its glistening surface, seemingly grasping for a route back to life, not the deep, dark grave that was the waiting ocean. Rags of mist ghosted over the waters. Although darkness engulfed the place, Beth formed an impression that they were at the bottom of a narrow, steep-sided valley. Box shapes emerging from the valley slopes, suggested a profusion of houses. Yet they were chaotic somehow. As if a demented god had flung an entire town into the valley. Now they were tenanted by a mysterious people, who accepted the crazy, higgledy-piggledy nature of their borough as being normal.
    Through this ghost town of a place came a forlorn groan.
    Sally stopped dead. ‘Oh, God, what’s that?’
    â€˜It’s just the foghorn.’
    â€˜Thank goodness, I thought it was sea monster.’
    A church clock announced the midnight hour.
    â€˜Sally. Don’t let your imagination run away with you, or I’ll end up seeing demons again.’
    â€˜
Seeing demons again?
What do you mean, “again”?’
    Beth gently tugged at Sally’s arm to get her walking. ‘Oh, just me and my overactive imagination. Anyway, it’s too late at night for spooky stories. Come on, let’s find that hotel.’
    â€˜Knowing our luck it will be a witches’ lair. They’ll boil guests’ heads for soup, and fry fingers and call them sausages.’
    â€˜And human beings will become human beans.’
    â€˜Idiot.’ But Sally’s tone had become lighter. ‘Just remind me, are we really going to be acting in a film?’
    Beth saw an opportunity to raise Sally’s spirits. ‘You signed the contract, didn’t you? You’ll be seen in cinemas here and in America. All over the place. And people will cry, “Wow, who is that beautiful brunette? She must come and star in our movies in Hollywood.’”
    â€˜It’s amazing. Only, I’m sure I’ll forget all my lines. What is it? What’s wrong?’
    â€˜We’ve found the bridge. And we’ve got our welcome party, too.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    Beth nodded at the bridge. Around a hundred feet long, built from iron, with latticework fences, the structure spanned the river. Clearly, the bridge had a formidable mechanism that would cause it to swing open when ships needed to pass upstream. But the bridge itself wasn’t the problem. Something else blocked their way.
    Sally had seen it, too, for she gripped Beth’s forearm. ‘Maybe we can find another way across. I don’t like the look of this.’
    Ghostly strands of mist veiled the lone figure on the bridge. Again the foghorn cried out, long and low.
    â€˜It’s just a person,’