Whitby Vampyrrhic by Simon Clark Page A

Beth insisted. ‘They’re not here to do us any harm.’
    â€˜How can you be sure?’
    â€˜Come on . . . we’ll be alright.’
    â€˜Beth, I’m scared.’
    â€˜Sally, we must only be a minute from the hotel.’ She stepped out on to the bridge. The figure at the other end took a step, too.
    Beth paused. The figure halted. Beth took another step. The figure moved forwards too, as if this was a game to mirror Beth’s advance across the bridge.
    â€˜They won’t hurt us.’ Beth spoke firmly, yet her heart clamoured. Only too vividly did she recall her encounter on the film set earlier that day. Those swift demonic figures. But all that had been imagination, hadn’t it? No mock-up of Whitby had been built in the studio. Probably she’d fainted, then dreamt the whole thing. Her hand went to her head, where a lock of her hair had been caught in the passageway to Arguments Yard. The pain had been real. Her scalp still stung.
    The foghorn cried out to the eternal once more. Its sound shimmered over the blacked-out town to die alone in the wilderness beyond.
    â€˜Where is everyone?’ Sally uttered. ‘Surely there must be some people about – going to work, that kind of thing, and why aren’t there policemen out on patrol?’
    â€˜Keep walking,’ Beth ordered. ‘We’re not going to be stopped from crossing over to the other side.’
    â€˜But I don’t like her.’
    â€˜
Her?
’ Then Beth noticed the female cut of the figure. Albeit one that was as tall as a man, yet brutally thin.
    They continued to walk forward. The woman advanced steadily, until they faced each other in the centre of the night-time bridge.
    Now Beth saw the woman clearly. The sight did nothing to ease her alarm. The thin woman wore trousers. On her top half, a jersey in dull-green wool clung tightly to her narrow torso. She wore her hair short. The leanness of her body matched the gauntness of her face. A face as white as milk. A pair of black eyebrows formed forbidding arches above her eyes. And, dear God, those eyes?
    The foghorn called again. When the sound died, the silence that replaced it managed to be oppressive.
    An uncanny stillness made the stranger appear to be carved out of stone. Her physical appearance suggested someone of around twenty. Yet the eyes were older than her years. This was someone who’d witnessed terrible events. Those eyes were distant, brooding – haunted by the phantoms of past experiences.
    Beth and Sally attempted to ease their way past the woman; their luggage clunked against their legs. However, that silent guardian of the bridge sidestepped to block their way.
    â€˜Excuse me,’ Beth said at last. ‘Please let us pass.’
    The figure was perfectly still once more.
    â€˜We must cross,’ Sally insisted.
    Beth added, ‘Or is there a reason you don’t want us here? Are you frightened for us? Do you want to protect us from harm?’
    Sally gasped, ‘Beth, why did you ask her that?’
    Beth shook her head. ‘A sixth sense? An instinct for self-preservation?’
    The woman’s lips parted; she tried to speak.
    Sally cried, ‘
Her teeth! What’s gone wrong with her teeth?
’
    The foghorn flung its warning of danger over their heads.
    Beth continued, ‘Why don’t you want us here?’
    â€˜Because nobody in their right mind would
want
to be here.’ The harsh female voice didn’t belong to the gaunt woman. It came from a hunched shape that bowled out of the mist. A woman of around sixty, a shawl dragged tightly around her humped shoulders, bustled up to the bridge’s guardian. Roughly, she turned the thin woman round, then pushed her towards the houses on the other side. ‘Whitby’s no place for visitors. This ain’t no pleasure resort, you know. Not in wartime. Get home, while you’ve got a chance.’
    â€˜Have you