Hiding From the Light. Barbara Erskine

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      The room was dark and he could see nothing, but he could hear the creature in the corner, snuffling quietly to itself. He lay quite still in the high bed, staring up towards the tester he could not see, wishing he had not drawn the curtain so close around him. He was sweating profusely, his hands gripping the sheet, holding it tightly up against his chin.

      Where was it? He hardly dared blink his eyes. It had moved. He could hear the scrape of claws against the boards.

      Don’t stir.

      Don’t even breathe.

      It doesn’t realise you’re here.

      If only his heart would stop pounding so loudly against his chest. The animal must be able to hear him, smell the sour fear. Inch by inch he edged up against the pillows away from the sound. There was a crack in the bed curtains now, as the sheet caught against the rough tapestry and he could see a faint line of light from the window shutters. It was nearly dawn.

      Sweet Jesu, make it go away.

      Another sound from the corner of the room sent a fresh sheen of sweat across his shoulder blades. There was a grunt and the sharp crunch of teeth on bone. Dear Lord, the creature had caught something. It was eating it, there, in his bedroom, taunting him. He could smell blood, smell the rank breath, the rotting teeth, he could almost see its small red, evil, eyes.

      How had it got in?

      He frowned. He could remember closing the door and sliding the bolt. He could remember barring the shutters. Or had he? He glanced towards the tell-tale strip of pale light. He had felt so ill as he climbed the narrow stairs the night before, the fever once again clamping its sweaty hold over his shoulders. He had fallen on the bed, racked with coughing, too tired even to pull off his bucket-top boots. He remembered that. He moved his foot slightly. No. It was bare. He must have kicked off the soft leather boots and removed his breeches and stockings before crawling under the bed covers.

      Outside, the darkness lifted perceptibly. The stars and the quarter moon, hanging low over the hill behind his house, began to fade. The birds were waking. First one tentative call, then another, rang out in the cold garden.

      His throat spasmed. He was going to cough again. He mustn’t. He mustn’t make a sound. He groped blindly for a kerchief, for the sheet, the pillow, anything to smother the noise. If he coughed, the creature would know he was there and turn its attention to him. He could feel the cough building, the tightness in his chest, the agony in his throat. His terror was overwhelming.

      As the first cough exploded from him, he heard himself scream. He leaned over towards the bedside table and snatched the dagger that lay there, ready, thrusting it wildly in front of him as the bear turned to stare straight between the bed curtains into his eyes. For a moment they exchanged a long thoughtful glance, then slowly the bear rose to its feet.

      Downstairs the maid heard his frantic shouting as she knelt to lay the fire. She glanced up and shook her head. Master Hopkins must be having another of his nightmares. She paused for a moment, listening, then she turned back to the fire.

      Upstairs, at the first sound of the coughing, the tabby cat dropped her half-eaten mouse and fled from the room, leaving a small pile of bloody entrails in the corner as she leaped for the window, pushed through the unfastened shutters and vanished into the cold dawn.

      In the bed, his fear drained away as swiftly as it had come and in its place he felt rage. Rage such as he had never felt before. The women who had caused him to feel such fear would pay and pay dearly for their foul conspiracy. And he knew who they were, for they were on his list. The Devil’s List.