only saw it for a second or two for it recoiled instantly from the bright light, hissing its wrath and shielding its eyes before scampering rapidly away. It vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, its movements loping and almost spider-like as it clambered up one of the tunnel walls and disappeared into a crack in the ceiling. A blurred motion to his left made him spin round, catching at the corner of his eye a second white blur as another one of the things dashed out of view. He raised a hand to his mouth, grimacing and fighting to keep down his supper upon seeing the mutilated bodies of Stanley’s wife and one of the young men, their ravaged, bloody corpses showing signs of bite marks.
Insanity threatened to tear Richardson’s mind apart. The harrowing horror, the bloody carnage and the madness battered and yammered at his brain, sending it spiralling in a hundred different directions, each one darker and more chaotic than the last.
“Are they gone?” asked one of the young men, shambling back into the light. His face was ashen and he was trembling. Blood ran from a claw mark on his arm.
“What in Hell’s name were they?” questioned another. Unlike his friend he appeared uninjured but there was shock and confusion imprinted all over his face.
“I don’t know—but we have to get out of here,” answered Richardson. “It could be that the torchlight kept them away. We’ve got to get moving.”
“I’m going nowhere without my husband. You’ve got to help him,” pleaded Mary. She stood gazing down at her very dead husband, clearly not accepting the fact that he was beyond help, after all there was nothing in Richardson’s first-aid kit that could perform miracles. “We have to get the police and an ambulance.”
“Come on, let’s get going before those things come back.” One of the young men was practically pleading with Richardson to leave—to abandon the American woman if need be—after all he was the only one with a light source and this was now a survival situation. Tears would have to wait until they were out.
As Richardson hesitated, contemplating whether or not to drag the woman with him, there came the echoing clang of one of the portcullis-like gates closing. Several seconds later the sound came again, more muffled this time, further away and from a different direction.
“What was that?” asked Stanley. He had sat, huddled in a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, his eyes wide and staring throughout the madness. Only now did he haul himself to his feet.
“I think they’re trying to trap us; to block off our escape routes.” Richardson swung his torch around, shining it over the three shadowy exits from the chamber they were in. It had sounded as though the way they had come was sealed off as well as one of the forward tunnels. “Those who want to see daylight again had better follow me.” He waited, giving Mary the chance to join him if she so desired and was pleased to see her nod her head and shuffle forward, tears running down her face, smearing her make-up.
There were now only five of them, one of the young men still unaccounted for having fled into the darkness, presumably dead. They had set out as a group of ten—now they were half that number. All of them looked shell-shocked, weary, frightened and some were blood-spattered. There were glazed, disbelieving looks in their eyes, indicative of those who could not come to terms with what they had just experienced.
“Everyone stay close, keep moving and keep your eyes open.” There was a determination in Richardson’s stride as he set off down one of the passages—one which he hoped had not been blocked. His mind was a seething cauldron of writhing, chaotic thoughts but despite this he tried to mentally regain control, knowing that panic would not do him or any of the others any good. To succumb to the insanity would only compound the situation and would no doubt lead to them all getting killed. He forced himself to get a grip on his faculties; to think clearly and logically. He reckoned it would take them about ten minutes to reach an exit, providing it had not been blocked and that he could remain focused and remember the route.
They had been going for close on five minutes, the gnawing fear at what existed in the darkness and was no doubt in stealthy pursuit bordering on the unbearable.
Yet a little hope began to blossom in Richardson’s chest as he firmly believed that he was heading in the right direction. The way had not been barred and the exit lay just ahead. When he got out he would head straight to the nearest police station and inform them of all that had happened. There were witnesses who would testify that he was telling the truth—no matter how incredible it might sound—that there were flesh-eating monsters, devils born of nightmare, haunting the Undercity.
“Keep moving. We’re nearly out. Only another hundred yards or so.”
It was then, when safety and salvation seemed to be tantalisingly within their grasp, that disaster struck as Richardson’s torch went out again.
Scurrying forth from the impenetrable midnight blackness, the savage, child-sized mutant degenerates that had laired down in the deepest parts of the Undercity and the old sewage tunnels fell, ravenously, upon them. With teeth and claws they bore down on their screaming, vulnerable prey, tearing bloody gobbets of flesh from their still-living victims.
Richardson stumbled in the dark, one hand outstretched, reaching for a wall, supporting himself and managing to stay upright. There was nothing he could do for the others now. Only his own survival mattered. Swinging his silver-headed cane in fierce swipes, he edged away, each backward step bring him closer to the exit—or so he hoped.
The gurgling, chomping, slavering sounds that echoed all around were terrible. In his mind he envisaged those poor, hapless victims being torn apart and greedily devoured. He was thankful that he could not witness such gory proceedings.
Step-by-step, he kept retreating.
The sound of scrabbling and the patter of bare feet filled his ears and he was sure the horrors were approaching, no doubt readying themselves for an attack.
“Get back! Get back I warn you!”
“Sssh…sssh…feeeeed usss,” cried out an unholy chorus of sibilant, unearthly voices. “Weeee…huuunger. Sssh…more…brrriing more.”
Richardson’s mind darkened.
“More…” came a pitiful wail; an ululation of the dammed.
A terrifying phantasmagoria of hideously laughing, wide-mouthed faces swam at him from out of the darkness, faces he recognised and had seen many times before. The painted faces of Charles Butterworth. And then a hellish realisation hit him and he knew why these ghouls of the Undercity had not attacked him; had dared not attack him. For his soul belonged to Butterworth, had done so for over two years when he had first set foot in that accursed room in 333 East Street. It had been that Satanist who had formed a pact with these creatures over a century before. He had been their feeder, providing them with morsels from above, until his execution. They still hungered and Butterworth’s spectre had found a way to honour his pact, using Richardson to deliver unknowing victims to them, after all they preferred their meat fresh and as the majority of those he brought were visitors to the city, taking the tour on a whim, their disappearances had never led the police to Richardson. As a further measure, and to ensure no suspicion on the part of Richardson, Butterworth only took full possession after the creatures had claimed their victims, only entering the forefront of his host’s soul and mind when the devilish deed was done.
With Butterworth now in full possession, Richardson found he could see in the dark. He could see that the ghouls were after more but they would have to wait for another night or two and even then it was rare that it was deemed safe enough for them to take an entire group as they had done
