Nightfall

The Screams

THE SCREAMS

 

    It was around mid-day when the screaming first started. Mister Whitmore was pottering around the garden, harvesting the crop of apples and separating them into piles that for themselves or for the animals or cider. Richie, meanwhile, was clambering up the trees, fetching the apples out of reach for the older man while looking out for Violet for an unknown reason.

        Richie heard the screams coming from the river first, but it was mister Whitmore whom remembered Violet. Quickly and silently, the pair sprinted and hobbled over to where they half hoped Violet was and also where they didn’t. She wasn’t there.

         From behind the bushes, Richie could just make out Violet’s face, blushing in the slight sun, eyes full of horror, staring at something. Following her gaze, Richie could see a young, ginger haired girl. Her emerald green eyes were staring at something down below with a mixture of pure fear and disgust. Running towards her, though Richie thought gliding was a better way to describe such a beautiful creature, was a wonderful woman. The ideal woman. Golden, wavy hair with the gentle wind teasing the ends, rosy cheeks, light golden eyes, slim body and full lips. His friends would be jealous. Without realising, the hypnotised Richie stumbled forward, amazed at the beauty of this mythical woman. It didn’t occur to his mind that she was too good to be human. It didn’t occur to him that there was a reason that the girls were looking in horror. It didn’t register that the red on her face was blood. His mind didn’t register his granddad signalling to him to stop. All his mind registered was that angel hadn’t yet noticed him. But she would. And when she did, he thought he would be ready. He wasn’t. When the twig snapped, she whipped her head round; he stared; she started to walk forward; he ran. The ginger ran; mister Whitmore stared; the ginger dropped to the floor; mister Whitmore stood. She, again, whipped her head round; he ran; mister Whitmore glared; she stared; mister Whitmore started to walk forward; she ran. Somehow, mister Whitmore had gotten rid of her, the angel. How dare he?

           Disbelief clouded her eyes. How did he do that? She didn’t just run from her prey did she? No, he wasn’t her prey, he was him. He should be dead. She sank to the floor. It couldn’t be.

           Somehow, Violet realised, mister Whitmore had stopped that blood-drinker. Following the ginger, her name was Penny she had told them, Violet pondered this thought, unaware of the seething Richie behind her. That evening, gathered around a fire at her new house, Violet asked him how he had done it. It was there, looking down on the snowy patchwork of Rocky Falls exactly 40 years on from his first encounter, that mister Whitmore told them just how