Chapter One

The Shadows

Life, death, what was the difference?
What was the true meaning of life?

Was I merely created to bow low to those of higher rank?

To serve willingly for payment unsatisfactory?

Yes, I dull voice in the corner of my mind answered. Of course you were other wise, what was the point of your existence?

I sighed and gazed out of the grimy window at the dark, cloudy clouds set low above the horizon. Great, another dreary day in Flockford.

The year was 1899, and the thrill of the Industrial Revolution was wearing thin; work had become a tedious burden and however lethargic or despondent I felt, Phillips Mill called to me. I swung my long red hair behind me and pinned it back, as was compulsory. I hated pinning my hair back; it emphasized the paleness of my skin and tightened my eyes making me appear continuously surprised. I turned, about to depart for work when I caught my reflection staring back at me from the broken shard of glass I used as a mirror. Realising I had forgotten my mop-cap I quickly fetched it and tied it on, staring at my reflection the whole time. My hair had darkened over the winter and the golden streaks and dispersed leaving my hair dull and lifeless. My Mother, Olivia Locket, had shunned me the moment the blonde streaks left my hair; apparently, red hair was a sign of the devil. The superstitious accussion still made me chuckle. I glanced out of the window again and noticed that the folks in the square below were walking with hunched shoulder, pale, solemn faces. I brought a hand to the base of my throat as I gasped. Another had gone missing.

September had been a month filled with sorrow, horror and fright. The streets were awash with the blood of innocents and it appeared that the months emotions were going to continue into October.

Two days ago little Jake Jenningson had gone missing as he played ball in the street; the boy had only been seven! He had barely lived, and just yesterday his mangled body had been found atop the over hang of Grandle Bakery. I descended the stairs slowly and exited the house, before returning and grabbing my lunch from the kitchen counter. I strolled across the street, muttering incoherently to myself, mounted the three low steeped stairs, stood under the old lamppost, and settled down to wait. As I waited I noticed that the streets appeared to be fewer in number and the sound of children's laughter no longer filled my ears. It saddened me to know that folk were too afraid to be out during the day, never mind at night. I felt a slight tap on my shoulder and wheeled around, stumbling down the uneven steps during the process.

'Rachel, don't do that.' I said brushing off my skirt.

'I'm sorry,' she choked. I glanced up and met her tear filled gaze and immediately felt a stab of fear and guilt.

'Oh, Rachel, who- ?'

'Lester.' She said swaying on the spot, 'Lester Price.'

'Oh Rachel,' I said, instantly I felt horrible for snapping at her and enfolded her in a hug, 'I'm so sorry, I know you were fond of each other.'

I awkwardly patted her on the shoulder whilst my thoughts raced. Lester Price. Quite frankly I had no idea that he and Rachel had been friends, although, judging from Rachel's dramatic appearance my theory was correct. Lester Price had been a youth of whom my mother used to talk quite highly of, that is until he married Heidi Woods, and lowered his social status. The fact that Lester Price had gone missing was peculiar. True, he had many enemies, though they were all dead, or moved away. Nobody I knew of no longer held any grudge for Mr Price, apart from my mother, though I didn't believe he had the strength or the patience to murder anyone. I bit back a smile and pushed a lock of dull, blonde hair behind Rachel's petite ear.

'There there. It's alright' I murmured into her left ear. She gasped and buried her face deeper into the crook of my neck. In some ways Rachel reminded me of a child, my child. She was so small and dainty, almost like my old hand painted doll that was buried in a chest somewhere in my bedroom. A few moments later Rachel lifted her heart shaped face and jerked her head in the direction of Phillips Mill.

'We better get going or we'll be late' she whispered, so quietly I had to ask her to repeat her words. Instead of replying she merely grabbed my left hand and began to pull me down the litter filled streets towards the mill.

Phillips Mill was much like any other, of course, I had never been further than the Old Oak tree on the outskirts of Flockford, so I had nothing to compare it to. The mill was old, dirty and loud. Grimy windows blocked all sunlight from entering the already sweltering rooms, windows too rusty to open and provide fresh oxygen; I detested it. Harold Phillips was the owner of the mill, he had been in charge for over 10 years, and soon was passing leadership over to his son, Peter Phillips. Mr Phillips Jr, had only just turned eighteen and he already carried an air of superiority and command. He walked with an edge of confidence I deeply envied, and he was always so sure of himself; or maybe he just appeared that way in public.

Rachel nudged me slightly and I shook myself awake, before me was Peter Phillips. His light blue eyes were dim and subdued, his golden hair a mop, and his shoulders slumped as he strolled across the small courtyard at a brisk pace in the direction of his home. Every day at a half-hour past six he would walk past from the bakers shop on Oakley Road. We would always be there to make sure that he safely made it to his house.

'He is beautiful,' Rachel sighed passionately.

'Beautiful?' I scoffed, 'isn't that what a man usually calls a woman?'

She shook her head adamantly before replying, 'A man who is evil inside can be handsome, but a man who is kind on the inside and handsome on the outside can only be described as beautiful!'

'I'll take your word for it.' I said staring after Mr Phillips. 'I wonder why he appeared to be so depressed.' I said as an after thought. Rachel didn't reply and we stood there, gaping for a few extra seconds before I grabbed her hand and pulled her through the door to reality.

I immediately inhaled a clump of dust and coughed until my lungs heaved, I hate this place, I thought sourly. Fighting past the desire to vomit, or run away, I straightened my shoulders and strolled to my machine, Thomas, I had christened it. As I waited for the machine's to be turned on my thoughts wandered to Mr Phillip Jr. I sighed, Rachel was right, he was beautiful. True the only conversation we had ever had was short and did not make much or an impact on either of our lives, but it was more than others could say. I remember that day vividly. I had been walking, well running if I was to be true to myself, and had darted round the corner and collided with him. His strong arms caught me before I could hit the ground and he smiled slightly before resting me back on my own too feet.

'Perhaps you should slow down a little Miss, you don't know how lucky you'll be next time,' he had chuckled a little before turning and walking back the way he had come, while I stood their dumbfounded.

'Thank you,' I had called after him, I still don't think he heard me. Shaking my head slightly I glanced down at my machine.

'Start,' I whispered, 'then I can go home,'

There was a low groaning as the crank was turned and whatever started the machines began to work, it almost sounded like Thomas was laughing at me. I brushed my hair out of my eyes and began to work. I suppose I wasn't paying as much attention to what I was doing as I usually did. The new murder, or disappearance, as ignorant folk called it, was certainly for me, the queerest so far. Unlike many people in Flockford, I was not fearful of the murderer, but curious. I could not comprehend how anyone could be as vile and evil as this person. It fascinated me. I also could not understand why the only people that the murderer seemed to have a passion for were men. Did this mean that the murderer was a woman? If so, that was a trifle bit disconcerting. True, women had been known to murder husbands or fathers in the past, but this was not over something so petty as inheritance or adultery, no, this was an obsession, and a dangerous one at that. If the Flockford murderer was indeed a woman- I shuddered slightly, I did not want to think of what the woman's incentive was and what the consequences would be.

I jumped slightly as Thomas gave a rather loud huff. The machines still frightened me, after nearly ten years of service I could not comprehend why I felt such fear for them. I glanced down at my right hand, oh yeah now I remember, I thought to myself sarcastically. During my first month of working here I had lost my little finger on my right hand, this made writing incredibly difficult, not that I knew how to write well especially using my right hand; I still cringed when I looked at it. A loud grating noise brought me back to present and gaped in horror at the sight before me. Blood….there was so much blood. I whirled around, a trembling hand pressed to my heart and I screamed for help.

Hours later Rachel joined me outside in the courtyard, we were only permitted a 15 minuet lunch, and unlike the rest of the workers, I would stand in the courtyard trying to breathe in clean air, no matter the weather; if it was raining or snowing I would be found under the under hang, it was raining today and I gazed at it unthinkingly.

'Are you alright Ana?' Rachel asked hesitantly. I sighed slightly and nodded. She didn't buy it.

'Nobody blames you Ana,' she said rubbing my shoulder, I shook it off angrily, 'There wasn't anything you could have done.'

I nodded, not really listening to her. I wasn't in the mood for her incessant chatter.

'Alice-Jane just wasn't fast enough, you've been there, you know that you have to get in and out as fast –'

'Who do you think is murdering people?' I said interrupting her. Rachel merely gaped at me in surprise, 'and why do you think the only people dying are men? Do you think it's a woman?

Rachel seemed to find her voice, 'I'm not sure Ana, I mean, why would a woman-'

'Exactly!' I interrupted again, 'Nothing adds up!'

Frustrated I sat on the old stone bench with my arms crossed, glaring at the rain. I felt Rachel sit down beside me.

'Don't you care about Alice- Jane?' she asked hesitantly. My fingernails bit into my arms as I tried to restrain myself from hitting her. Stupid girl, she has no idea what goes on in my head, then again, neither do I.

'Of course I do! Years ago I was almost in the same predicament, yet, what's one more death going to do to this town?' I said sharply. She drew in a quick breath and nodded slightly with her head bowed. I felt like her Sunday school teacher, shouting at her in this manner.

'I'm sorry Rachel,' I said, though I felt no guilt what- so- ever, 'I had no right to –'

Her head snapped up and her eyes were startlingly cold.

'Yes you did, I can't believe that I said that! What is wrong with me?' she said exasperated.

'Nothing is wrong with you Rachel, you asked a question, and I answered. True I replied rather indecently, but that's not your fault.'

She smiled slightly, 'So who do you think is responsible for these attacks?' she asked. I gazed at her happily; at least she changed the subject, now I didn't feel quite so awkward.

'I'm not sure,' I mused, 'I personally am leaning towards the fact that the person responsible is a woman.'

Rachel looked at me, her eyebrows knitted together and her lower lip pouted slightly.

'I don't know why, it's just, only men have been attacked, this could be the work of a jealous psychopath.'
An act of realisation dawned onto Rachel's face.

'What?' I asked, excited now.

'It's your Mother!' she declared laughing, all seriousness gone now. I joined in with her laughter.

'Really though,' I said a few moments later, 'who do you think it is?'

The laughter slid of her face slowly and she shrugged.

I huffed; this was getting more than a little bit frustrating.

'Why don't we go and see Johnny Moore?'

I looked up sharply and let forward slightly, 'What's he got to do with anything?'

'I've only heard rumours,' she said holding her right hand up, 'But people are saying that Johnny Moore knows a lot about what's killing people.'

'And what's killing people?' I asked intently, she glanced around, her right hand clenched tightly around her cross.

'Vampires,' she whispered

'Vampires,' I scoffed, 'there's no such thing as Vampires!'

Her hand tightened around her cross.

'You don't believe it, do you?' I asked condescendingly

'No,' she said, though her eyes didn't meet my own.

'You do don't you!' I laughed, my own friend, a super- natural freak.

She drew herself up angrily, 'Yes well, I look at all the evidence before I make judgement!'

'What evidence? I asked with my eyebrows raised, she threw me a withering glance before leaning forward and replying.

'Look, Ana,' she said, 'if you want me to even try and explain, your going to have to open your mind a little, okay?'

I nodded vigorously, anything to get an answer.

'Well, people are being found on top of lampposts, roofs, high walls, right?' she said looking at me for confirmation to her story, I nodded once, satisfied she continued, 'so you tell me, who do you know that can climb those walls carrying a body?'

Her eyes bored into my own; I was the first to look away. Smiling smugly she stood and offered her hand out to me.

'We need to get to work,' she said when I just looked at it.

'Oh,'

The work bell rung and my hand jumped into hers, laughing she pulled me to my feet and we dropped hands.

'Think it's time for work?' I asked sarcastically. She smiled slightly and began to walk towards the main room I followed her, thinking hard. I caught her hand again before we entered.

'Tonight, half-past eight, come to my house,' I whispered

'Why?' she breathed, glancing over her left shoulder.

'We're going to go and see Johnny Moore.'

It was a quarter- past eight and Rachel would be arriving in fifteen. I rose and went into the kitchen and began to stir up a pot of tea. Whilst waiting for the tea-pot to whistle I gazed out of the window repulsed by what I saw. How much waste could one street take! Endless garbage heaps lined the walls like barricades, it was a wonder anyone could get inside their own homes with these stagnant defences in their way. I turned and placed a hand on the kettle base to feel how long I would have to wait, still cold. I returned my gaze to the window and jumped back knocking the tea-pot onto the floor. I didn't care; what I had just seen made every thought I had ever made insignificant, every spark of fear I'd ever felt, a child's nightmare. A face had been gazing in at me, its eyes wide with hunger. A face only described from nightmares, a dead face. I had just seen Lester Price.