AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will.


Martha You Dope Part 8

George looked down in concern at Paul's face in the candlelight. "Paul, how're you doing, mate?"

There was no answer. Paul's eyes were closed, his face slack. John, Ringo and George exchanged a glance.

John leaned over and gently shook him. "Macca, come on. Don't fade out now."

Paul half-opened his eyes. "I'm just taking a little kip," he muttered. A loud crash of thunder roused him more and his eyes met John's. "We'd better get going, aye?" he said.

Martha whined at the foot of the couch, but Ringo kept a careful eye on her to make sure she didn't get it in her furry head to leap up on the sofa again.

George lit another candle and added it to the group slowly melting all over the coffee table. They'd need light for this. He tested the hem of the old shirt he'd taken from upstairs and started tearing it into strips.

John knelt next to Paul and gingerly pulled his pajama pants leg up. He swallowed loudly. "Christ."

The leg was swollen, the skin stretched to the point of looking shiny. Mottled bruising spread across the knee area, and there was a disturbing dented look to the leg where the broken bone lay underneath.

"What?" Paul tried to raise his head to look, but the lump on his head was throbbing and he decided, by the looks of the others' faces, that he was better off not seeing.

"Right," George said. "Let's do it."

John handed him the broomstick splint and George carefully held it alongside Paul's leg, wondering if it was supposed to go a certain way. "Ok," he said, and held out a hand for a strip of cloth. Ringo gave him one and he maneuvered it under the stick and over Paul's leg just above the knee. He stole a glance at Paul's face, which was still calm, and slowly pulled the strip of cloth tighter around the leg so he could tie it off.

"All right, Paul?" he asked as he finished the first one.

"Right as rain," Paul replied, suddenly realising he'd been holding his breath.

George nodded to Ringo, who handed him another strip of cloth. This one had to go under the knee, closer to the break, and although George tried his best to be gentle, the pressure of the cloth squeezed a gasp out of Paul. George stopped.

"It's ok, keep going," Paul told him and screwed his eyes shut tight.

John looked on helplessly for a bit then wandered over to look out the window and to light a cigarette. The night was black, except for flashes of lightning. The wind still howled, splashing rain and leaves from the trees onto the pane he was looking out of. Then, from the corner of his eye, John thought he saw something dart toward the house from a tangle of bushes near the fence. Thunder rolled in a long, low rumble.

"What the...?" John squinted and leaned forward, trying to catch another glimpse of whatever he thought he'd seen. Suddenly something launched itself at the window right in front of him. It shook under the impact, the frame rattled. John recoiled, afraid the glass was going to shatter, and the cigarette dropped out of his startled fingers.

The others had heard the thud also. Ringo walked to John's side and looked out the window. "What the hell was that? A tree branch?"

"Not unless tree branches have eyes...red eyes," John said faintly.

Ringo looked quickly at him to see if he was joking. A frown crossed his face as he saw John's blank, shocked expression. He looked down and saw John's cigarette smoldering on the rug. "Aye!" he shouted and stamped on it.

"Jesus, John," Paul muttered, opening his eyes. "Don't fuck around with us like that. It's too creepy out."

John's heart was pounding. As the thing had hit the glass, he could've sworn he saw two malevolent eyes glaring back at him. They had glowed with a faint crimson light.

"Something's out there," he said abruptly. He couldn't control an irrational fear that some evil thing produced by the storm was about to burst into the house. He strode to the front door and turned the dead bolt with a click.

Martha, still standing guard by Paul's feet, let out a short growl. No one spoke as George resumed fastening the splint to Paul's leg, shooting occassional glances at John and RIngo, who had backed away from the large living room window.

Then Paul sat up, wincing as the homemade splint dragged against the couch. "What was that?"

They were all getting jumpy. They froze and listened. A faint scratching sound was coming from the back kitchen door. The one that led out into the unkempt garden.

"Oh, shit," Ringo whispered. "Is it locked?"

Paul didn't answer so Ringo repeated, with rising panic. "Damn it, Paul, is your back door locked?"

"I...I'm not sure. It should be."

George looked up at John with sudden horror in his eyes. "The dining room window is knocked out!"

"All right, all right!" John said loudly. "Come on, lads. Let's pull ourselves together here."

"Could someone light me a ciggie, please?" Paul asked tersely.

John fumbled with his pack, lit one and handed it to Paul with trembling fingers. Paul immediately took a large pull on the cigarette, feeling the nicotine slowly trickle into his bloodstream, calming his nerves. "Someone had better check the door and nail up the window," he suggested.

"Easy for you to say, you know you're not going to be the one to do it," Ringo replied.

"Come on, we don't even know if there really is anything out there," Paul said. "The lightning could've been playing tricks on your eyes, John."

"It could've," John replied slowly.

"It might've just been a stray dog freaked by the storm," George suggested.

"It might've," John said softly.

The scratching began again. Rather than a random sound like a branch being pushed by the wind, it sounded like something being drawn deliberately across the wood in a consistent pattern.

John inhaled deeply and blew the breath out. "Hell," was all he said as he grabbed a candle and walked toward the back of the house.

Paul looked with wide eyes at George and Ringo. "Don't let him go alone!" he said in alarm.

George stood up and followed John after taking his own candle from the table. It was considerably dimmer after they left. One candle had already melted down to its wick and gone out. Martha growled again and let out a high-pitched whine.

"Stop it, Martha!" Paul said sharply, taking another drag on the cigarette, his own hand shaking. The fear had risen above the pain for now, but he didn't know if he preferred that by any means. "We're going to need more candles, Ringo," he said. "Can you go take a look?"

Ringo nodded dully and picked up the candle he'd put in the glass. There were only about two inches left of it.

"See if there's a hammer or anything in there too, aye?" Paul added quietly.

Ringo knew what he meant. In case they needed to protect themselves against...something. Lightning lit up the house, casting nightmarish shadows on the furniture, making trees leap to life outside. Ringo gulped and went quickly to the broom closet.

Passing through the dining room, John and George stopped to shove Paul's antique cherry wood hutch up against the broken panes of glass where George had crawled in.

"That'll have to do," John grunted.

"The scratching's stopped," George said nervously. He lifted his candle higher, trying to get it to shed a little more light.

"Let's have a look," John said more calmly than he felt. In reality, he thought his heart might take a jump out of his throat at any moment, it was beating so hard.

They pushed the door to the kitchen open and peered inside, looking at the far wall where the door to the backyard was. The candlelight couldn't penetrate the darkness, so they were forced to step farther into the room.

There was nothing in the kitchen. The door was closed and the bolt locked. John and George breathed in relief. Then a crash reverberated through the room as something outside flung itself against the door. It trembled from the impact.

"Oh, shit!"

"Fucking hell!"

As the two Beatles lunged for the door, John tore open a drawer. It slid off its rollers from the force of his yank and fell to the floor, scattering all its contents. John dug through the mess, still holding his candle in one shaky hand, until his hand closed on a long knife. "George, here!" he whispered as he scrabbled around for another weapon. This time he found a large butcher knife with a deadly-looking thick blade.

George, leaning against the door, took the handle of the knife gingerly. "What the fuck is out there?" he breathed fearfully.

Ringo dropped the four extra candles he'd found, cracking one down the middle, as John's and George's yells rang through the house. "Paul?" he asked in a trembling voice.

"Yeah, Ring. Come on, did you find anything?" Paul's voice held a note of panicked urgency.

"Just candles so far." He reached farther back and felt along the shelf. "Come on, come on," he muttered to himself. "Ah, there's a scissors and a screwdriver," he said, pulling them out.

"Good, ok," Paul said. "Grab another broom-one with the thickest handle." He was feeling decidedly edgy about being immobile with whatever was going on in the kitchen. He tried shifting his leg down off the sofa, but it rewarded him with blinding pain. As the fog cleared, a horrible thought flashed into his mind.

"Oh Christ, the dog door," he whispered.

"John!" he shouted, "the dog door, latch the fucking dog door!"

George and John heard Paul's warning. They froze; their eyes met. At the same instant, something huge with lethal, inch-long claws punched through the dog door and seized George by the ankle.


An: I fixed some spelling mistakes if you think I shouldn't edit I could upload the raw one instead

ex: manuevered to maneuvered