It had all happened so fast.
The old woman had fired the shotgun as soon as Charlie had mentioned the Doctor's name.
Her shot had hit its mark: the centre of the Doctor's chest. It had shredded his shirt and jacket, but that was the least of his worries – he was bleeding heavily.
"What have you done?" Charlie roared at the old woman.
She didn't respond, and cocked the gun again.
"This didn't happen the first time," the Doctor grunted.
He staggered upright once more, and gasped for breath.
"Dear god, he's still alive…" the man exclaimed.
"He is a demon!" the old woman declared, preparing to shoot again.
"No!" Charlie yelled, jumping in front of the Doctor, and raising his arms defensively. "He's already dying! He needs help! Please!"
He looked into the old woman's eyes. She was afraid. But her fear was driving her cold-blooded actions. The gun remained directed at the Doctor.
Charlie tried to convey his fear and his desperation, hoping it would strike a chord, and prove that they really didn't mean any harm.
"Perhaps he is telling the truth," the man offered nervously.
"We can't be sure of that," the woman snapped.
"Then you must decide quickly," he urged.
"I promise he can help," Charlie uttered desperately.
The woman bitterly held his gaze for a moment, but eventually relented, and lowered her gun.
"Get him inside. Quickly!"
The man rushed out to help Charlie haul the Doctor into the old house, and set him down in a chair whilst the woman locked and bolted the door.
They were in a small kitchen. A rickety wooden table sat in the centre of the room, and a large black cooking pot balanced on an unlit stove. It was a simple, functional kitchen, lined with old wooden cabinets – something Charlie might have expected to see a hundred years ago. Not that he was paying attention to any of his surroundings.
The Doctor gasped, clutching his chest. There was a thick, green ooze seeping from his wound, clotting around his fingers.
The clergyman was rifling through the cupboards, digging out tins of medical supplies.
Charlie knelt by the Doctor's chair, unsure whether he should be trying to stem the flow of green fluid from his chest.
"Oh…" groaned the Doctor. "I'll never get this out of my shirt…"
"What is this stuff?" asked Charlie, interrupting the Doctor's apparently delusional wittering. "That's not your blood, is it?"
"It's green!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Of course it's not my blood! You think I have green blood?"
"Sorry, I just thought…" Charlie shook his head. "Yeah, that's not really important, is it?"
"It's the Arachnid venom," the Doctor explained, "and its manifestation in my mind."
Charlie backed out of the way as the clergyman returned, with a bowl of water and a roll of bandages. He let him tend to the Doctor's wound, as a woman burst into the kitchen.
She was a short, plump woman. Long blonde hair cascaded around her kindly features, which were currently twisted into an expression of alarm.
"Mrs Madigan? Reverend? What's all this noise?"
"These two were sneaking around outside," Mrs Madigan growled, still clutching her shotgun in her gnarled hands.
"I knocked on the door!" the Doctor protested, before wincing in pain.
The reverend sighed patiently, wringing a stained cloth.
"If you wouldn't mind sitting still?"
"This one's a doctor," Mrs Madigan sneered, flicking her wrist in the Doctor's direction.
The woman's eyes widened, and she skirted around the edges of the room, keeping her distance from the Doctor.
"I don't understand," Charlie confronted them. "What's wrong with… being a doctor?"
Mrs Madigan glared at him with mistrustful eyes.
He was refused an explanation.
Eventually, the Doctor broke the silence.
"Words mean different things on different worlds."
"So what does that mean? What does 'doctor' mean here?"
Charlie shot the Doctor a look of irritation. The lack of a straight answer was frustrating.
"Devil," Mrs Madigan spat.
"What?" Charlie uttered. "Is this for real?"
"Yes," the Doctor muttered. "I don't know why. But it's part of the reason everyone turned against me."
"Quiet!" Mrs Madigan hissed.
Charlie was about to object to the old woman's brusque attitude, until he saw the look of terror on her features.
She was listening intently. She kept looking back towards the door, touching each of the locks, just to make sure they were secure.
"What?" Charlie asked her.
"I can hear them," she croaked. "Miss Rossini, arm yourself."
The other woman reluctantly picked up a rifle from the top of the kitchen cupboards.
"You know I don't like using weapons."
"I'm afraid we have little choice," the reverend assured her.
The room fell silent, and this time, Charlie heard it.
Howling.
A shrill, chilling howl, to which other voices added their own terrifying responses.
What were they? Wolves? Or something worse?
Mrs Madigan dimmed the flickering gas light stove in the centre the table, plunging the room into shadow.
Charlie could still see the whites of her eyes, as she silently urged everyone to keep quiet.
There was a thud against the door, and Charlie jumped.
His muscles tensed, pumping with adrenaline.
Mrs Madigan and Miss Rossini immediately aimed their weapons at the door.
Miss Rossini was trembling. If the thing at the door got in, she was shaking so much that she'd probably miss – if she fired a shot at all.
Charlie wasn't sure that any of them stood a chance. Because even the Doctor was visibly scared. His eyes were locked on the doorway, his face crumpled in dread.
The creature was trying desperately to break in. It rattled the door, clawed at the wood; the jangling of chains added to the hammering in a chorus of horror.
Charlie was scared that the flimsy door would be reduced to splinters in a matter of seconds; it seemed to bulge every time the thing tried to force its way in.
Somehow, it held.
And after a minute that seemed to last for ages, the noise stopped.
Even in the silence that followed, Mrs Madigan refused to lower her weapon.
"Has it gone?" Charlie whispered.
"I don't know," Miss Rossini answered hopefully.
"No," Mrs Madigan spoke sharply, shooting her a steely glare. "They attack every night. For hours."
She turned to Charlie. "They're wild. They have no mercy. I don't think they will ever stop, until we are all dead."
The Doctor's eyes fell dejectedly upon the floorboards.
"We can't stop them." She shook her head, her lips pursed in thought. "We can't kill them."
Charlie regarded Mrs Madigan's vicious shotgun, which had done considerable damage to the Doctor.
"Why not? How strong are they?"
"It's not that," the Doctor muttered. "They just can't."
Charlie narrowed his eyes, studying the Doctor. What did he mean? Why was everyone being so vague? What were they so reluctant to talk about?
Charlie suddenly became aware that the five of them were no longer alone in the room, and he leapt back, startled, when he noticed the figure standing in the hallway.
Mrs Madigan immediately lowered her shotgun when she saw that it wasn't a monster. It was a little girl, who couldn't have been older than six; her untidy black hair a bird's nest of knots.
Miss Rossini hid her gun under the table, and rushed over to the girl.
"Poppy? What's wrong? Why are you out of bed?"
"I'm sorry, Miss Rossini," the girl mumbled. "I heard noises."
Charlie looked over at the Doctor, who was staring at the girl in concern, even as the reverend finished bandaging his wound.
Miss Rossini knelt down, and pushed a stray strand of hair behind the girl's ear.
"Oh, Poppy, there's nothing to be scared of," she said, trying to reassure the girl. "Go back to bed."
"Are the shutters still closed, child?" Mrs Madigan asked. Her tone was rather harsh – but softer compared to her attitude towards Charlie and the Doctor. "You didn't open them?"
Poppy's lip began trembling, and she looked as though she were about to cry. Charlie really hoped she wouldn't. He couldn't stand crying children.
"Poppy? You didn't look outside?" Miss Rossini asked, kindly.
"No, miss," Poppy said quickly.
"Good. That's good," Miss Rossini chimed. "We're only trying to keep you all safe."
Poppy nodded quickly, desperate to avoid any further scolding.
"Miss Rossini, you'd better take her upstairs, and make sure the other children are all right," Mrs Madigan ordered. "Then get some rest. The Reverend and I will take the first watch."
"Yes, of course," Miss Rossini agreed, taking Poppy by the hand, and leading her back upstairs.
"And take our… guests with you. You'll be safer upstairs, too," Mrs Madigan added, reluctantly nodding at the Doctor and Charlie.
The Doctor grunted dismissively.
Charlie met his gaze for a moment. He had a feeling they wouldn't be any safer upstairs.
He waited for the Doctor, making sure that he was well enough to move. Although the Doctor winced slightly whenever he took a step, he seemed otherwise okay. He certainly didn't want any help, waving off all of Charlie's attempts to offer assistance.
Nearly every step creaked and groaned loudly as they ascended the bare staircase into the darkness above.
There were only three rooms upstairs, and Charlie followed Miss Rossini into the largest one.
This was the children's room. There were at least a dozen beds, but only three or four kids.
They were all awake, staring at them with fearful eyes.
Miss Rossini tucked Poppy back into bed.
"Now," she smiled, "try to get some sleep?"
Poppy nodded, but she looked doubtful.
Charlie looked around at all the kids. They were all scared – even the eldest, who looked about thirteen.
"Why are there so many empty beds?" he asked the Doctor.
"It took the children first," the Doctor repeated quietly.
Charlie's heart tugged at him. Actually seeing this seemed to have a greater impact on him.
"You mean they're all… dead?" he whispered.
"No," the Doctor muttered sadly.
Charlie twisted round to look at him. Even in the shadows, he could see the remorse on the Doctor's face.
"Something worse than death?"
The Doctor was silent for a moment, before he gave his answer in a sigh.
"What do you think's attacking the house?"
Charlie's stomach lurched.
"No?" he looked at the Doctor in disbelief. "No."
But the Doctor held his gaze. Regrettably, yes.
Charlie looked at the kids around him, and thought back to that thing scratching at the door. It couldn't have been a child. It sounded more like an animal, the way it clawed at the door in frenzy.
Miss Rossini turned to him. Her eyes were brimming with tears, which she was trying to hide from the children.
"We hoped… we prayed that they were just playing some kind of game."
"It was worse for the parents," the Doctor commented. "Their own children hunted them.
"Can you imagine that?" he asked Charlie.
Charlie shook his head. His throat was too tight to respond.
"I don't know what possessed them. I'd never seen anything like it in all my days," Miss Rossini croaked.
"Nor had I," the Doctor admitted.
"Thank goodness we've been able to keep them out," she muttered. "They can't get in here."
Her voice was a little shaky, like she was trying to convince herself she was safe, but she didn't truly believe it.
"But they have got in," Poppy insisted.
Miss Rossini's heart almost stopped. She looked like she was going to be sick.
"What? What do you mean?"
Poppy looked over to one of the empty bunks.
The Doctor, who had been perched on the edge of a bed, leapt to his feet, whipping the sonic out of his pocket.
Charlie noticed that all the kids were sitting in the middle of their beds, hugging their knees.
Miss Rossini was chewing agitatedly on her fists.
The Doctor shook the sonic screwdriver, and scowled.
"It's not working properly!" he growled.
He glanced over at Charlie, and then at the children.
That seemed to strengthen his resolve, and he crouched down by the empty bunk.
He couldn't see a thing under there – it was too dark.
"They're after the children!" Miss Rossini wailed.
"Shh!" the Doctor hissed; the whites of his eyes visible as he shot a warning glare at her.
Charlie backed away slightly, staring at the shadows underneath the bed, his heart thumping way too loud.
The Doctor rolled up his sleeve, and Charlie realised what he was about to do. He was dreading what the Doctor would find as he plunged his arm into the darkness.
His eyes widened momentarily, and Charlie was certain the Doctor had felt something.
"There's nothing there," the Doctor muttered.
Miss Rossini breathed a shaky sigh of relief.
"Thank goodness," she laughed. "There was nothing there. It was just your imagination, Poppy."
The kids did not seem reassured. They were still tense, clinging to their bedsheets like they were their only lifelines.
Charlie slowly became aware that one of the boys was staring at him, and he felt a cold shiver grasp his spine, as though someone had thrust ice cubes down the back of his neck.
He locked eyes with the tousle-haired kid, and a thought struck him.
He'd been thinking of all these kids as, well, kids, because they were much younger than him. But Charlie was seventeen. In the eyes of this monster, he was still a child. If this thing was after children, it would be after him, too.
He was about to mention this to the Doctor, when he felt something brush against his ankle.
Before he even thought to look down, his feet were pulled away from beneath him.
He only just managed to raise his hands, before his nose could crack against the hard wooden floor, and he felt himself being dragged sharply beneath the bed.
"No," he gasped, his head pounding, pumping with adrenaline. He reached out, clawing at the floorboards, but failed to get a proper grip on anything.
The other kids gasped, and the Doctor whirled round. He was immediately by Charlie's side, trying to haul him back. He had a tight hold on his armpits; Charlie was pretty sure that all the Doctor would achieve would be to dislocate his arm from their sockets.
He tried to kick the creature away, but he could barely move his legs.
"Doctor!" he yelled.
The thing tugged at his foot, its vice-like grip dragging him into the darkness.
It was seconds away from overpowering him, swallowing him up.
Succumbing to panic, a thousand words surged through his head, hundreds of people screaming at him; a meaningless scramble of terror.
"Doctor!"
