Overcast

Think back to when you experienced that first thunderstorm as a child. The sound of a new noise bellowing throughout the sky, you were most likely terrified. We see it as a flash of light followed by a loud noise, but children see it as something to be afraid of. Underneath every storm though there is a silver lining, but with every silver lining, it dosn't come without a cost.

The first clap of thunder echoed over the cliff face like cannon fire, sending gulls shrieking into the dark, brooding sky. Out across the waves a bright fork of lightning lit up the purple clouds on the horizon, and with another ominous rumble of thunder, the rain swept in from the sea.

Carl Jenkins looked up in despair and struggled with the hood of his jacket as a gust of wind swirled the rain around him. He glowed angrily at the sky as the rain became a torrent, and cursed his luck.

The weather had been fine until a few minutes ago, so much for his holiday. When he left his flat back in Hayward the sun had been shining and his spirits had been high. He should have known his fortunes were going to change as soon as he saw the boiling clouds overhead yesterday morning. It was typical. Every trip he had made to the coast of Ocean Gate was the same. Paying the toll was like putting coins into a launderette washing machine: no sooner had they clunked into the slot than the water started to pour.

The brochure advertising the holiday had fallen out of the local newspaper back in Hayward seemed ideal at the time. The photographs of the bays and cliff tops looked idyllic, but it had been a paragraph about the fishing that had finally convinced Carl to pick up the phone and book.

His father had been a great fisherman. Old family holidays had always started with a regular routine of unpacking long canvas bags from the attic, checking rods and reels, sprucing up floats. The entire exercise fascinated Carl and there had always been that extra thrill of danger when his father untied the small pouch filled with gleaming hooks, pointing out sternly that they were not to be touched under any circumstances.

Not that he would of gone anywhere near them. The wicked barbs on the tips had terrified him, always curling his hands into fists so there was no chance of one of those metal spikes getting near his fingers.

Raising his head, Carl looked up at the dark brooding sky that now loomed low overhead. The long, tangled line of rocks along the coast that looked so pretty in the sunlight had taken on a harsh jagged feel, the waves boiling angrily along their edge sending spray high into the air.

Carl shivered in his jacket. The rain was icy cold and the wind was starting to cut right through him. Another loud crack of thunder made him jump, he should be leaving now. With a deep sigh, he started to reel in his line, wincing as lightning arced across the waves. Carl reached out for one of the canvas bags to grab the container where he kept his sinkers. Shaking the rain from his eyes, Carl groped around in the sodden bag. He gave a sudden cry as he felt a searing pain.

He whipped his hand back from the bag, tears of agony welling in his eyes, struggling not to let the rod clatter down the rocks and into the swirling sea. Blood streamed down his hand, diluted by the lashing rain, and he could see the gleaming end of one of the fish hooks protruding through the tip of his thumb.

Stumbling to his feet, Carl tried to wedge the rod under his arms, turning his back to the wind and pulling at the hook. He felt sick and dizzy. All the nightmares about fishhooks that had haunted him as kid suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. The hook was buried quite deep; there was no way he was going to be able to pull it free without tearing out a good portion of his flesh with it.

His stomach heaved and for a moment he thought he might faint. He tried to slow his breathing. He was being stupid. It was just a fishhook, for God's sake. He was a grown man, not a frightened kid. There was a pair of pliers back in the car. All he would have to do was snip off the barb and the rest of the hook would slide out easily. The cold was already numbing his hand, dulling the pain. He tried to wipe the blood from his palm, fumbling in his pockets for a handkerchief.

Then two things happened at once: a child's laughter, shockingly close, made him stumble back in alarm, and at the same time the rod jerked in his arms, bending sharply as something heavy hauled on the line. Carl struggled to keep his footing on the rain slick grass as the tug on the rod became an insistent pressure, the reel spinning uncontrollably. The laughter came again as a tiny shape appeared out of the rain. A small child, a young girl no more than six or seven years old, dressed in pink nightgown with ponies imprinted on it clutching a bedraggled soft toy, stared down at him through the downpour. The girl raised a pale hand, pointing at Carl and giggled, the wind swirling the sound eerily across the cliff tops.

Carl felt a sudden chill of fear as he realised that the child wasn't pointing towards him, but past him at something in the water. The line continued to unwind wildly, the noise from the reel now a high-pitched scream. As Carl started to turn, the rod was wrenched violently from his grip, sending him sprawling.

With a guttural, bubbling roar, something vast and glistening emerged from the raging ocean. Carl stared in disbelief as the thing clawed its way up on the rocks, waves breaking on its broad back. It was huge, well over two meters tall, its skin a mass of barnacle covered heavy plates and iridescent scales, a patch work of different bright colours altogether for any creature Carl had seen before. Its head was squat and crested, with spines emerging directly from its shoulders. The jaw worked spasmodically, as if struggling to draw breath, its eyes glowing a deep fiery red. The creature hauled itself over the rocks with four muscled arms, claws gouging out great lumps as it walked across the rocks.

The red eyes fixed on him as the creature threw its head back giving a bellowing roar. Bright tongues of blame burned in its throat, as if at its centre was a vast ball of fire. Steam hissed around it as the rain boiled on its skin. Carl started to scrabble away, but the creature bounded forward, looming over him shrieking in triumph.

As it raised one huge paw in the air, Carl realised with horror that its claws were barbed and metallic, like fishhooks. He closed his arm as a huge arm swept down and was suddenly aware of a sharp pain, and then there was nothing but the sound of the rain, and sea, and the laughter of a small child, slowly fading.

- - - - -

Sam woke up trying to prevent himself from screaming. That couldn't have been a vision, it couldn't have been. They'd stoped ages ago. But if it was a vision, what did it have anything to do with Hayward? Nothing was making sense.

'It makes sense all right Sammy boy,' the voice in his head replied.

"Go away! You're just the result of all this stress lately, you don't exist! Go away!" Sam said to the empty room, getting off the bed. It was now at least 8am, the sun shone its way through a tiny crack in the curtain.

'Oh, but Sam. I do exist, and you know it,' Sam was scared at his own thoughts reply to him in his voice. But it no longer sounded like Sam. Something had taken his voice, manipulating it for its own purpose. 'Nothing you can say will ever get rid of me, because there's nothing to get rid of. You're saying this, and one day it'll drive you insane, and eventually I'll take over and bring the end to everything and everyone you have ever cared about.' The voice was pure evil, like a hoarse whisper in his ear.

"SHUT UP!" Sam screamed, closing his eyes trying to block out the sound the filled his head.

- - - - -

Mitchell Blake started cooking breakfast, bacon and eggs this morning. Dean was sleeping soundly on the couch in the living room. It has taken some convincing to his wife that this man was perfectly safe, that he needed someplace to stay for the night. That was until he pulled out a gun which he had concealed in the back of his jeans, and now laid on the glass table next to the couch.

The aroma from the kitchen made its way to Dean's nostrils, perking his senses. Dean arose as if in a trance, followed by a loud thump. He had fallen off the couch, and was now spread-eagled in a twisted heap on the floor.

Mitchell rushed from the kitchen into the living room to see Dean gather himself off the floor. He was clutching his head; most likely still had a hangover from last night.

"Are you okay mate?" Mitchell asked to make sure he wasn't hurt.

It took a few seconds for Dean to reply, but finally managed to get some words out.

"I think so; my limbs are still intact if that's what you mean," he replied rubbing his head where he had connected with the wooden floor.

"Good, well I'm making breakfast now. So if you don't mind, could you put a shirt on? My daughter will be awake any second now and I wouldn't want her seeing you partially naked." Michelle examined Dean's body. Scars of all shapes and sizes seemed to cover his tanned skin.

"I'd best be going anyway; I wouldn't want to be any bother any more. Thanks for offer though. But I need to find my car, I hope it's alright..."

"No, I insist. It's the least I could do. And you look like you could do with a bite." At that very second Dean's stomach grumbled.

At that moment a small girl appeared from out of the hallway that connected the kitchen and living room. Her pink nightgown reflected bright in the morning light. Dean could make out that the figures on it were ponies.

"Hello." The girl said in a childish voice to Dean, though could have sworn there had been a slight hint of fear in her voice but was quickly replaced by her beautiful smile.

"Dean, this is my daughter Ali."

"Nice to meet you," Dean said as kindly as he could, which was harder than he thought.

"Daddy, I'm hungry is breakfast ready yet? It smells like it." she asked fluttering her eyelids innocently. The smell of something burning filled the room.

"Oh crap! I left the stove running. I'll be right back!" Mitchell left running for the kitchen, leaving Dean and Ali alone in the living room.

Ali's sweet innocent face changed into a fierce angry stare as soon as Mitchell left the room.

"It's almost time, and if you think someone like you is going to get in our way, think again," Ali grinned an evil grin that covered her entire face to every corner. That couldn't have been her voice, it couldn't have. In one swift movement, Ali pushed past Dean swiping up his gun off the desk. The last thing Dean heard was the gun fire as his head slammed against the glass desk in a hideous crack.

For everyone who has been reading this story, I am extremely sorry that I havn't updated this in such a long time. I've been extremely busy lately, and I forgot all about this story until the other day. And I promise that I will try and update soon! I'm also writing a Doctor Who story right now also, so If you like Doctor Who you might like to check it out. Again, I am extremely sorry. And yes =P Cliff hanger was done on purpose. Reviews are loved.