Roadkill: Four Nasty Stories

By Jonathan Broughton

Four nasty short stories set on the south coast of England.
An old prostitute gets her revenge, an elderly vampire goes hunting in daylight, a dodgy psychic fleeces his client and a gay lover's ghost haunts his murderer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Broughton
• Release date: Nov 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465851536

Jonathan Broughton

Jonathan writes fantasy, horror, paranormal and urban stories. Any story in any genre in fact, depending on the idea or the plot that pops into his head.For many years he lived in Hastings on the south coast of England and all of the stories in these books were written when he was by the sea.Many of Jonathan’s short stories have been published in Rayne Hall’s ‘Ten Tales’ books and April Grey’s ‘Hells...’ series.He has worked as a Poll Clerk and a Presiding Officer for various local and general elections, an examinations invigilator and as a puppeteer in theatre, films and television. He now lives in the University City of Cambridge, UKHis Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/jonathan.broughton.5And his Twitter handle: @jb121jonathan

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ROADKILL: FOUR NASTY STORIES

by

JONATHAN BROUGHTON

Copyright © Jonathan Broughton 2011

(This edition © February 2016)

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

These stories are works of fiction. Some of the places are real locations. However, all the events, situations and characters are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to people alive or dead is a coincidence.

Contents

ROADKILL

This vampire hunts in daylight

TWO BLUE DOORS

Old ladies reveal their secrets

WITCH’S CLAWS

A Psychic, three cats and a Hypno-Reflector

THE DREAMCATCHER

Guilt preys on a young man’s mind

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ROADKILL

This vampire hunts in daylight

Did you hear the owl last night?

Sefton glanced at his wife as she spooned scrambled egg out of the saucepan. Not me, Betty, dead to the world me. He slurped a long sip of scalding coffee.

She slid the plate under his nose. I got up to have a look. I felt sure I would see it.

He put his cup down and eyed his breakfast, reluctant to answer. And did you?

She whispered in his ear. Yes.

He cut the tomato and juice spilled over the plate. He mixed it into the egg and turned the yellow lumps red.

I saw it, Betty hissed. A beautiful white barn owl.

Sefton forked fried sausage and bacon into his mouth and chewed.

The night was so still. Her voice quivered. A sea mist rolled in. There were shadows everywhere. She gave a deep sigh of contentment.

His wife’s excitement spoiled his favourite meal of the day.

And then the owl came, swooping out of the mist, so quiet, so smooth. She clutched his shoulder with a claw-like grip. It landed in the oak tree and looked right at me.

Sefton put down his knife and fork.

She squeezed harder. I wanted to go out, then and there, but I didn’t want to wake you.

He pushed himself up from the table and escaped his wife’s tightening grip. It was just an owl.

Betty’s round face beamed and her cheeks dimpled with a rosy glow. Her thick glasses glinted in the overhead light. Behind them, wide eyes hinted at untold pleasures.

Why was the fluorescent on at eight o clock in the morning? He crossed to the sink and looked out of the cottage window.

The soft light of an autumn day had not displaced the dark of night. Waves of rolling mist slid past the window and water drops dribbled down the glass. A dense gloom hid every familiar landmark.

The owl came, she repeated. I do not need to fear the sun today.

Sefton struggled to calm his wife. It’s - it’s not safe, Betty. The mist won’t last. He dreaded days such as these. The sun will burn it off.

It’s too thick. The sun won’t burn it off today.

He watched her remove her flowered apron and reach for the duffle coat that hung from a hook on the back door. The window’s reflection contorted her features which slid and shifted as if uncertain about what form to take.

I don’t think we should, he muttered.

Sefton! Her command brooked no denial, like steel that never breaks. I need to feed.

Pointless to fight her, and he turned back from the window. Betty held out his coat and waited as he put it on.

*

The Landrover shuddered along in first gear. The head lights and fog lights reflected the mist back at the windscreen like a white impenetrable wall.

They had driven round Gypsy Field twice now. Sefton concentrated his efforts on keeping them on the road. Beside him, Betty twisted and turned with manic intensity as she peered into the fog. Like a thermal imaging camera used for filming animals in the dark, she saw the warmth that glowed off peoples’ bodies. That was what Sefton understood from the description of her abilities. Sometimes, she grunted a low animal sound when she sensed possible prey and her eyes dilated.

‘My shadows,’ she called them. Through her eyes, the everyday world resembled a battleground fought out between hunter and prey.

He longed to go home. He felt sick and his sweaty palms slipped on the wheel. Daylight hunting was too dangerous.

Jesus! He pulled the wheel to the right with a violent twist.