Darkest Moons

By A. M. Esmonde

In 1878 a mining community came to terms with the existence of a terrifying horror. Over 130 years later a troubled London police officer, Alex Caine, is transferred to the sleepy village of Red Meadows. Her country life and the investments to rejuvenate the valley are put in jeopardy when a World War II bomb is unearthed triggering a chain of disturbing events. A series of grisly mutilations follow but what is causing this mayhem, a wild animal or a serial killer hell-bent on destruction? With limited resource, battling local politics and with help from an unlikely ally, legends from the Garloupmira to Sasquatch are probed. Caine’s well-being, sanity and beliefs are tested as she desperately strives to solve her case. As the moon rises the curse begins!

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. M. Esmonde
• Release date: Feb 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370342839

A. M. Esmonde

Novelist/Producer A. M. Esmonde was born in Wales, United Kingdom. Producer of the film Terminus (2010) and director of the music video 'Say My Name' (2013). Author of Darkest Moons (2016), the top ranking eBooks The Final Version (2014) Dead Pulse (2011) and Blood Hunger (2010).

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DARKEST MOONS

A. M. Esmonde

DARKEST MOONS

An AM to PM Book 978 1 508567 70 7

Darkest Moons is Copyright © 2016 by A. M. Esmonde. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce in whole or in part in any form or medium.

150 8 567700

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

1st Edition

Published by AM to PM 2016

Cover Art by Angel

Printed and bound geographically

ISBN – 150-8-567700

EAN (ISBN 13) – 978-1-508567-70-7

"A man without ethics is a wild beast loosed upon this world."

Albert Camus

For Jake and Sam

DARKEST MOONS

A. M. Esmonde

A NEW DARK MOON

As dusk settled over a Welsh camp-site, not too far from the English border, the smell of barbecue hung in the air. In the fire’s light near a family sized tent Alex stood on tiptoes peeping into her mother’s paperback from behind the fold-up chair. After shaking the last of the flavoured sherbet in her mouth, she popped the strawberry shaped plastic container along with its green cap into a Leo's, Market Fresh carrier bag. She rubbed her tired eyes and gave a yawn; the hot day had finally caught up with her.

As she held up her tatty daisy-chain, a movement in the broken hedgerow suddenly caught her hazel eyes giving her a second wind, and in the evenings dim light the outline of a shaggy creature captured her imagination, drawing her closer. Bending down to her feet with a lazy helpful hand she slipped on her flip-flops and wandered past the tent turning her nose up at a horrid smell. Her naive eyes caught sight of an animal’s glowing buttery eyes and what looked to be a damp coat. Its eyes shone, not with the reflected fire, but with a gleaming unnatural yellow luminescence of their own.

Burning with curiosity she slowly moved towards the shape, however within a blink of an eye and a soft rustle it was gone. Hurrying back, she sat and rested her head on her mother’s lap and as her blonde ringlets were stroked she fell into a deep sleep with thoughts of the strange beast. Unbeknownst to her that its wet fur was covered in dense pelt and dripping in crimson blood.

On the journey home Alex’s head vibrated against the car seat as she looked through the steamed window where droplets of rain chased one another, sliding and colliding on their journey down the glass. With a small finger she drew an eye of the creature she thought she had imagined on the glass but quickly rubbed it out for fear of scaring her sister. From that point on Alex rarely thought about the creature again housing it in a part of her mind that was reserved for the tooth fairy and other imaginary friends. Occasionally it escaped, spilling out onto paper in her pencil and crayon drawings.

The muted TV’s ever-changing scenes cast dancing shadows on Caine as she scratched her blonde hair which was hidden under a turban towel. Usually she’d be sprawled out like a Persian cat at the foot of her bed, with her nose in a novel, yet, as she was restless she sat bolt upright like the Egyptian Goddess Isis. Taking off her reading glasses and softly rubbing her temple she placed the book on a well-read James Herbert favourite which itself was precariously balanced on the top of a stack of paperbacks on her bedside table. The books shared the small surface with a waxy box and reading lamp. Her divorce and mother’s condition played endlessly on her mind, bouncing in and out of conscious thought, disrupting all hope of focusing on Terry Pratchett’s heroine Tiffany Aching. Shadowed by a glass of water her hand hesitantly lingered over two elliptical tablets. Looking up now and again at the silent TV sitcom pictures she impulsively began removing her nail polish, stopping now and again listening to the house’s night-time sounds and its array of creaks of the contracting wood. Flipping the duvet back she planted her feet on the cold hard floor, and sat silently. Amongst her many thoughts Rebecca darted into her mind, the sixth sense always present, letting her know that she would have been so disappointed with Caine; lowering her standards with the recent impromptu one night-stand! With a sigh, leaving the tablets she carefully lifted the last prefilled matt silver auto injector straight up out of the gridded cardboard box. The remnants of a chill remained upon touch due the medications need of refrigeration. As she made sure the thin rectangle window on middle the injector was colourless, the liquid transfixed her as she watched the tiny white particles dance in the medication.

Pulling the white cap off and stretching her skin firmly between her thumb and fingers, she gripped the pen-like injector at 90 degrees and pushed down hard. Her thumb pressed the black button at the top and after a few seconds came the reassuring click. Checking the empty vial compartment had turned yellow she removed it like she’d finished signing a cheque and discarded the items in the empty box ready for disposal. With a mental note not being good enough having tried a handful of different medication recently, she tore off the cardboard labelled top as a reminder for a correct repeat prescription. Switching off the bedside lamp she grabbed the TV remote ready to turn up the volume just as her back garden sensor light flashed on drawing her attention to the window in the spare room. Walking on the wooden floor in a clingy purple patterned short night dress Caine passed a room full of moving boxes and gave out a little moan.

Switching on the light, her reflection gave her a startle. She immediately turned the light off again so she could peer out of the window unhindered by the image of herself. She strained her eyes, looking down into the darkness when once again the garden was suddenly illuminated. She scanned the garden and adjoining field looking for anything out of place or something that might have set off the sensor. Broken by the faint outline of the skyline traced on the field’s periphery the exterior fell into darkness again and a feeling of emptiness came over her. As she stood in the dark it reminded her of a midnight flight or a night time cruise, the vacuum gave her a shiver. Waiting or expecting something to happen she felt uneasy and suddenly very cold, focusing more and more on the pitch-black morass. Ending her trance she softly let out, Pull yourself together, and with the darkness like an old hag on her back and a hound at her heels she retired speedily to her bed and the comfort of the TV's glow.

RED MEADOWS

A breeze shifted in the dale, changing the shades of green brushing the grass within the fields of Red Meadows. A crowd watched on from a safe distance in anticipation of the destruction of an unexploded Second World War German Butterfly bomb.

The farmer’s activities had been disturbed for days as animals were penned and housed much to their annoyance. Police Officers had cordoned off a 200-metre safe area in an attempt to prevent ramblers and inquisitive locals venturing too close to the rusted device. The officers stood straight and red faced due to the cold front blowing in from the West. Some with looks of boredom or tiredness but most with a disgruntled look due to the need to be dispatched to the middle of nowhere.

A local farmer, Cavanaugh, only days earlier, had unearthed the bomb. Attempts to examine and defuse the explosive by Royal engineers and RAF were unsuccessful and Military Armed Forces experts had been summoned to carry out an assessment leading to a controlled explosion.

Cavanaugh rocked on the heels of his Wellingtons whilst humouring a silver haired old lady, Mrs. Clay, who looked through her bifocals twitching her nose at the farmer.

So you found it then, Mr. Cavanaugh?

Aye - had to keep it under my hat Mrs. Clay. It’s been a pain for the animals though.

Oh the anticipation! She grinned. Reminds me of the days when we used to pray for a nun to die, so we could have a day off school.

There were gasps and flinches from the crowd as the bomb was detonated, it was the most noteworthy thing to happen in the village since their first female police officer, Saunders, had been promoted to sergeant and took up the position in 1981.

The wind picked up across the land and began to howl through the fields, whistling along the sprawling grounds of the 16th century gothic Tudor mansion framed by forested hills. The estate had been in the Lowell Family since 1520 and contained some remnants of a stone built 12th century Cistercian abbey nearby. The original mansion had been erected in 1536; however, it was partly demolished in 1787 paving the way for the new edifice constructed in the year 1830. The locals referred to the reputedly haunted mansion as Lowell’s Castle.

The shockwave from the bomb’s blast caused the grounds to vibrate within the family estate. The ancestral graveyard reverberated in exasperation, sending a deep crack up one of the pillars at the mausoleum front. An elaborately carved stone piece above the entrance broke and fell to the clay soil breaking into three pieces.

VALENTINE HOLIDAY’S JOURNEY

SCOTLAND 1878

Conley a large, rather heavy man, with a drooping moustache made his statement at the hearing. It was a colder than usual midmorning, 14th July at pit number 7, near Hamilton, which belonged to Ralph Collins & Co. As it was an annual holiday, these workmen shouldn’t have been on site. Only the stable boys tending to the horses and the established one ‘lonely’ engine man. Indeed no one else should have been present.

Conley shuffled some papers and looked to Valentine. All brushers had finished. A small gas explosion took place eleven fathoms from the bottom of the pit. An unfortunate miner seated at the pithead tumbled into the shaft at the moment of the explosion to a horrific death. The effect of the blast is renown as almost supernatural as the unaware survivors felt no shock and a container with four pounds of gunpowder was left undisturbed. As you know, eventually an exploration party went into the mine to recover the dead and found four men severely burned.

Valentine rose from the green leather chair, picked up a piece of chalk and stood before the committee in his fawn trousers and cravat, he took out his cream handkerchief and wiped his brow. Nervously he pulled down on his black jacket and stood at the side of his simplistic chalk drawn diagram on the blackboard and addressed the assortment of gentlemen seated on wooden benches, returning the handkerchief to his breast pocket.

My understanding is that all were working with open lights. The firedamp ignited at the lamp of the man working at B. He confidently began to draw arrows, and the flame went from him onto A, burning the men there, then out to C, and to the shaft. The man at C was killed. The man at B, was least burnt. He underlined the letter B and took a deep breath placing the chalk into his pocket, Please note sirs that the pit had been newly sunk, and did not give off much gas. The current was created by a steam jet, and everyone seemed to be satisfied with the ventilation.

Thank you Mr. Holiday. The portly man addressed the group from Valentine’s side. As you see Mr. Holiday, who is a distinguished engineer and acting independently in this investigation corroborates the official report. I must stress that one of the deceased had been drinking all the previous night, and in the morning had taken a fancy to go to work, persuading another two companions to join him. Unbeknownst to them, when they reached the place it was found that some stones had fallen, and damaged the ventilation, and that gas had accumulated in it. The gas ignited on contact with their open lights, burning them. Sending one down the shaft. Those are the facts.

Valentine didn’t hear the Conley’s closing the proceedings, lost in thoughts about his fiancée’s pregnancy and their hastily made wedding plans. Weighing also on his mind was the increased crime in Edinburgh and whether he’d made the right choice in relocating from London, more so he was apprehensive of his long journey ahead.

The mundane edition of The Edinburgh Gazette bored Valentine, corn imports and exports, Queen’s appointments, bankruptcies and railway stock. He sat on the train heading to Berwick-upon-Tweed and read his telegrams once again from the Baron Lowell completely unaware of the horror and death he would encounter in the following weeks to come.

WAXING CRESCENT

A striking young woman stood on a hillside top, she was wearing an out of place, flattering cleavage-enhancing dress and matching red high heels.

Hello and welcome, I’m Jaime and you are watching UK Ghouls. By day Red Meadows is one of the world’s most picturesque villages, boasting pleasant walks, exciting treks as well as a gastro pub to wet your palate. However, it’s only a stone’s throw from the spiritually active Du-y-Nos castle. expressed the wide-eyed failed actress turned television presenter as wind lightly blew through her long dark hair. Just moi and our trusty cameraman Glenn will be spending one night here alone. I hope the ghost doesn’t put the willies up you Glenn! she playfully giggled I can say what I like it’s my show. By night, the area is full of claims of ghostly apparitions of men on horseback, ancient carriages, strange beastly monsters and spectres. Red Meadows is also known as being one of the most haunted places in-

Cutting the woman short Robert switched off the TV, he sighed in his chair, toying with his own frosted translucent plastic business card. He held it in both hands.

Robert E. Terrence & Associates

Law and Finance

Robert Terrence

Senior Lecturer

After his tumultuous divorce and his inevitable breakdown, Robert’s doctor had recommended a stress relieving holiday, maybe pleasant strolls along the south coast, or a city-walking break. Worried about his sanity and taking his doctor’s advice, two days later Robert drove to Red Meadows in his Audi A5 and had lunch with one of his clients there. Why not kill two birds with