New Blood. Sarah Evans

I haven't got the keys,' I said, playing for time. I didn't plan on getting them, ever.

      'Trustees sent them through to the boss,' said Spiv, patting his pocket. They said it was good the place was gonna get a new lease of life. Injection of new blood and all that stuff.'

      Revulsion juddered through me. I bet they did.

      'This is a bad idea,' I said, wobbling my way to the door.

      We drove to the cliff house in pressing silence, broken only by the odd crack of knuckle. Hey, he intimidated me enough without doing the walnut percussion, okay.

      I dealt with the padlocks, fingers shaking as if I had the DTs, and then we drove along the overgrown, weedy driveway. I parked the car facing homeward, ready for a quick getaway, then reluctantly joined Spiv. The brisk sea breeze ruffled the bushes around the house and rattled the few remaining windowpanes. I wrapped my arms around myself in a pathetic attempt at self-protection and eyed the dilapidated ruins of what had once been a beautiful home.

      Spiv Suit sniffed the air. 'What's that dreadful pong?' he said.

      I shrugged and shuffled my feet. 'Maybe decaying fish.'

      I knew it wasn't that. More like a dead tramp or lost hiker. A stray picnicker, even.

      The rusted wrought-iron garden gate did a good imitation of a haunted-house squeak and we picked our way to the front door along the crazy-paving path. No one answered Spiv's tattoo of knocking.

      'Let's go home,' I said.

      'Let's not,' he said. 'We'll try around the back.'

      'This is not a good idea.' I lagged behind him, aware we were being watched.

      Wind had ripped the previous eviction notice so it fluttered in the breeze like bonnet ribbons, made brittle by sea-spray and sun.

      'Pworr. It smells worse around here,' said Spiv and then yelled out, 'Hey! Anyone home?'

      He pounded the paint-peeling on the old green door, ignoring the huge, yawning hole. 'I've got something for you losers.'

      Scuffles sounded from within. I muttered a hasty prayer and wished I'd worn my crucifix. Yesterday's garlic bread still lingered on my breath but it simply wouldn't be enough.

      'We'll soon see whose boss,' Spiv said to me. 'They won't know what's hit them.' And he smiled his gold-flecked grin.

      I didn't share his optimism. Instead, I took a step backwards. I was ready to run. Fast. I prayed some more.

      'Open up!' he shouted.

      Inside, through the split panelling of the door, shadowy shapes moved and merged. One broke away and glided nearer to the door. In the half-light I saw it was a young woman. She held a cat in her arms, stroking it rhythmically. Cat and woman stared at us, faces expressionless. No recognition glimmered.

      'Hey, little lady, I've got something for you.' Spiv held out the eviction notice.

      The woman took a step forward and I shuffled backwards.

      'It's time for you and your mates to quit,' said Spiv. 'What d'ya reckon? Go quietly or do it the less civilised way?'

      The woman remained mute.

      'What's the matter? Cat got your tongue, lady?' Spiv Suit laughed at his own corny joke.

      Suddenly the woman's hand thrust through the door's jagged hole and grabbed his throat. Her long, brown fingers squeezed hard. Spiv's mouth fell wide open in shock, his protest gurgling futilely under her iron grip.

      And then the cat did…

      You know…

      Get his tongue.

      Then Jenny bit his throat.

      I screamed, turned-tail and fled.

      When, gibbering like a lunatic, I'd first reported Jenny's attack to the local cops, a young police officer went to investigate the old house. He never came back. I don't know how many others followed him but soon all officers refused to go there. Later, the council erected the security fence. A shroud of secrecy descended.

      My doctor didn't believe me. He put my ravings down to hallucinations, said I'd suffered a nervous breakdown and was too susceptible to the old stories knocking around town. He'd said that I'd get better in time; that the nightmares and midnight sweats would stop. He'd been wrong. They hadn't.

      This time I didn't bother telling the police or the doctors, but hit the bottle as soon as I got back to the office.

      At least my hairdresser would be happy. My hair was whiter than the bleached bones washing up on the beach. It needed a shed-load of colour.