4

Where the Beastie Lives

IT was pleasant walking high across the fells, looking down upon the County. To the west, in the far distance, the sea sparkled in the sunlight. The air was still chilly for the time of year, but the sun had some warmth, and it felt good to be alive.

I found a sheltered hollow about five miles south of Kirkby Lonsdale, trapped a couple of rabbits, and cooked them slowly. The walk had improved my appetite; it was the first food I’d had since breakfast, and I savored every mouthful before settling down for the night. I fell asleep quickly despite the temperature, which dropped quickly once the sun had set.

I awoke suddenly in the middle of the night and sat up, my heart racing. I had a strong feeling that I was being watched, that something was out there in the darkness, gazing at me.

I held my breath and listened carefully. I could hear nothing but the wind sighing through the grass. There was no coldness warning me that something from the dark was out there. It was probably nothing, I told myself—maybe just a fox hoping to scavenge something from the leftovers of my supper.

However, it left me feeling uneasy, and it was a long time before I got to sleep again.

In the morning, clouds had raced in from the west, threatening rain. I nibbled a piece of cheese for my breakfast. My master had taught me to eat sparingly when about to deal with the dark. You needed to maintain your physical strength, but the odd nibble of cheese sufficed for that. Not that my stomach agreed! It was rumbling with hunger, but I couldn’t afford to listen to it. I might soon come face-to-face with the murderous creature.

Three girls had died. The first had been bad enough, but with each successive death my anger and sense of failure had increased. As a spook, I was supposed to protect the County. I was failing badly and was desperate to do something about it.

I headed northeast as fast as I could. I didn’t go into the village of Kirby Lonsdale itself but circled it slowly, looking for tracks. My master had taught me to be patient when tracking and to pay attention to the slightest thing. I spent most of the day searching the main approaches to the village from the northwest and southwest. I was thorough and circled it twice.

Then, late in the afternoon, my perseverance was rewarded. I found tracks beside a path. Something had left the path to approach a nearby stream, and the small prints could be clearly seen in the mud. At first I dismissed them as being of no significance. The size told me that they belonged to a child no older than seven or eight, but there were no adult-sized prints nearby. Then I noticed that the prints were unusual—too long and thin for a human foot. And I saw something else that told me I had found the tracks I’d been looking for.