“A A A A A AOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRWHHHOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

The howling jarred Ophelia’s brain. In her mind, she could smell the meaty, animal smell before she saw them emerge like greasy smoke through the dense woods, sniffing the air for evidence of their quarry. In the twilight they stood: two identical orange-eyed werewolves, their eerie howls echoing through the forest, chilling the blood of whoever heard them. Ophelia watched through closed eyelids, slumped at her dressing table, breathing shallowly as the werewolves ran on tirelessly through the darkening woods. Up ahead, in the distance, Ophelia’s mind made out two more figures: a boy and his Wolven friend, their feet flying over the woodland floor.

Half an hour later, Alec Tate stood in the doorway of the bedroom.

“What in the blue moon d’you think you’re doing?” he asked Ophelia, a constipated look on his narrow face. Either she was going to a costume party or else she had gone as mad as a hatter. His wife was dressed in her old army combat gear (he noticed the pants were slightly strained in the seat area), and her face was blackened with what appeared to be soot. Her long black hair was pulled back into an eyebrow-raising braid.

Ophelia glanced at him, but wasted no time in answering. She dragged a large wooden chest out from under the bed, threw open the lid, and rummaged inside. With a triumphant grunt she pulled out something wrapped in an oily rag. She shook away the cloth and picked up the object, turning it lovingly from one hand to the other, as if she were welcoming an old friend. The revolver glinted dully in the evening light.

Alec gulped. “Now, now, Ophelia, don’t be hasty,” he said, backing away slightly.

She threw him a scornful look and pulled out two more relics from her active service days: an ancient, slightly sweaty pack of dynamite and a full field medical kit.

“I’m going back to Helleborine Halt,” said Ophelia simply. “They’ve got Woody.”

Alec looked confused. “No … no, he’s with Mick Smith’s boy, his grandson, how could he be …?”

Ophelia cut him off. “He’s in trouble!” she spat. “Don’t ask me how I know, because you wouldn’t understand. He’ll die if I do nothing.”

“You can’t do anything on your own, woman!” shouted Alec Tate, gripping his wife by her camouflage-clad shoulders. “There’s all sorts of nut jobs up at that insane asylum! Monsters, madmen …”

“Nat Carver is with him,” said Ophelia softly.

Alec Tate’s bloodhound face went white.

CHAPTER 22
HALLS OF HORROR

“But how can you remember Helleborine Halt?” asked Nat, exasperated. “I thought you were just a pup when you left.”

“I didn’t say I remembered it,” said Woody patiently, his nostrils flaring. “Smell the stink of it! And listen. There’s noises.”