Edward had just returned to his village after a three-week haul across the country in his lorry. As usual, he stopped first at the pub to catch up with the locals and hear the latest news before heading home to see his wife. He parked the lorry by the roadside and, bundled in his waxed jacket against the driving rain, pushed open the door.
“Evening, all!” he called as he stepped inside.
Being a Friday night in October, hed expected the place to be packed with men playing cards, greeting him with rowdy banter about his mother or his courage. But tonight, only two figures acknowledged him with a nod: the publican and an old man warming himself by the hearth. Bewildered, Edward approached the bar.
“Whats going on, Thomas? Where is everyone? Someone die?”
The publican slid him a pint of bitter before answering. “Worse, Edward, far worse… young women have gone missing.”
“Youre having me on! Local girls?” the lorry driver asked, struggling to believe it.
“Three so far,” Thomas said, counting on his fingers. “First was Emily, the chemists daughter. Then Charlotte, the mayors niece. And lastly… Beatrice, the schoolteacher.”
“Bloody hell!” Edward gasped. “Did they vanish all at once?”
“No, one each Friday since youve been gone,” the publican replied grimly. “Folks reckon theres a serial killer about. All women in their twenties… and all expecting. Can you believe it? Right monster…” He shook his head in dismay. “With tonight being Friday again, some have formed armed patrols to hunt the bastard down… while others barricade themselves indoors, holding their wives and daughters close.”
Those last words sent Edward sprinting home. The unease hed felt all journey now had shapehe had to check on his young wife. He cut through the dark moorland, adrenaline surging. This path was quicker than driving, and if his fears were right, every second mattered. As he ran, his thoughts spiralled. Visions of his wife, injured and suffering, tormented him. Desperation clawed at his chest.
His legs ached, his lungs burned, but he didnt stop until his cottage came into viewcompletely dark. Heart pounding, he forced himself forward, then froze. A shadowy figure in black seemed to be leaving his home.
Without hesitation, Edward lunged. He grappled in the darkness, gripping fabric, and dragged the figure inside. The light flickered on after an agonising moment.
Under the dim glow of the kitchen bulb, relief flooded himit was his wife, Lily. He released her, and at once, she threw her arms around him, pressing a desperate kiss to his lips. It was fierce, full of relief.
But Edwards relief quickly turned to anger. “Lily, youve got to be more careful! If I hadnt made it back tonight, you couldve been next. Do you know how terrified Ive been? What were you thinking, going out? Thomas said half the villages hunting a killer…” He paused, then added with a dark chuckle, “Though with three women, wed have had enough meat to last the winter.”
His words hung in the air like a curse. Lilys smile vanished. Her lips trembled as she stepped back, hands clutching her stomach.
“What did you just say?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Edward blinked, realisation dawning too late. “II didnt mean it. Just the fear talking,” he muttered. But the look in her eyessuspicion, then dawning horrortold him shed already understood.
Slowly, she rolled up her sleeve. Faint scratches marked her forearm, half-healed, as if from thorns… or desperate fingernails.
“Edward… where were you every Friday night when you were working?”
The lorry driver went still. His mind raced back to the pub, to Thomas counting on his fingersone, two, three pregnant women. Then further back: his routes, his stops, the lies hed told himself about “lonely company” and “slip-ups.”
His stomach dropped as Lilys eyes fillednot with fear, but terrible understanding.
Outside, the rain lashed down, smothering the silence between them. The publicans words echoed like a knife twisting:
“Something worse, Edward, something worse…”
And in that moment, Lily knew. The missing women had never been taken by a stranger. The monster had walked through her door, reeking of diesel and deceit.
Softly, almost to herselfbut loud enough for him to hearshe whispered:
“And tonight would have been the fourth Friday.”
