**Diary Entry**
I’d only just returned to the village after three weeks hauling goods across the country in my lorry, and as usual, my first stop was the pub. A pint and a chat with the locals always eased me back into home life before I faced my wife. I parked on the roadside, shrugging deeper into my waxed jacket against the relentless October rain, and pushed through the door.
“Evening, lads!” I called out.
For a Friday night, I’d expected the place to be packed—blokes playing darts, the usual ribbing about my mother or my manhood. Instead, only two souls sat inside: the barkeep, Tom, and old Bert warming his hands by the hearth. Stunned, I leaned over the bar.
“What’s got everyone skulking at home, Tom? Did someone kick the bucket?”
Tom slid a pint of bitter toward me, his face grim. “Worse, Oliver. Much worse. Young women have gone missing.”
I nearly choked. “Our girls?”
“Aye,” he said, counting on his fingers. “First was Emily, the chemist’s daughter. Then Beatrice, the mayor’s niece. And last… Charlotte, the schoolteacher.”
“Bloody hell,” I breathed. “All at once?”
“One each Friday since you left,” Tom muttered. “Folks reckon there’s a madman about. All three were expecting, too. Sick bastard.” He shook his head. “Now, some have formed armed patrols. The rest are locking doors, holding their wives and daughters close.”
My stomach twisted. Without another word, I bolted for home, cutting through the shadowed moorland. Adrenaline burned through me—every second mattered. Dark thoughts swarmed: images of my young wife, Lily, bleeding, terrified. My legs ached, my lungs screamed, but I didn’t stop until our cottage came into view.
Dark. Too dark.
Then—movement. A figure in black slipping from our doorway.
I lunged, grappling blindly until I dragged them inside. Fumbling for the light, my heart nearly burst when the bulb flickered on, revealing Lily.
I released her, and she threw her arms around me, kissing me desperately, trembling with relief.
But relief turned to ice in my veins. “Lily, what were you thinking, going out tonight?” I hissed. “Half the village’s hunting a killer! And honestly, love, three women would’ve been enough meat to last the winter.”
The words hung like a noose. Lily’s smile died. She stepped back, hands clutching her stomach.
“What did you just say?” Her voice was a ghost of itself.
I swallowed. “Just—just the fear talking. I didn’t mean—”
But her sleeve had slipped. Faint scratches marred her forearm—like brambles… or fingernails.
“Oliver,” she whispered, “where were you every Friday night when you said you were working?”
My blood ran cold. The pub’s words echoed: *Something worse.*
I remembered the long hauls, the excuses, the guilt I’d buried under lies.
Outside, rain hammered the windows. Lily’s tears weren’t from fear anymore—they were from knowing.
Her voice was barely audible, but it shattered me.
“Tonight would’ve been the fourth Friday.”
