**Diary Entry**
Id just returned to my village after three weeks on the road, hauling goods across the country in my lorry. As usual, I stopped at the pub firstpartly for a pint, partly to catch up on the local gossip before heading home to my wife. I parked on the roadside, shrugged deeper into my waxed jacket to fend off the lashing rain, and pushed through the door.
“Evening, lads!” I called out.
It was a Friday night in October, so Id expected the place to be packed, the air thick with card games and crude jokes about my mother or my manhood. Instead, only two souls acknowledged methe barman, Tom, and old Mr. Higgins hunched by the fireplace. Stunned, I leaned over the counter.
“Whats happened, Tom? Where is everyone? Someone die?”
Tom slid a pint of bitter toward me, his expression grim. “Worse, mate. Much worse. Young womenve gone missing.”
“Village girls?” I nearly choked on my drink.
“Aye, three of em.” He counted them off on his fingers. “First was Emily, the chemists daughter. Then Charlotte, the mayors niece. And lastly Sophie, the schoolteacher.”
“Bloody hell,” I muttered. “All at once?”
“No. One every Friday since you left.” Toms voice dropped. “Folks reckon theres a serial killer about. All women, twenties to thirties, and” He hesitated. “All expecting. Sick bastard.” He shook his head. “Tonights another Friday, so half the villages out with torches and pitchforksthe rest are barricaded inside, holding their wives and daughters close.”
His words hit me like a lorry. That uneasy feeling Id carried home suddenly made sense. I had to get to my wife.
I bolted through the pitch-black moorland, adrenaline burning in my veins. The shortcut would save timeand if my fears were right, every second mattered. As I ran, my thoughts spiralled. Visions of my wife, injured, terrified, maybe worse, clawed at my mind. Each step tightened the knot in my chest.
My legs screamed, my lungs burned, but I didnt stop until our cottage came into viewcompletely dark. Then I saw it: a shadowy figure slipping away from our door.
I didnt think. I lunged, grappling blindly until I dragged them inside. Fumbling for the light, time stretched endlessly until the single bulb flickered on.
There, under the dim glow, stood my wife, Lily.
I released her, relief flooding meuntil she threw her arms around me, kissing me hard. It was desperate, grateful.
But relief turned to dread. “Lily, what the hell were you thinking?” I gripped her shoulders. “If I hadnt made it back tonight, you couldve been next. Dyou know how terrified I was? Half the villages hunting a killer, and youre wandering about in the dark!” I hesitated, then added, quieter, “Besides three womens worth of meat should last us all winter.”
**Bonus**
The words hung between us like a death sentence. Lilys smile vanished. She stumbled back, hands clutching her stomach.
“What did you just say?” Her voice was a whisper.
I blinked. Too late. “II didnt mean it. Just the fear talking,” I stammered. But her eyeswide, horrifiedtold me shed already pieced it together.
Slowly, she rolled up her sleeve. Faint scratches marked her forearmlike brambles or fingernails.
“James where were you every Friday night when you were working?”
My blood ran cold. The pub. Toms trembling fingers counting: one, two, three pregnant women. Then the memories surgeddetours, lies, whispered excuses about “lonely roads” and “weak moments.”
Lilys tears werent from fear now. They were understanding.
Outside, the rain hammered on, drowning the silence. Toms voice echoed in my skull: *”Something worse, James. Something worse”*
And in that moment, Lily knew. The missing women hadnt vanished at the hands of some stranger. The monster had walked through her door, reeking of diesel and deceit.
Softly, barely more than a breath, she said: “Tonight wouldve been the fourth Friday.”
