THE WOODLAND RIPPER By: Nick Allen
Sunday, June 21st, 2009There was a huge metal gate over the mouth of a cave, kept shut by an enormous padlock. But, nevertheless, desperate hands shook the gate, rattling metal against rock. Greg put out a hand to try and still the rattling, but then the screaming began; a piercing noise, almost animal in intensity. And there were the eyes, wide and white and full of fear. Greg looked on with feelings he found he didn’t fully understand because, deep inside, somewhere, he felt pleasure.
He awoke with a start, a patina of sweat covering his face. Linda stirred briefly.
“You alright Greg? Another of those dreams?”
“Just a bit of cramp love, you go to sleep.”
* * *
Greg eased his 4×4 into a space just off the dirt track behind some trees. No one used this route much since The Woodland Ripper, as the press had dubbed him, first struck five years earlier, but even so Greg and his son, Stuart, didn’t want to advertise their presence.
There had in fact been no murders for two years, yet this seemed to unsettle the locals even more, and what had once been a popular tourist spot was now largely devoid of people.
Between them they hauled from the car the supplies they’d brought, including a small tent, and hitched the stuff onto their backs. The fishing gear they had brought, as ever, lay unused on the floor of the car. It was, however, something Greg found to be a convenient decoy when his wife questioned his frequent trips with Stuart.
“Ready son?” asked Greg.
“As I’ll ever be,” replied Stuart, and the two of them began their long march into the woods.
They walked steadily for three hours until both were quite exhausted, finally stopping at a small clearing by a large rock face. It was a spot and a routine they both knew well, and while Stuart erected the tent, Greg approached the towering wall of rock. He quickly pulled back the branches and bracken they’d left there last time, revealing a massive iron barred gate that covered the mouth of a cave. Greg fished in his pocket and produced a key to the sturdy padlock that kept the gate firmly shut. Within seconds he was in the cave. It darkened towards the rear and Greg pulled out his flashlight, playing the beam around the walls and floor. Bloodstains and scratches covered the walls, and on closer examination he noticed a torn, bloodied, fingernail adhering to the wall. He knocked it with his torch and ground it under his shoe into the dirt, along with a couple of tufts of hair he spotted on the cave floor.
Tent finally up, they were sitting and eating their sandwiches when they heard female voices in the distance. Greg looked at Stuart wide-eyed, dropped to his belly and gestured for his son to do the same. Reaching into his rucksack he pulled out the binoculars they always carried, and began scanning the area.
Greg quickly picked out the source of the noise. It looked like a mother and teenage daughter out for a walk. He couldn’t believe that they were not frightened to be in the woods alone, but then heard them whistle. A huge Rottweiler bounded over to the women and gave a deep, loud bark. Immediately, Stuart flashed a glance to his dad. Greg gestured for his son to remain low to the ground then, fearing the dog could be trouble, would sense a danger humans couldn’t, reached for the large hunting knife on his belt.
They were still half a mile away though when, through the binoculars, Greg saw them and more importantly the dog, turn off and begin heading away from their camp. He relaxed, sat up, and with a relieved grin, threw his son a can of Pepsi.
By evening they had a fire lit, more for company than for warmth, but as the twilight began to turn to darkness, Greg turned to his son.
“Right Stu, it’s about time we moved, come on.”
The two of them got up and walked to the cave. Stuart stepped inside and Greg slammed the gate shut behind him, snapping the heavy padlock into place, before walking back to the tent.
The moon was full and bright and he knew the howls, the screaming and banging, would begin soon as Stuart’s body began to change, but felt reassured that, at least while he was there to look after things, no one else would be killed by The Woodland Ripper.
—
©2009 Nick Allen
Nick is a Mental Health Nurse from Manchester, England. He has short fiction published by a variety of ezines including Bewildering Stories, Ink Sweat and Tears, Flask and Pen and The Linnet’s Wing. When not writing Nick enjoys Scrabble, Poker and Hiking.
