The Braemoor Incident by Newton Webb
A Gothic Horror Novella: As a mysterious circus arrives in the remote village of Braemoor, Dr. Blake finds himself entangled in a deadly secret that blurs the line between science and myth.
Horror Story Compilations
Blood Tingling Reads: 42 FREE horror stories, ‘The Enigmatic Skeleton’, ‘Ain't Nothin' But The Blues’, ‘12 Minutes’, ‘Trev Rides Forth’, ‘The Green Man’, ‘The Catfish Killer’, ‘Dark Waters’, ‘Of Politeness and Protocol’, ‘One More Turn’ and ‘Mind Games’
Heart Pounding Reads: 58 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3.’
2nd August 1925, Braemoor, Scotland
George stalked through the northern mists, his iron-shod sandals crunching on frost-rimed grass. Here at the edge of empire, where Hadrian's Wall met the wild darkness of Caledonia, civilisation was a tenuous thing. The legionary's scarlet cloak was stained black with old blood, his lorica segmentata bearing the dents and scars of a dozen frontier battles.
- St. George and the Dragon, by Dr. Alexander Blake
The train whistle pierced the grey afternoon as Dr Alexander Blake waited for the conductor to unlock the door. Rain fell in heavy sheets, blurring the rugged hills of the Scottish Highlands. When the flustered man finally clicked the lock open, Alexander stepped onto the platform, pulling his travel case behind him and clutching his medical bag in the other hand. His boots splashed onto the slick, rain-darkened planks.
The deluge showed no sign of relenting. Rain fell in relentless torrents, soaking him through as he pulled his overcoat tighter and sought refuge in the ticket office. His breath misted in the damp air as he scanned the dreary station for a familiar face.
“Dr Blake, is it?” a voice called out, carrying the clipped authority of military service.
Alexander turned to see a stocky man in a broad-brimmed hat striding toward him. His weathered face was creased into a frown of concentration.
“I’m MacAllister. You’ll be staying at my inn. I’d’ve sent the boy to fetch you, but he’s taken work at the Hall. You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid,” he extended a hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr MacAllister,” Alexander replied, shaking his hand firmly. “I’m grateful for your assistance, especially in this weather.”
MacAllister gestured toward a horse and cart waiting by the station gate. The sturdy chestnut mare pawed the muddy ground, steam rising from her flanks as she fidgeted under the rain. “Aye, it’s a filthy day. We’ll be taking the long road to the village—the main road will be a bog with this rain.”
Resigned to the conditions, Alexander followed him to the cart and climbed aboard, settling onto the wooden bench. His medical bag rested at his feet, rain beading on its leather surface.
With a flick of the reins, the mare set off, her hooves splashing through the growing puddles. The road out of the station was little more than a dirt track, quickly transforming into a quagmire under the relentless downpour.
“The usual road cuts through the glen,” MacAllister explained, raising his voice over the drumming rain. “But the burns’ll be up to no good. We’ll go round the ridge instead. It’s a bit longer, but safer.”
Alexander glanced at the landscape. Even under the grim weather, the wild beauty of the Highlands was undeniable—rolling hills shrouded in mist, their contours softened by the rain. “I trust your judgment,” he said. “How far is it to Braemoor?”
“Twelve miles, give or take,” MacAllister replied. “This rain will slow us, but we’ll get there before dark, with a bit of luck.”
The cart creaked and swayed along the uneven road, the mare’s steady pace contrasting against the chaos of the storm. Rain seeped through Alexander’s coat, chilling him to the bone.
Good start to the sabbatical.
MacAllister, unperturbed, guided the horse with practiced ease.
They fell into a companionable silence, broken only by the squelch of the cart’s wheels and the rhythmic drumming of the rain. As they climbed higher, the view opened to reveal a sprawling valley below, its fields transformed into lakes by the storm. The wind picked up, howling through the hills.
“Not much further now,” MacAllister said. “Once we’re over this rise, it’s a straight run to the village.”
Alexander nodded, his gaze fixed on the narrowing trail ahead. The cart’s wheels slipped precariously on the sodden ground, and he gripped the edge of the bench, his pulse quickening with every lurch.
“Don’t worry yerself,” MacAllister said with a grin. “Buttercup’s seen far worse than this. She’s a sturdy lass.”
The mare whinnied in agreement, pressing onward, pulling them safely to the crest of the ridge. From there, the village came into view, nestled in a hollow of the hills. Thin streams of smoke curled from its chimneys, a comforting sight against the bleak landscape.
The descent was less harrowing, and by the time they reached the village square, the rain had eased slightly. Lanterns glowed warmly in the windows, casting flickering light onto the muddy streets.
MacAllister halted the cart outside a stone inn with a thatched roof. “Here we are, Doctor. Welcome to Braemoor.”
Alexander climbed down, his boots sinking into the soft mud. He reached into his pocket and handed MacAllister two shillings. “Thank you for your time.”
“Ach, away with you,” MacAllister said with a chuckle, waving the coins away. “Buy me a dram tonight and we’ll call it even.”
With a flick of the reins, he guided the mare toward the stables at the rear of the inn. Alexander hefted his travel case and medical bag and stepped inside, drawn by the sounds of merriment and the promise of warmth.
The thick timber door creaked shut behind him, blocking the draft. Conversation ceased as the room fell silent, the locals appraising the new arrival.
The landlady bustled over from behind the bar. “Och, look at the state of you,” she said, eyeing him critically. “Give me that case and get that jacket off—I’ll hang it by the hearth.” She glanced at his boots. “And off with those boots, too. I’ll stuff them with paper to dry them.”
“It’s quite fine, madam. If you’ll just direct me to my room, I’ll—”
“Nonsense. A doctor like yourself should know better. Get those boots off, change your socks, and sit yourself down. I won’t have anyone getting trench foot in my inn.”
Alexander sighed in capitulation. “As you say, Mrs... MacAllister?”
“That’s right. The brute who picked you up’s my husband. No doubt he’ll be soaked to the bone as well.” She took the case from him as he struggled out of his waterlogged boots.
My slippers are in that case.
He watched helplessly as she dragged the case upstairs. Shrugging, he followed, his wet socks leaving faint marks on the polished timber steps.
“This’ll be your room, Doctor,” she said, sliding the case to the foot of the bed. The room was small but cosy, its window offering a view of the misty hills. A small desk caught his attention.
“Ah, excellent—you got my note. I’d hoped to spend my time here writing—”
“Never mind that, now. Look at your hands—you must be freezing’.”
Alexander recoiled slightly as she reached for his hand. “No, sorry, I…” He hesitated. “I get the shakes at times.” He gave an apologetic smile. “The Super Intendant diagnosed it as exhaustion. I’m here for fresh air and exercise. He said I’m not much use to the hospital without steady hands.”
Mrs MacAllister gave him a sympathetic look. “We’ll get you sorted, no bother. Good food and walks in the hills will set you right.” She glanced at the wet marks his socks had left. “Now, get yourself sorted and come downstairs. I’ve a beef stew on the go that’ll put some meat on your bones.”
3rd August 1925, Braemoor, Scotland
The fort rose before him like a corpse’s teeth against the leaden sky. No sentries walked its walls, no smoke rose from its hearths. Only the wind keened through empty towers, carrying the sickly-sweet stench of decay.
“Come forth!” His voice echoed in the desolate courtyard. “I am George Victrix, and I bring steel for your belly!”
- St. George and the Dragon, by Dr. Alexander Blake
The moors stretched endlessly around the small village of Braemoor. Alexander breathed in the crisp morning air, blessedly free of the smoke and pollution that choked Edinburgh. After the storm last night, the grass carried a strong, earthy scent. Finding a rock to sit on, he threw an oilskin over it. There was something primal, almost healing, about being rooted in nature—escaping the wonders and terrors of unbridled technological progress that had propelled the world into the war to end all wars.
He placed his leather-bound writing book on his lap and set his flask of tea on the grass beside him. The Highlands embraced the hamlet in a rolling, mist-laden silence. Movement caught his attention—a black horse tied in a neighbouring field. A tall, scrawny man, dressed in an undertaker’s suit and large black boots, marched purposefully through the field. He consulted a notebook as he placed coloured flags at what Alexander assumed were strategic locations.
Pouring tea into his tin travel mug, Alexander drank it in one go, wincing at its strength. Mrs MacAllister, the innkeeper, didn’t skimp on the leaf. Given the post-war shortages, this was both a rarity and, for Alexander, a blessing. He hadn’t slept well. It wasn’t just the unfamiliar bed; he rarely slept well. When he did, he often woke drenched in sweat, the sounds of shellfire and dying men echoing in his mind.
Sniffing the cold air, he began to write, his pencil scratching across the paper as he searched for inspiration. He hoped to create a new hero, one who could banish the demons of the world. Sometimes it felt as though all the old heroes had died in the trenches.
With his flask empty and the cold conspiring with the tea to stir his bladder, Alexander scanned the landscape for a suitable tree. The few solitary ones were up the hill. It felt disrespectful to relieve himself where someone might spot him. With a sigh, he packed up his things. A drystone wall at the bottom of the hill, surrounded by bushes, offered some privacy.
As he made his way, a faint rumble in his stomach reminded him that he’d risen at dawn and declined Mrs MacAllister’s offer of breakfast, accepting only tea and an bannock. He’d left the bannock for the animals, whose teeth were sturdier than his.
Reaching the drystone wall, Alexander found a tree and angled himself behind it, groaning in satisfaction as the steaming stream stained the bark black. Transfixed by the sight, he tucked himself away and wiped his hands on his jacket before heading back to the inn.
One of the village dogs lay watching him as he passed. Its tail thumped briefly before its face sank back into its paws, resuming its sleepy vigil. As Alexander looked around at the lichen-covered houses, it struck him how easily the village could be mistaken for something from the Middle Ages. It was the kind of place Saint George might have walked through on his hunt for the dragon.
His boot slapped onto a damp, cheaply printed poster advertising a circus coming to the village. Picking it up, he smiled. So that’s what the odd man was doing.
His ruminations were interrupted by two burly women on opposite sides of the street, vigorously beating carpets with wicker beaters. They seemed to be competing to see who could strike the hardest. Alexander watched until, suddenly, both turned their eyes on him. He coughed, waved awkwardly, and hurried to find his breakfast.
The warmth of the hearth greeted Alexander as he stepped inside the inn. He walked up to the fire and held out his hands. The heat stung his chilled fingers, giving him pins and needles, but began driving away the numbing cold.
“Tea, or something stronger, Dr Blake?” Mrs MacAllister asked, looking up from polishing glasses behind the bar.
“Tea, please, if it’s not too much trouble. And I don’t suppose I could take you up on your earlier offer of breakfast?”
Mrs MacAllister nodded approvingly. “Aye, of course you can. I’ll fix you up with a treat, Dr Blake.” She gestured toward a small table near the window. “Sit yourself down—it’ll be out in a moment.”
Alexander settled into the chair, setting his notebook beside him. The inn’s main room was quiet, the embers in the hearth crackling softly. A few villagers sat scattered about, nursing mugs of tea or chatting quietly.
Hamish MacAllister, the innkeeper’s burly son, sat with his girlfriend, Lena. From their sharp whispers and Hamish’s glum expression, it was clear their conversation wasn’t pleasant. Whatever her complaint, it hadn’t dulled his appetite; he was working his way through an obscenely large plate of food. While unemployment and deprivation were rife in Edinburgh, the village seemed to have plenty, especially for innkeepers’ sons.
Alexander took the opportunity to pull out his writing book and review the day’s work, making notes for edits. He looked up to see Mrs MacAllister standing beside him with a tray. She was peering over his shoulder at his writing. Embarrassed, he sheepishly closed the book.
“Here you go.” She set a wooden tray in front of him, laden with a steaming plate of food: fried eggs, thick steaming bannocks, fat sausages, and a small dish of fried potatoes. Beside it was a tin pot of strong black tea.
“Thank you.” Alexander’s face reddened as he realised she’d been reading over his shoulder. He quickly recovered, the aroma of the food making his mouth water. The portion size, however, was intimidating.
“You did well to wait—Tess, one of the local girls, just brought in the eggs,” Mrs MacAllister said with a brief smile, though it darkened as her gaze fell on Lena and Hamish. “Eat up—it’ll keep you warm out there.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “She should be grateful. My boy’s working himself to the bone, and for good coin too.”
“A good work ethic is to be praised. What manner of work is he engaged in?” Alexander asked, curiosity piqued.
“He works for Dr Volkov, a queer wee man,” Mrs MacAllister replied, her tone both disapproving and intrigued. “Rarely leaves the Hall, and he’s got Hamish running ragged, fixing up that old place and installing all his equipment. I cannot think why he hasn’t got more folk helping. It’s all a bit odd.”
“Do you know anything about his work?” Alexander put down his pen, leaning forward.
“Not a peep. Hamish is not allowed to tell me a thing—says he’ll lose his bonus if he does. It’s not right, though. A lad should be able to tell his own mam everything. Lord knows, I can keep a secret.”
Alexander gave her a dubious look. “Of course. I’m sure that is true.”
Mrs MacAllister’s expression lightened as she pointed at his notebook before bustling away. “You best beware. If I end up in that book of yours, you better not make me a maiden, Dr Blake.”
Alexander chuckled. “Heaven forbid, Mrs MacAllister.”
7th August 1925, Braemoor, Scotland
The Picts spoke of it in whispers—a thing that dwelt in the abandoned fort at Banna, a serpent-creature that had devoured the entire garrison in a single night of horror. The savage tribesmen, who feared nothing under their woad-stained skin, would not venture near the place. But Rome demanded answers, and George had volunteered for what all knew was a death sentence.
- St. George and the Dragon, by Dr. Alexander Blake
Alexander had been in the village for a few days, and the fresh air and daily walks were working wonders. Still, in the back of his mind, a nagging voice reminded him that he would eventually have to return to work. He pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on his breakfast.
The bannock was dense and slightly sweet, the sausages smoky and rich—vastly superior to the tasteless ones he’d eaten during the war. He watched the village through the window as he ate, observing figures moving about the mist-shrouded street.
Nearby, two locals were cackling over their tea. As Alexander speared a slice of sausage, their animated conversation caught his attention.
“They’ve got bears for the circus—two of ’em!” one said, wide-eyed.
“Ach, you’re talking mince. Who’s bringing bears all the way to Braemoor?” the other shot back.
“They bloody have! And what would you know? The circus has never been here before!” the first retorted.
Alexander chewed thoughtfully. He’d seen bears at Edinburgh Zoo and could understand the excitement. Nothing that exotic ever happened in a village like Braemoor.
I should walk up towards the Hall before the circus opens tonight.
A few months ago, Dr Dmitri Volkov had moved into the abandoned mansion at the edge of the village, quickly becoming the subject of endless speculation. Rumours ranged from him being a Bolshevik refugee to a mad scientist—or even a heretical warlock. The villagers, however, seemed more intrigued than suspicious. In a place as quiet as Braemoor, even the wildest gossip added a welcome dash of excitement.
Perhaps I could work them into my book?
Alexander had seen Dr Volkov at the inn once, nursing a glass of whisky while the locals eyed him warily. To Alexander, he had seemed perfectly normal—no different from the overworked and exhausted doctors at the hospital.
No, I’ll knock on his door and introduce myself today.
With that resolution, he finished his tea and set out for a long walk through the hills surrounding the village. The sun began to break through the clouds, and Alexander wanted to enjoy the light before the grey skies returned. As his thighs burned with the pleasant ache of a good ramble, he looped back toward Braemoor, heading for the Hall.
The mansion stood at the edge of the village, almost swallowed by a dark line of Scots pines. It had been empty for years, abandoned after the sudden death of the laird. The bleak stone building, its ivy-covered walls and boarded-up windows, exuded an air of forgotten grandeur.
Tyre marks led to one of the Hall’s barns.
He’s not short of money if he can afford a car.
Alexander paused at the imposing wooden door and knocked. The sound echoed hollowly through the Hall, and after a moment, the door creaked open. Hamish MacAllister, now serving as Dr Volkov’s housekeeper, appeared in the doorway.
“Dr Blake! What brings you out here in this weather?” Hamish said, stepping aside and gesturing for Alexander to come in. “Get yourself inside before you catch your death.”
“Hamish,” Alexander greeted him, stepping into the bitterly cold house. He noticed wooden boards nailed over broken panes of glass—likely Hamish’s attempt to keep the wind out until a proper glazier could make repairs. “How are you finding the work?” Alexander asked as Hamish led him through the austere entryway. “It’s an awful lot for one man to take on.”
Hamish gave a weary chuckle. “Aye, you’re not wrong. My lassie Lena’s not too pleased with the hours I’m keeping, but I like it fine. Feels like proper work, you know?” He grinned, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “At first, I thought I’d be stuck wearing a suit and carrying things on a tray.” He gestured to the boards. “But he’s got me doing proper work and by the time I’m done working for Dr Volkov, I’ll have enough coin for a proper ring—the kind a lass like Lena deserves.” His face brightened with excitement. “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
Alexander clasped his hand. “That’s wonderful news, Hamish. I wish you all the best. Does your mother know?”
Hamish laughed heartily. “Oh, aye, she knows fine. If I tried to keep something like this from her, she’d clip my lugs so hard I’d hear ringing for a week!” He shook his head, his eyes glinting with good humour. “The only person that doesn’t know is Lena.”
Suddenly remembering himself, Hamish motioned toward the drawing room. “Why don’t you bide here a wee while? I’ll fetch the doctor for you—he never hears the door when he’s down in his lab.”
“Thank you, Hamish. I would like that.”
Alexander moved to the hearth, where a small fire struggled valiantly against the cold. The room was nearly empty—bare stone walls, a few pieces of worn furniture, and crates stacked in one corner.
At least the wind stays out, he thought as he settled into a battered but sturdy wooden chair.
After a short wait, Dr Dmitri Volkov entered. His gaunt face was accentuated by the dim firelight, and a neatly trimmed white beard framed his chin. His eyes narrowed briefly as he regarded Alexander.
“Dr Volkov? My name is Alexander Blake,” Alexander began, extending a hand. “I wanted to introduce myself. I’m also a doctor—a physician from Royal Edinburgh Infirmary. I’m spending some time here in Braemoor, and I heard you were living here now.”
Dr Volkov stepped forward, taking Alexander’s hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “Alexander Blake,” he repeated, his voice thick with a Russian accent. “A doctor, you say? This is... surprise. A fellow academic, here, so far from civilisation?” He gave a small smile. “I must warn you—there is not much in way of comfort here.”
He gestured around at the sparse furnishings. “I bring what I could from Russia, but equipment must come first. Luxuries? No time for them.”
“That’s quite alright. I’m here on a sabbatical.”
“A sabbatical?” Volkov’s brow arched slightly. “Ah, I envy you. To take time, to step away... I cannot do this. My work—it consumes me. Has done so my whole life.” Moving to a cabinet, Volkov retrieved a glass bottle and two small tumblers. “But, of course, I save some... comforts.” He poured a generous amount of vodka into each glass and handed one to Alexander. “To warm the blood.”
Alexander took the glass, nodding his thanks. The vodka burned his throat, warmth spreading through his chest and cutting through the chill of the room.
“I heard rumours that you left Russia in a hurry. I do hope you find a new home here, Dr Volkov,” Alexander said, offering a sympathetic smile. “To be driven from one’s home... it’s a horror I can hardly imagine.”
Volkov’s face darkened, his voice heavy. “The Bolsheviks—they are not kind to men of science. We call it... Red Terror. They seek to cleanse Russia of intellectuals, doctors, anyone who dares think differently. I see colleagues taken, their work burned, their lives destroyed.” His fist clenched briefly. “They fear knowledge, education. They are afraid that open minds might destroy their... how you say…” He sneered. “’Socialist agenda’. I had no choice but to leave. I come here to work in peace, far from prying eyes.”
“You have my sympathies, Doctor.” Alexander shivered despite the vodka’s warmth, the persistent cold gnawing at him. “It must be difficult here. The Hall seems...” He glanced around at the dust and sparse furnishings. “It must need a lot of work.”
Volkov’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Yes, much work. But I have help—Hamish. I choose him, especially. He is strong, with a good, robust skull. Like ox. He helps me with renovations, housekeeping.” He chuckled softly. “And my work. It is worth it. I am close, Dr Blake. So very close.”
“What is the nature of your work?” Alexander’s curiosity was evident. “If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know. I could use a diversion.”
Volkov studied him for a moment, his gaze piercing while he weighed the offer. At last, he nodded. “Perhaps. It is rare, to meet another doctor here. Tell me, Dr Blake—what made you choose this remote place for your sabbatical?”
Alexander smiled faintly. “A need for quiet.” He held out his hand, relieved to see it remain steady. “The war wasn’t kind to anyone. I lost many close friends. The dean ordered me to take a month-long sabbatical.” He glanced down at his glass. “So that’s why I’m here, I suppose. To think, to write, to walk... and to breathe in fresh air.”
Volkov inclined his head. “You are not alone in this suffering. The brain is... how you say... beautiful organ. So complex, but still so much we do not understand.” He raised his glass. “We are both escapees, then. To new beginnings.”
They drank, the cold air pressing in around them as the fire sputtered weakly in the hearth.
When Alexander had finished his glass, Dr Volkov excused himself, citing the need to return to his experiments. Alexander took his leave.
12th August 1925, Braemoor, Scotland
The response was a sound like sliding cobblestones that grew to a bone-rattling rumble. From the granary burst a horror that had no place in a world of reason and order. Scales the colour of verdigris covered a serpentine body thick as an ancient oak tree. Its head bore not one but three sets of eyes, each glowing like molten copper. When it spoke, its voice was the sound of avalanches.
"Little Roman... your empire is but a child compared to my kind. We ruled when your ancestors huddled in caves. We will rule when your precious walls have crumbled to dust."
George drew his gladius with a snarl. "Then you've lived too long, serpent."
- St. George and the Dragon, by Dr. Alexander Blake
The sun shone over the cold moors as Alexander sipped his morning tea, watching from the inn window. Mrs MacAllister bustled about, fussing over the guests. The inn was busier than usual, thanks to the visiting circus. The village was gripped with excitement. Such an event was unheard of in Braemoor.
“Sorry for the wait, my dear,” Mrs MacAllister said, placing a plate of eggs, bannocks, fried potatoes, and sausages in front of him.
Alexander smiled, though he had intended to ask for something lighter—perhaps porridge and jam. It seemed everyone was getting the same breakfast this morning.
“That’s lovely, thanks—”
Mrs MacAllister gave him a quick nod and made to bustle away.
“Wait. Sorry, before you go, I was wondering where the best place to go shooting might be. I thought I might see if I could find some grouse for the inn.”
Her eyes lit up. “Och, you’ll want to go west of here. Wood pigeons like to forage in the gorse. Don’t go east, though—that land belongs to Braemoor Hall. I doubt that queer wee European fella would mind much, but best not to cause a fuss.” She started to leave, then turned back. “Carry your game licence with you. We don’t have a gamekeeper in Braemoor, and the Hall only has our Hamish to look after it. But if Constable Fraser sees you with a gun, he’ll be wanting to check it.”
“Thank y—”
“Oh, and don’t shoot partridge or grouse, there will be hell to pay if you do. If you see a bear, don’t shoot that either. It belongs to the circus.”
Alexander chuckled and winked at her. “I’ll do my best.”
She headed back to the kitchen, muttering, “Bears in Braemoor—whatever next.”
Alexander finished his breakfast, the food sitting heavy in his stomach. The hot tea helped to melt some of the grease lining his throat. A long walk on the moors would help work it off. He collected his hunting gear from his room, slinging the leather strap of his shotgun over his shoulder. He checked his pockets for his licence, as Mrs MacAllister had advised, and asked her to fill his flask with hot tea before setting out. It would not do to venture far without it.
The morning sun was deceptive. Despite its brightness, the air had an unseasonably sharp but welcome bite. The wind brushed the moorland grass, rustling through gorse and bracken. Alexander made his way westward, passing the village outskirts and moving into the open moor. The ground underfoot was soft and uneven. The isolation was refreshing after the lively atmosphere of the inn. Before long, the village disappeared behind him, swallowed by the rolling hills and misty silence.
The west moors stretched endlessly, vast and untamed. Alexander’s senses were alert as he scanned the landscape for movement. Ideas for the next part of his story came to him as he searched for his prey.
Alexander paused, taking in the windswept trees battling the elements. The landscape was both eerie and beautiful. Mist clung to the hills, fading into a pale blue sky. He paused for a moment to appreciate the quiet. The solitude out here was relaxing, a far cry from the city.
A flash of movement caught his eye. A cluster of birds darted between patches of gorse in the distance. Crouching instinctively, Alexander lowered his silhouette against the skyline. His heartbeat quickened. Wood pigeon.
Moving with deliberate care, he raised his shotgun, looking down the sight to track his target. His finger moved to the trigger as he exhaled. His hand started to shake as he looked down the barrels. Gritting his teeth, he flexed his hand. He had hunted many times before without a problem. Taking another breath, he aimed once again, but the shaking returned. Memories of bullet wounds from the war flickered in his mind.
You ate sausages this morning. Come on, don’t be a hypocrite.
Taking another breath, he tried a final time, steeling himself.
He lifted the shotgun, his eyes locked on the blissfully unaware grouse. His finger hovered over the trigger. Then, with a hiss of frustration, he lowered the gun and ejected the shells.
Today would not be the day he slew the dragon.
He watched the grouse forage for food, oblivious to the fate that had almost befallen them. After a while, he turned back, following a path that led loosely towards the inn. He allowed himself to be diverted by hill trails as he fancied, until Braemoor’s rooftops came into view in the distance. Smoke curled up from chimneys into the clear sky. He looked at the darkening horizon as the sun drooped towards the skyline.
The festivities would soon be starting.
The inn was packed. The locals were eager to enjoy cheaper drinks before braving the hawkers with their mulled cider and whisky. Alexander kept to a corner, the quietest spot in the rowdy establishment, and sipped his ale. The villagers were in high spirits.
Pulling out his pocket watch, he checked the time. Not long now.
The noise subsided suddenly as Dr Volkov, wearing a suit and hat, entered, accompanied by Hamish, who was wearing a large woollen hat. The doctor seemed an ungainly man, his body lean and gawkish. Despite his awkward build, his suit was well tailored, suggesting he had once led a more gentrified life. He ordered a glass of whisky and looked around at the suspicious locals, raising his drink to them. A few villagers half-heartedly raised theirs in return. Hamish, more familiar to the crowd, toasted several friends with his pint.
The inn quickly returned to its usual chaotic state of drunken banter.
Alexander approached Volkov, greeting him with a firm handshake. The man’s bones felt delicate in his grip. “Good evening, Doctor.”
“Ah, Dr Blake,” Volkov said with a thin smile, his Russian accent soft but noticeable. “A pleasure to see you again.” He motioned toward the bar. “I would offer you vodka, but we must make do with, how do you say? The local drop.” He signalled to Mr MacAllister, who stood behind the bar with a dour face. He poured a second whisky. Alexander accepted it gratefully.
“Are you looking forward to the circus?” Alexander asked politely.
Volkov’s eyes gleamed. “More than you could know. I contacted MacTaggart to source some vital components for my work.”
Alexander raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying the circus came to Braemoor for you?”
“It has taken long enough, but yes,” Volkov replied, his accent thick but precise. “I have been waiting for this moment, Dr Blake. My work is at critical juncture. MacTaggart, he has contacts who can find pieces of equipment that are difficult to source.”
“You can’t just leave it at that. Tell me more.”
Volkov offered a faint smile. “Patience, Dr Blake. Soon, the time for talk and theory, it will be over. I will show the practical results of my work. I will be proud. Once it is revealed, the medical world—it will be shaken, yes?”
“Well, now you have to tell me,” Alexander pressed. “You can’t leave me hanging like that.”
“All in good time,” The gleam in his eyes bordering on unsettling. “Soon, everyone will know the name, Volkov.”
Alexander paused. There was an unsettling fervour in the doctor’s expression, the look of dangerous obsession. He raised his scotch with a measured smile. “Well, in that case, I wish you all the best and look forward to seeing the results.”
He leaned back against the bar, observing as Hamish moved through the crowd, calling out, “Anyone seen Lena?”
Hamish was intercepted by his mother. “Hamish, take that hat off your head. You’re indoors you lump.”
Hamish raised a protective hand to the woollen hat. “I need it on, Ma. Had a wee accident earlier.”
Mrs MacAllister’s brow furrowed as she stepped closer. “Let me see it, son. You poor thing, let your Ma have a look.”
Hamish stepped back, shaking his head. “It’s fine, Ma. Leave it be. Doctor patched me up.”
Alexander glanced at Volkov inquisitively, but the Russian merely waved a dismissive hand. “A small thing. Nothing of importance.”
The path to the village green was lined with families, their excitement palpable as they approached the brightly lit tents that had sprung up like mushrooms overnight. Vibrant banners and canopies stood out starkly against the bleak moors. The damp ground at the entrance was already churned into mud by heavy boots and would become a quagmire before the night was over.
Alexander adjusted his scarf and coat as he followed the crowd. The low hum of anticipation was infectious, and he smiled at the genuine wonder on the villagers’ faces. The air carried the mingled scents of hay, mud, and animals.
At the entrance, he handed a few coins to the ticket-seller, a woman in an elaborate costume that could not entirely disguise her local roots. She handed him a punched ticket marked Magic MacTaggart’s Menagerie.
“Warm yer hands and yer heart! A cup o’ spiced cider tae shake off the chill!” a vendor cried.
Alexander approached the vendor, a snaggle-toothed man with a milky eye. The man stood behind a large copper pot and a roasting pan filled with almonds, peanuts, and hazelnuts.
“A mug of cider, please,” Alexander said, counting out his coins.
“Nuts, sir?” the vendor asked, gesturing to the pan. “A penny a cone—finest nuts to warm the bones.”
“No, thank you. Tempting as it is, just the cider.”
The vendor grumbled but poured a mug of mulled cider, his face splitting into an enormous, if not entirely honest, grin.
The circus grounds formed a ring of smaller side shows and sales booths around the central big top. Alexander strolled slowly, taking in the strange and wonderful atmosphere the circus had brought to the sleepy village.
By the Strongman Challenge, he spotted Volkov and Hamish. The young man gripped the mallet tightly and brought it down with an almighty crash. The bell dinged, drawing cheers from a few drunken locals.
“Well done, Hamish,” Alexander called out as he approached. He shook hands with Dr Volkov and the boy.
Volkov chuckled, raising his hip flask. “Good boy! When you are finished with me, you will blow bell clear off top, yes?”
“Don’t work him too hard, Doctor,” Alexander said with a wink before moving on.
The main tent was filled with long rows of benches facing a central ring glowing warmly under gas lamps hanging from the tent poles. Alexander found a seat near the back, giving him a clear view of the performance space and the crowd. As the tent filled with villagers, the press of people and the constant noise gave him the shakes. He silently prayed, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets to keep them still.
Excitement buzzed through the crowd. After a few minutes, he spotted Volkov and Hamish settling into seats a few rows ahead. Volkov’s gaunt form and Hamish’s woollen hat were unmistakable, even in the dim light.
The ringmaster, Master MacTaggart, strode into the centre of the ring. Tall and wiry, with a handlebar moustache and gleaming eyes, he wore a crimson coat that fluttered as he tipped his top hat to the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, his voice booming with practiced charisma, “welcome to the spectacle of a lifetime! The MacTaggart Menagerie is proud to bring you wonders beyond imagination, marvels that defy belief, and performances that will leave you gasping!”
The audience erupted in applause, cheers echoing beneath the canvas roof. Alexander leaned forward. The circus felt cheap and austere compared to the grand productions he had seen in Edinburgh, but the ringmaster had the locals enthralled, introducing each act with exaggerated flair.
The first act was a slender acrobat, twisting and leaping through the air with practiced finesse. Next came a trio of dark-hued, heavily painted belly dancers, their gyrations perfectly synchronised to the music, drawing gasps and applause. Alexander’s enthusiasm waned with the arrival of the clowns. Their painted faces and exaggerated movements unsettled him, though the delighted giggles of children made it clear the act had struck the right chord with some.
Then came the bears.
To the villagers, they were undoubtedly the highlight of the evening, but for Alexander, they marked its nadir. Two lumbering brown bears, one in a tutu and the other in a waistcoat, glistened under the lights as they entered the ring. Their dull eyes reminded him uncomfortably of the haunted stares of his patients—men broken by the trenches.
A stout man in a red suit, armed with a pointed goad, coaxed the bears through a series of stunts. Their heavy paws stomped the ground as they balanced on platforms and awkwardly danced to the tune of a distant fiddle.
The crowd cheered, but Alexander’s jaw tightened at the sight of their misery. He had seen enough suffering in the war to recognise it here. His gaze shifted to Volkov. The doctor’s eyes were fixed on the bears, his expression unnervingly intense.
As the bears’ performance ended to loud applause, Alexander joined in politely, his enthusiasm dimmed. He had seen as much of the circus as he cared for. Leaving the villagers to their fun, he made his way to the exit.
At the entrance, workers were scattering straw over the churned soil to soak up the mud. Alexander froze mid-step.
Lena was walking arm in arm with a young man. Alexander did not recognise him, but their closeness was unmistakable. He winced at the thought of Hamish, who had evidently waited too long.
With a sigh, he returned to the inn. He forwent the scotch he had intended to drink and retreated to his room.
13th August 1925, Braemoor, Scotland
The beast's speed belied its massive bulk, its fangs shearing through shield-wood like parchment. George's blade struck sparks from scales harder than Damascus steel. Blood from both combatants froze black on the stones.
In the end, it was not skill or strength that decided the day, but luck. Blood dripping into his eye, George was blinded. He stumbled back. When the beast reared to strike, George lunged in desperation. His gladius plunged through the soft flesh beneath its jaw, driven by the full weight of his armoured body.
- St. George and the Dragon, by Dr. Alexander Blake
The next morning, Alexander rose early. The inn was blissfully quiet, its regulars still sleeping off their hangovers. He accepted strong tea and a substantial breakfast from the ever-indomitable Mrs MacAllister. Despite his strict regimen of hill walking, he had noticed a layer of belly fat forming, obscuring his usually lean frame.
“Thank you,” he said, spearing a sausage and slicing it into rounds to let the steaming meat cool.
Mrs MacAllister lingered nearby. “Did you enjoy the circus last night, Dr Blake?”
Alexander leaned back with a smile. “It was quite the experience.”
“I’m being daft, aren’t I? You must see spectacles like that all the time in Edinburgh.”
“No, I don’t attend such events in the city. I’m more of a theatre man. I must confess to coming here to recuperate and avoid excitement. Though, it was a refreshing change of pace.”
She beamed. “You’ll be wanting more tea for your flask, I imagine. Off walking again?”
“You are too kind, Mrs MacAllister. I will indeed be catching some fresh air. Thank you.”
Yet, she lingered.
“You’ll never guess what my Hamish told me.”
Alexander thought back to Lena and her new suitor. “Please, I couldn’t possibly guess.”
“That Russian fellow, Dr Volkov, paid for the circus to come here. Hamish said he’s helping them transport the big bear, Toby—the one in the lovely waistcoat—to Braemoor Hall. Can ye imagine?”
Alexander sat back. “The mind boggles, Mrs MacAllister. That is indeed unusual.”
“I do hope we get to see the bear. Imagine, a bear living in our wee village. What do you think they eat?”
“Fish, mostly. Though I hope our friend knows how to care for it. I’ve always believed animals should be free to roam.” Alexander glanced at his plate. “I’m rather fond of bears.”
“I’m sure he’ll manage. Maybe he’ll bring the circus back next year—it’d be nice for his bear to have a friend. Oh, goodness, your sausages will get cold. I’ll get that tea for you.”
Chewing thoughtfully, Alexander resolved to visit Dr Volkov after his morning walk.
A light drizzle dusted Alexander as he marched across the moorland. He looked up at the dark clouds smudging the grey sky and quickened his pace. Braemoor Hall loomed in the distance. With luck, he’d reach it before the drizzle turned into the downpour the clouds threatened.
The rain had grown heavier by the time he knocked on the door. Adjusting his hat and pulling his jacket tighter, he knocked again. It took a third, more insistent knock before Dr Volkov answered, peering through a crack.
“Hello?”
“Doctor,” Alexander greeted him warmly. “I thought I’d drop by. I heard you’d made a new acquisition.”
“The bear? Yes, yes.” Volkov’s pale eyes blinked as he seemed to weigh the intrusion. “I am sorry, Doctor, but I am at a very delicate stage in my work and must not be disturbed.”
With that, he closed the door.
Alexander stared at the closed door, his brows furrowed at the abrupt and rude rejection. As a man of science, he could understand it to a degree, but he would have handled it with more decorum.
Shrugging, he turned back towards the village.
Why didn’t Hamish answer the door?
The rain seized the opportunity to intensify, soaking him thoroughly by the time he reached the inn.
“Och, you’re soaked to the bone,” Mrs MacAllister clucked, taking Alexander’s sodden jacket and hanging it by the hearth. She fetched him a glass of scotch and a pot of tea. “Sit yourself down, Doctor, and I’ll sort ye out.”
“Thank you,” he smiled at her. Fortified, Alexander pulled out his writing book.
As Alexander gazed out at the relentless downpour, he imagined the misery of a knight trudging through foul weather, seeking his foe to either battle triumphantly or die alone and unacclaimed. The tea did little to lift his mood, so he switched to scotch, the fiery liquid warming his stomach.
18th August 1925, Braemoor, Scotland
The dying creature's thrashing brought down the granary's walls, nearly crushing them both. As it lay gasping its last, its eyes fixed on George with ancient hatred.
"You've won nothing, Roman. Your empire will fade, even as our power now wanes."
- St George and the Dragon, by Dr Alexander Blake
Alexander intended to leave Dr Volkov be. The man was clearly busy and not in a sociable mood. He hoped to see him at the inn once his experiments had concluded, whether successful or not. The locals of Braemoor, while friendly, could not provide the intellectual stimulation a fellow man of science could offer.
“Dr Blake, oh please, do excuse me.”
He looked up to see a nervous Mrs MacAllister wringing her hands. “How can I help?”
“It’s my boy. I’m worried sick about him,” she said, biting her lip.
Alexander frowned. “How so?”
“It started when he found out that Lena... well, that she’s decided to move on and walk with another lad.”
Alexander winced. They know.
“He’s been acting odd—angry. And rightly so, the way she’s been carrying on. The few times I’ve seen him, he’s looked pale and has been mumbling, slurring his words.”
“It isn’t unusual for people to temporarily drink more when they are upset—”
“I run an inn, Doctor. I know the difference between a drunk man and one who’s been worked to the bone.” She crossed her arms, her brow furrowed. “You tell that boy—begging your pardon—that he’s to come home for a proper meal and an early night. The doctor will have to do without him.”
Mrs MacAllister took a deep breath, her fists clenching. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I worry about him something awful. He had two brothers, but... the war.” Tears welled in her eyes. “He hasn’t been home in four days. I don’t know if he’s even eating.”
“I will speak to him, I promise. But please, try not to be overly concerned. When I visited after the circus, Dr Volkov was deep in his studies. Young men have plenty of energy. I’m sure this is temporary.” Alexander gave her the calming look of a seasoned physician. “He’ll be back soon enough. But, as one doctor to another, I will request on your behalf that he has a night off.”
"God bless you, Doctor," Mrs MacAllister said with a heavy sigh of relief. "I’m sure you’re right." She hesitated, wringing her hands. "I’ll put together a wee lunch basket for him. Poor lad—he’s been through enough. I fear he’ll waste away if he keeps this up."
Alexander doubted that Hamish’s sturdy frame would become emaciated anytime soon, but he was happy to ease her mind. “Of course. I’ll drop it off for you today.”
“And you’ll—”
“I’ll let you know how he’s doing.”
Mrs MacAllister bustled off and returned with a heavy hamper.
Mrs MacAllister bustled off and soon returned with a heavy hamper. "Here you go, Doctor. If it’s easier, you can take Buttercup. Roads are a mess, though. I wouldn’t bother with the cart in this weather."
He took the hamper. Whatever it contained was dense and weighty. More bannocks, then.
“That would be excellent, thank you. I haven’t had the opportunity to ride since the—well, in a long time.”
“I’ll tell Mr MacAllister to saddle her up for you.”
When Mrs MacAllister reported that Buttercup was ready, Alexander stepped out into the torrential rain. He grimaced as he mounted the mare. She seemed as enthusiastic as he was, snorting as steam rose from her nostrils. He rode her at a trot towards Braemoor Hall. There were times when he regretted his daily regimen of fresh air, but at least his boots stayed clear of the squelching mud.
Smoke rose from Braemoor Hall.
Alexander dropped the hamper and dismounted. "Stay here, Buttercup," he said, tying her to the gatepost. Racing up to the shattered front door, he ran through the splintered wood lying in the courtyard.
"Dr Volkov? Hamish?" Alexander shouted, his voice echoing through the halls as he rushed about inside.
The acrid smell of burning machinery grew stronger. Following the smoke, he descended into the basement. Holding his scarf over his nose and mouth, he blinked against the pungent cloud and descended.
Dr Volkov’s laboratory was a chaotic scene of destruction. Four towering Tesla coils dominated the corners of the room. Two medical beds sat bolted to the floor. On one lay the lifeless body of the bear, Toby. The bear appeared to have undergone a partial autopsy. Its skull had been opened, and surgical cuts indicated the removal of its adrenal glands. The other bed’s restraints were torn apart, as if a great force had broken free.
Alexander located the fire—electrical relays on the wall had sparked and ignited nearby equipment. Flames licked at the surroundings, thickening the air with acrid smoke.
He searched for any signs of the doctor or Hamish. Near the stairway, Alexander spotted a trail of blood. Kneeling, he touched it—still wet.
Someone had escaped.
Alexander crawled towards the stairs, navigating through the haze of smoke.
When he reached the footwell, he rose, breathing hard through his scarf and running as fast as he could to escape the Hall.
Bursting into the cold, clean air, he gasped as his lungs burned from the smoke. Behind him, timbers collapsed with a resounding crash, sending a plume of ash and sparks into the stormy sky. The rain snuffed out the flames almost immediately.
Looking around, Alexander noticed the barn doors were open. He knelt and found fresh tyre marks in the wet ground. Buttercup stood nearby, soaked and trembling, shying away from the still-smoking building.
The tyre marks lead towards the station.
Mounting Buttercup, he urged her along the road. Despite his efforts to force her into a canter, she maintained a steady trot, navigating the roads with the caution of an experienced animal.
They had not travelled far when Alexander saw the silhouette of a stranded Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, trapped in the swamp like road.
Jumping down, he led Buttercup closer.
Dr Volkov lay slumped in the driver’s seat. Alexander tied Buttercup to the chassis and approached the doctor.
“Doctor? What happened? Where is Hamish?”
Rain pounded over Volkov’s body. His hair clung to his skull, plastered by the relentless downpour.
Alexander unbuttoned Volkov’s jacket and shirt. He kept his expression neutral as he revealed deep gouges across the man’s chest. The wounds appeared to have been inflicted by a massive beast. Shrugging off his own jacket, Alexander pressed it firmly against the injuries.
Volkov’s chest rose weakly. "I… I did it," he rasped, a faint smile curving his bloodied lips. "Zhivaya Snaga—living strength."
“Do you have a medical bag?” Alexander asked, scanning the car. “I need to bind these wounds.”
Volkov coughed violently, flecks of blood spraying Alexander’s face. “It should have been controllable. The tissue removal worked before. But something—the augmentation—it changed—”
“Doctor, do you have a medical bag? Where is Hamish?” Alexander pressed down harder, though he knew Volkov had already lost too much blood.
Volkov’s eyes grew distant, his pained smile slipping into a grimace. Alexander leaned closer to catch his final words.
With a final, pained breath, Volkov whispered, "I was… so close." His body shuddered, then fell still.
Alexander checked for a pulse but found none. With a cry of frustration, he kicked the car’s partially submerged front tyre.
His gaze fell on a briefcase. Grabbing it, he untied Buttercup and urged her back towards the village.
Alexander could see the inn through the crashing rain when the first scream rent the night.
He urged Buttercup onwards. Reaching the stables, she trotted faster, steam rising from her nostrils.
On the main track leading to the village, Constable Fraser’s body lay in a pool of fresh blood. Alexander stared in horror. Fraser’s arm had been torn clean off, and his wooden truncheon lay several yards away.
A loud roar shattered the night air.
"God in heaven," Alexander muttered, fear clutched at his heart.
Alexander studied the corpse. Whatever had attacked Fraser had incredible strength.
Did Dr Volkov buy more than one bear?
Dismounting in front of the inn, Alexander rushed inside. He needed his shotgun.
Mrs MacAllister was waiting by the door, a cleaver in hand. “I said it. I said it, I did. Bears have no place in this village.” She took Buttercup’s reins from him.
“Did you see it?” Alexander peered down the street, straining to pinpoint the direction of the sound.
"Aye, through the window. The beast ran right past me, it did," she said, pointing down the road. "It’s heading to Thurrock Road. My man’s gone after it. You must bring him back, Doctor. I cannot lose another of my boys."
“I’ll find him, don’t you worry.”
Alexander raced upstairs and retrieved his shotgun. Sliding two shells into the breach, he emerged, ready for whatever lay ahead. Taking the reins from Mrs MacAllister, he mounted Buttercup and rode swiftly, his senses on high alert as he followed the sounds of the beast. Villagers, seeing him armed, pointed him in the right direction.
Another roar sounded, louder and closer now.
He caught up with the lumbering form of Mr MacAllister. The man was breathing heavily, clutching a hunting rifle and clad in heavy tweed.
“Hurry,” Mr MacAllister urged, his face red as he forced himself to run faster. “That’s coming from Lena’s family farm.”
Alexander urged Buttercup onward, leaving the innkeeper behind. At the end of the street, he froze.
The beast came into view.
It wasn’t a bear.
A giant, bipedal creature stood before him. Its massive, muscular body was covered in dense fur, and shredded scraps of clothing clung to its frame. In its thick, powerful arms, it carried Lena’s unconscious form.
“No, it can’t be,” Alexander murmured.
The creature was wearing a woollen hat.
His mind raced, uncertain how to proceed.
The creature turned to face him, roaring with rage before turning away to run into the night.
Alexander shouted, “Stop! I can help you!”
A gunshot rang out.
Blood erupted from the back of the creature’s skull. It howled in pain, dropping Lena to the ground.
Alexander looked back. Mr MacAllister was kneeling, his rifle braced against his shoulder. "Got you, you brute," the man muttered grimly.
“No!” Alexander cried as Mr MacAllister fired a second shot. This time, the bullet exploded into the creature’s eye. Alexander watched as it staggered and collapsed to the ground.
"Stand back, Doctor. I’ll finish it."
“Mr MacAllister, it’s Hamish, it’s your son!” Alexander shouted, his voice filled with horror.
The man froze, blinking at Alexander as though unable to comprehend the words.
Alexander abandoned Buttercup and rushed to the fallen creature.
“What are you on about, Doctor—?” Mr MacAllister’s words faltered as he approached. A wail escaped his lips as he fell to his knees beside the massive, mutated form of Hamish MacAllister.
"Hamish? Oh, God, no. My boy…" His voice cracked as he reached out to touch his son’s furred, misshapen face.
Hamish’s enormous chest rose and fell for the last time. With a final exhalation, he fell still.
This time, it was Mr MacAllister’s cry that rent the night.
19th August 1925, Braemoor, Scotland
He set the fort ablaze before departing, leaving only ashes and legend behind. In time, both would be twisted by Christian tongues into tales of saints and miracles. But in the borderlands, where empire met wilderness, they still told the true story of the soldier who fought a dragon with cold steel and colder fury.
—St George and the Dragon, by Dr Alexander Blake
Alexander sat staring at the last paragraph of his story when a polite knock sounded at his door.
With a grimace, he tossed the book into the fireplace and rose.
At the door stood a middle-aged man in a tailored three-piece suit, carrying a bowler hat under one arm. His neatly trimmed moustache twitched as he nodded at Alexander.
"Dr Blake. Might I have a moment of your time?"
Alexander regarded him suspiciously. “And who might you be?”
“George Hargrave. Sent from Whitehall.” Hargrave’s gaze shifted to the fireplace, alarm flickering across his face. “Is that—?”
“Just the efforts of a frustrated writer,” Alexander replied.
He reached for Dr Volkov’s briefcase and opened it, revealing photographs of Toby’s dissection and the surgical alterations made to Hamish. He handed it to Hargrave.
“I rather feel that humanity is worse than any dragon.”
Hargrave lifted the photos. Beneath them was a blood-stained notebook titled Zhivaya Snaga, written in Dr Volkov’s neat, precise script.
"Thank you, Dr Blake. I’m certain this will be invaluable."
Hargrave gave a sympathetic smile. "I understand you’ve had a rather rotten time during what was meant to be a sabbatical. But we need your help in Oxford. We’re setting up a new institute." He tapped the notebook with a finger. "You see, all this," he gestured vaguely, "cost money. A rather significant amount. And we believe we know the culprit."
"The Thule Society," Alexander said, glancing at the notebook. "I’ve already read it. The Germans funded Volkov’s research."
Hargrave’s expression darkened. "Then you’re aware of what’s at stake."
Alexander nodded and turned to the window, gazing out over the windswept moors. His hand rose to the glass, steady as stone.
"I’ll join your institute," he said, his voice firm. "If only to make sure something like this never happens again."
THE END
If you enjoyed this story, then consider reading the rest of my stories on Amazon, as Kindle Unlimited, eBook, Paperback or Hardback.
This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.
FREE on Kindle Unlimited
Available to order on AMAZON.
Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-3 are intended for mature audiences.
This story is amazing. I loved it!