Edward had just returned to his village after a three-week journey hauling goods across the country in his lorry. As was his habit, he stopped first at the pub to share a word with the locals and catch up on the news before heading home to his wife. He parked the lorry by the roadside and, bundled in his wool coat against the lashing rain, pushed open the heavy oak door.
“Evening, lads!” he called as he stepped inside.
Being a Friday night in late October, hed expected the place to be lively with men playing cards and jesting with crude remarks about his mother or his courage. But that evening, only two souls acknowledged him with a nod: the publican and an old man warming his hands by the hearth. Bewildered, Edward leaned against the bar and asked, “Whats the matter, Thomas? Where is everyone? Has someone passed?”
The barman poured him a pint of ale before answering grimly, “Worse than that, Edward, far worse… young women have gone missing.”
“Good Lord! Village lasses?” Edward gasped, scarcely believing his ears.
“Aye, three so far,” Thomas replied, holding up a finger. “First was Margaret, the apothecarys daughter, then Beatrice, the mayors niece”he raised a second finger”and lastly… Eleanor, the schoolmistress,” he finished, lifting a third.
“Bloody hell,” Edward muttered. “Did they vanish all at once?”
“No, not together,” the barman said after a pause. “Since youve been gone, ones disappeared each Friday… Folk reckon theres a madman about. All of them were between twenty and thirty, and…” He lowered his voice. “They were with child. Can you fathom it? A right monster…” He shook his head in despair. “Tonight being Friday again, some have formed armed patrols to hunt the devil down… others bar their doors, holding their wives and daughters close.”
Those final words sent Edward sprinting home, the unease that had gnawed at him during his journey now twisting into dread. He cut through the darkened moor, his heart pounding, knowing this path was quicker than taking the lorry. If his fears were true, every second mattered. As he ran, his mind conjured horrorsvisions of his young wife, bloodied and broken, seized his thoughts. Each nightmare was worse than the last, and despair clawed at his chest.
He ran until his legs ached and his lungs burned. At last, his cottage came into viewutterly dark. Stumbling forward, he nearly cried out when he spotted a shadowy figure slipping away from his home. Without hesitation, Edward lunged, grappling with the shape in the blackness until he dragged it inside. The moments stretched unbearably until he managed to light the lamp.
In the dim glow of the flickering bulb, relief washed over himthe figure was his wife, Charlotte.
He released her, and in an instant, she threw her arms around him, pressing a desperate kiss to his lips, trembling with joy and relief.
Yet Edwards relief soon soured to reproach. “Charlotte, you mustnt be so reckless. Had I not come tonight, you mightve been next. Do you know the terror Ive endured? What possessed you to go out today? Thomas told me half the village is hunting a killer…” He paused, then added darkly, “Besides, dont you think three women wouldve been enough meat to last the winter?”
His words hung like a curse in the air. Charlottes smile vanished, her lips quivering. She stepped back, hands clutching her stomach.
“What did you just say?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Edward blinked, realizing his slip too late. “II meant nothing. Its just the fear talking,” he muttered, but her eyes had already darkened with suspicionand something worse: understanding.
Slowly, she rolled up her sleeve. Faint scratches marked her forearm, half-healed, as if from thorns… or from desperate fingers.
“Edward… where were you every Friday night when you were ‘on the road’?”
The lorry driver froze. His mind raced back to the pub, to Thomas counting on his fingersone, two, three… pregnant women. And he remembered. His routes. His stops. The lies hed told himself about “passing comforts” and “momentary weakness.”
His heart sank as Charlottes eyes wellednot with fear, but with terrible certainty.
Outside, the rain hammered on, drowning the silence within. The barmans words echoed like a blade: “Something worse, Edward, something worse…”
And in that moment, Charlotte understood: the missing women had never been taken by a stranger. The monster had walked through her door, weary from the road, still reeking of diesel and deceit.
Softly, almost to herself, but just loud enough for him to hear, she whispered:
“And tonight would have been the fourth Friday.”
