A Werewolf of the Moor

By M.M. Gaidar

It is Cassandra Ayers's second supernatural case in the series. While hunting down the responsible for the massacre on the moor, she develops a closer bond with Valentine Duvar, her new partner in the investigation, and learns something concerning about her father. Meanwhile, the ghosts of her past are still haunting her, making her question what is real.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.M. Gaidar
• Release date: Oct 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005846398

M.M. Gaidar

Hello, my dear readers. I am a Canadian-Ukrainian writer. Mostly, I gravitate towards the genres of Gothic mystery, epic and adventure fantasy. I'm a winner of the short horror story competition Twisted 50 that was held in London, in 2017. Another short story of mine was published in the compilation "The Christmas Whisper" in Kyiv. I write in English and Ukrainian. Currently, my home is in Canada where I'm working in the film industry as a screenplay writer and Script Supervisor. I am a coffee lover and cat admirer. I love reading and watching movies. To my mind, the best way to broaden one's life experience and get inspired is travelling. The idea of starting the series of novels about the private detective, Cassandra Ayers, was conjured in my mind while visiting Highgate Cemetery in London. Read as much as you can! This is the only way to live many lives. Вітаю вас на моїй сторінці. Я канадсько-українська письменниця. Пишу переважно у жанрі готичного детективу, а також епічного та пригодницького фентезі. Переможниця конкурсу коротких оповідань жахів Twisted 50, що проводився у Лондоні у 2017. Маю публікацію короткого оповідання у збірці "Різдвяний шепіт". Пишу українською та англійською мовами. Наразі проживаю у Канаді і працюю у кіно, пишу сценарії та виконую роль помічника режисера на знімальному майданчику. Люблю каву і котиків. Обожнюю літературу та кіно. Вважаю, що найкращий спосіб, у який можна набувати нового життєвого досвіду та натхнення - це подорож. Ідея розпочати детективну серію про Кассандру Ейрс, наприклад, мені спала на думку, коли я була на екскурсії на Хайгейтському цвинтарі у Лондоні. Читайте! Лише так можна прожити кілька життів.

Book preview

M.M.Gaidar

A Werewolf of the Moor

Book II

A Werewolf of the Moor

© 2022 by M.M. Gaidar. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

Editor – Stacey Jansen

Cover artist – FrinaArt

ISBN: 97810058463

A carriage with a broken wheel is found on the moor; the driver and all five passengers massacred and claw marks left on their bodies. A werewolf is told to be roaming the moor. The police invite Cassandra Ayers to consult them on this supernatural case. But the investigation becomes much more intricate and frightening than hunting the beast from the local folklore.

A Werewolf of the Moor is Cassandra Ayers's second supernatural case in the series. While hunting down the responsible for the massacre on the moor, she develops a closer bond with Valentine Duvar, her new partner in the investigation, and learns something concerning about her father. Meanwhile, the ghosts of her past are still haunting her, making her question what is real.

Also in the series

Cassandra’s Shadows

The Highgate Ghost

A Werewolf of the Moor

The Voices Behind the Walls

The Lost Caravan

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1. The Night of the Werewolf

Chapter 2. The Divination of Anna Eva Fay

Chapter 3. The Dead of the Saddleworth Moor

Chapter 4. The Fall of the Beast

Chapter 5. Dog and Chameleon

Chapter 6. The Grief in Eden

Chapter 7. Biased Coppers and Shady Teachers

Chapter 8. A Chandelier and Chinese Lanterns

Chapter 9. The Worst of Monsters

Chapter 10. Plays, Games and Strategies

Chapter 11. The Three Urchins

Chapter 12. The Son of Samburu

Chapter 13. The Cornered Beast

Chapter 14. A Thousand Years of Remorse

Chapter 15. The Ghosts That May Break You

About the author

Follow the author

To those who have seen darkness,

who fought it and won

CHAPTER 1

The Night of the Werewolf

Little silver moons floated on the surface of the mud-cupped puddles on the side of the road. Until they were shattered by the two wheels of a passing carriage. The vehicle rumbled into the darkness.

As soon as the night devoured the two lanterns swaying on the carriage, serenity was restored to the Saddleworth Moor. The little silver moons settled back in the puddles, and the moorland inhabitants returned to their usual business. An owl swooped down over the cottongrass that swayed and hissed in the wind, and plucked an unsuspecting mouse out of the blades.

A tiny squeak. The rustle of wings. Silence. Except for this little tragedy, the night seemed uneventful. But there was another predator on the hunt that night. He wasn’t after a mouse or hare. He stepped on the road and followed the carriage.

Despite all the mud and a wobbly wheel, the vehicle was doing a good nine miles per hour. One of the passengers, Miss Mann, was catching the late train from Greenfield, so Mr Burns, the driver, was doing everything in his power to get to the station on time. He relied on a flask of watered-down coffee and his two horses, Cleitus and Darius, named after the heroes of yore. He had learnt about them while doing time in prison. His fellow inmate had been well read, and he had even picked up some reading skills from him.

Mr Burns thought how lucky he was to be employed, considering his standing. But Mr Hampshire, the landlord of the Isle of Skye Hotel and his employer, was the kindest of men, and had given the ex-convict a second chance. Mr Burns wasn’t going to fritter it away, no sir. He was going to deliver the guests of the hotel on time, always be courteous, clean the horses and keep his life straight. Things were finally looking up for him when a loud snap and powerful jolt sent the carriage sideways into the dirt.

Nearly thrown out of the driver’s box, Mr Burns scrambled out and went to the back of the carriage to have a look at the damage: one of the rear wheels had flown off its axle.

‘What the hell is this?’ He squinted at the end of the axle, splintered in a manner that raised some suspicion. ‘Gentlemen, I’m afraid, I’ll have to ask you…’ He peeked inside the carriage and beheld an odd sight — all five passengers were lying toppled on each other in the corner, as if asleep. The mighty jolt should have awakened them. ‘What’s going on here?’

As he stepped back from the carriage, Mr Burns caught a moonlit silhouette of a man at the curve of the road.

‘Hey! We need help here!’ he yelled.

Something about the stranger wasn’t right. The proportions of his body seemed off. Could it be just an optical illusion enhanced by the moonlight?

Weird rumours about the moor circulated among the locals. Mr Burns never gave an ear to them, just never cared about the old wives’ tales, but the palpable threat he felt on his skin made him reach out to the rifle he carried in the driver’s box. The figure down the road dashed in his direction.

The driver’s fingers had become rigid from the time spent steering the horses in the cold, but now they were mostly seized with terror. He pulled the bolt back, loaded a cartridge into the chamber, pushed the bolt forward. It took ages, like in a nightmare. One wouldn’t believe the agility of the stranger; he was approaching at an untold speed. Mr Burns fired the rifle, but the man dodged. The second bullet reached the target, but only stopped him for a moment. He raised his hand, five long claws catching the moonlight before striking the driver on his neck. The blow sent him to the ground.

Mr Burns rolled over into the ominously hissing cottongrass. Wet warmth was quickly escaping his body through the cuts on his neck. As his life was leaving him, he thought, how terrible that Miss Mann is going to miss her train.

The predator approached the carriage and looked at the passengers through the open door. All of them were soundly asleep. Only John, a boy of fourteen years, had his eyes open, although he couldn’t move any part of his body, as if he were a puppet. He was lying in the corner, smothered by the heavy bodies of his fellow travellers, and watching helplessly as the long claws of the hideous stranger started carving up their flesh.

CHAPTER 2

The Divination of Anna Eva Fay

That same night, another kind of devilry was taking place at Drury Lane in London. One gentleman was decapitated, a woman sawn to pieces and a lamp sent through time and space to its alleged original owner in India. Such spectacles were due to the arrival of the magnificent Harry Kellar, an American illusionist who had travelled across the Atlantic for the sole purpose of stupefying the audience of Great Britain, an audience which, despite being one of the most scientifically and economically developed nations, still craved being duped by cheap tricks.

The aforementioned American, dressed in a tuxedo and dickey, had already performed his magic in front of the royal family and been approved with a reserved nod from the Queen, who never became too amused with anything since the death of her husband. Having received the favour of the Queen, the illusionist could now perform for the thrills of the common folk. The tacky banner over the front of the theatre read Kellar The Great Magician. There was an additional treat: Special Guest Miss Anna Eva Fay.

‘That would surely solve the problem of my frequent headaches.’ Cassandra stopped in front of the poster where Harry Kellar was committing quite a successful self-decapitation; his body remained seated in a chair, while his head hovered over it, with an expression of astonishing tranquility for someone who had just separated from his body. ‘So this is your idea of a fun evening?’

‘Finally. I was afraid the grumpy Miss Ayers would fail to show up.’ Valentine tugged at Cassandra’s arm, leading her to the entrance and navigating through the crowd of excited Londoners.

‘I’m quitting smoking, so don’t mind me. But seriously. You know that I earn my living by exposing tricks like this.’

‘Harry Keller is merely an illusionist, a performer. No one is going to shear money off poor widows here tonight. Just relax and enjoy the show.’

There were bushels of grotesque things to enjoy in the theatre that night. Big red devil’s heads made of papier-mâché made their eyes bulge at the mildly scandalised public. Fake flames of fire made of fabric danced in the streams of air. Pieces of broken glass shimmered mysteriously on the walls of a fortuneteller’s booth. Actors dressed in the costumes of Count Dracula, Frankenstein’s monster and other dreadful characters turned the vestibule of Drury Lane into a hellish orgy from a Bosch painting. The atmosphere was particularly appreciated in anticipation of Halloween.

Cassandra and Valentine proceeded to the cloakroom, where they exchanged their coats for tickets with numbers. As Valentine helped his partner take off her coat, he noticed something on her hand.

‘Are you wearing your mother’s ring?’ he asked, taken aback.

Cassandra looked at her finger wearing the ring with three rubies and specks of tiny diamonds. She wasn’t supposed to have it; in fact, she only got hold of it as a result of the conspiracy of two criminals she helped to apprehend after investigating the desecration of the graves at Highgate Cemetery a little more than a week ago. The conspirators had gone to the trouble of retrieving the ring from her mother’s grave. The rest is history.

‘What’s wrong with me wearing it?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. It was buried in a grave for a decade, worn by a corpse all these years. It’s just… grim.’

‘Don’t be silly. The dead are merely flesh and bone kept by their loved ones in boxes, until they dry up and there’s nothing’s left of them. Not even a memory.’

‘Charming. Do me a favour. Don’t write my eulogy when I pass away,’ Valentine chortled as they headed for the next hall. ‘However, I must admit I envy your pragmatism.’

‘Pragmatism is the only remedy for the turmoil I face in my life.’

‘Well, at least there is a remedy.’

A crowd had gathered around the automaton Psycho, a little Indian man who sat cross-legged and played a card game of Whist. A particularly inquisitive male spectator was examining the Indian man and the wooden chest he was seated upon, determined to find out what the trick was.

‘The unknown makes us lose sleep,’ Cassandra commented to Valentine, ‘but the moment the mystery is solved, we move on like it mattered not.’

‘Speaking of mysteries.’ Valentine wasn’t quite done with the topic they had begun in the cloakroom. ‘The photo I took of you in the studio.’

‘What about it?’

‘The ghostly hand on your shoulder.’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you come up with any explanation?’

‘What do you want to hear from me, Valentine? That now I believe in ghosts? Just because you caught it on camera?’

‘But what other explanation is there?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sure there is a scientific reason for it.’

‘Like what?’

‘It could be anything. Equipment malfunction. Maybe even our thoughts reflected in the photograph. Science doesn’t yet know about that.’

‘Come on. Thought reflected in the photograph? The process of making a photograph is just a few chemical reactions, nothing science isn’t capable of explaining. Why are you being like this? Why don’t you admit that it’s your mother’s ghost I caught on camera?’

‘Because I don’t want to admit it,’ Cassandra snapped. ‘I’ve spent years proving the opposite, debunking the paranormal, exposing the frauds. I’m not changing my worldview because of one stupid photograph. There. You wanted to hear me say it?’

They found themselves arguing in the middle of the festive crowd that moved from automaton Psycho to the Most Marvelous Sword Swallowing Act on Earth, paralleled only by the Shooting of a Gun Barrel Down the Throat and Swallowing of an Electric Light, all performed by presenters dressed in Middle-Eastern attire.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you. Or compromise your worldview,’ Valentine said, his face changing to a more cheerful one, as though he had put on a mask. He motioned in the direction of the next room. ‘Shall we?’

A moment passed before Cassandra put on the same mask. After all, the idea was to have fun.

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Mr Duvar. You’ll never be able to compromise my worldview.’

‘Don’t dare me,’ he grinned.

They walked towards the next room, whose banner invited visitors to Find Your Funny Side. It was a room full of funfair mirrors.

‘This must be entertaining.’ Valentine’s eyes lit with excitement.

The moment he stepped in front of the first mirror, his legs became long and skinny like stilts. His noodle-like arm reached out to Cassandra and put her in front of the next mirror. It enhanced her bosom to the size of a barge.

‘Well, if this doesn’t secure me a good marriage, I don’t know what will.’ She started laughing. The distorted Cheshire smile on Valentine’s face turned her laughter into a silent fit.

‘They’ve always praised my charming smile.’

He grabbed her hand again and they moved to the next mirror. This one made their heads look like turnips with little beady eyes set close to each other. It was after a while that Cassandra noticed Valentine still holding her hand. The realisation turned out unexpectedly electrifying. She had not held hands with anyone for what seemed like an eternity. The last time it happened, she found herself in a relationship that almost cost her everything, her good name and her health. It took her months to recover.

Whatever this handholding meant, she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. Luckily, the moment she stealthily slipped her hand out of Valentine’s grip, the sound of a gong summoned everyone to the beginning of the show. They joined the crowed that headed for the theatre hall.

The inviting red velvet of Drury Lane welcomed the dozens of Londoners and guests of the capital who had come for a taste of amusement. The shrine of Shakespeare, Marlowe and other immortal fathers of the theatre was about to turn into the palace of the supernatural and macabre.

Cassandra and Valentine found their seats in the pit, flanked by a couple from Wales on one side, judging from their dialect, and by two elderly and eccentric-looking gentlemen on the other side, each exchanging phrases in French.

‘We’re in for a great spectacle,’ Valentine said, making himself comfortable in the chair.

‘Can’t wait.’ Cassandra’s smile was exuding sarcasm visible even in the dimly lit auditorium. Her thoughts, however, revolved only around an odd burning sensation in the place where Valentine’s shoulder was touching hers. Luckily, the lights went out and no one was able to see her being flustered.

Harry Kellar appeared on the stage, dressed in a black tuxedo and black shoes, so that his head, white shirt