The Moorland Monster by Gardner Francis Fox - Chapter 01

1977 Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Paranormal Studies

THE THING ON THE MOOR

A frightful monster was terrorizing Bodmin Moor and Scotland Yard hadn't come up with any answers. Cherry Delight, top agent for D.U.E. (Department of Unusual Events) was vacationing in Britain and they asked her to help. Cherry couldn't say no to her old pals at the Yard. Even so, it was no picnic chasing monsters on the dark, lonely moor. But Cherry accepted the assignment, as she does every assignment, like a real pro.

This is book #28 of 29 for Cherry Delight

CHAPTER ONE

It was Daphne Mason who saw the monster for the first time in more than three hundred years. It was crouched over and running, its long arms swinging close to the ground, and there was a mane of white hair running from its head down its spine.

It ran in a lurching, crablike motion, like something out of a terrifying nightmare, yet it covered ground at a surprising speed. Once it paused, lifting its head to the full moon, and gave voice to a deep, baying howl.

The girl stood frozen, anchored to the ground by a terror that made her shrink and wail softly, behind her lips. She was on her way from the Delacey manor house across this corner of the moor, on her way to visit the young man to whom she was to be married in the near future.

It was her intention to circle about as she normally did, past the thick growths of gorse and bracken, to swing about by way of the graveyard that had been begun centuries ago to house the bodies of the Delacey family, and to take the little path worn deep by the passage of many feet over the years.

The mists were very dense this night, they were like cotton puffs rolling in from the high cliffs of Cornwall, over the farm tracts and sweeping low above the moor. As she stared at that frightening vision, a bit of those mists swirled in and hid it.

Daphne Mason was not a timid girl, yet she was as if glued to the pathway. Her legs trembled, and she told herself that if that man-beast attacked her, she would just die. She would!

But after a few moments, she gathered up her strength, she told herself that her eyes must have been playing tricks. There was no such monster in these parts. Oh, yes—there was that legend, a tale told by men and women in the darkest hours of the night: that long ago there had been a lurching, misshapen thing that had attacked innocent men and women, that had torn arms from bodies and heads from torsos. . .

“It can’t be,” she breathed.

Tom would know. Tom was smart, he had a good business in town, he was going to make something of himself. He was going to marry her, too, in a few months. She would tell him what she had seen, she would be comforted in his strong arms.

She turned and ran, lifting her skirts to disclose her shapely legs, thinking only of the fact that not far away now was Tom’s cottage, the cottage that would be hers some day soon. She ran and ran, but she knew that she could never escape that misshapen thing if it ever saw her and decided to come after her.

Breathless now, she paused, breathing deeply, just listening. There was no sound at all, except for her intake of breath. It was as though she stood in a white world comprised only of those mists that hid her.

After a moment, she hurried on. She did not run as she had, yet she went faster than was her habit. The sooner she was at the cottage and in Tom’s strong arms, the better.

Overhead the clouds hid the moon, so that the land about her darkened, seemed filled with danger. Her heart thumped crazily, and it was only by an effort of her will that she could manage those weak legs, that wanted to cave in under her. She began to run again, grateful for the fact that the soft earth beneath her shoes absorbed all sound.

When she saw the light, she stopped.

“At last,” she breathed, and gave a tremulous laugh.

The cottage was there, as it always was, and Tom was in the cottage, big and strong. She laughed again and ran on, and now she knew she was safe enough. A cry would bring Tom out, if need be.

His door opened, he stood there watching her a moment, and then he came to meet her. He was a tall man, muscles rippled in his arms and shoulders, and the way the wind whipped his long black hair made her heart go out to him.

“Ey, pet? What’s amiss?” he called.

“Tom! Oh, Tom!”

Then she was in his arms, held tight to his broad chest, and she let the tears come out even as she shook against him. He held her patiently, soothing her with a deep-throated croon.

“Something’s frightened you,” he growled in his harsh voice, “and I’ll not stand for that.”

“It was a monster, Tom. I’ve never seen the like.”

His big hands on her shoulders pushed her back so he could look down into her eyes. Her fear was easy to read, the terror in her eyes. His fingers tightened where they held her.

“A monster, you say. Now what kind of monster would be running the moors in these days?”

“Tom, it was. I saw it plain as day. Stooped over and with long arms and white hair, Tom, all down the back.”

A faint smile moved his mouth. “Girl, you need a drink. Come along now, and no more nonsense.”

His arm circled her back, drew her with him toward the open door of the cottage. Light flooded out of that doorway, seeming to reach out to her to engulf her. That light was friendly, it told her that she was safe within the walls of that cottage, with her Tom to protect her.

As she stepped inside, Tom closed the door and leaned his back against it. She felt his worried eyes on her, even as she walked across the rug to stand before a wall mirror, to stare at her reflection as her hands lifted to set her long black hair to rights.

She was paler than her wont, she saw as she eyed her reflection. Her lips seemed redder, fuller, and her black eyes larger. There was remembered fear in those eyes, but it was slowly fading.

He came up to her, put his large hands on her shoulders, and his smiling eyes met hers in the glass. The touch of his body to her own was reassuring.

“There now. That’s my lass. The bogies have gone?”

“It wasn’t a bogie, Tom. I saw it.”

“To be sure you did. But we won’t be remembering it now, will we?”

She could feel him pushing against her.

“Tom,” she said, trying to move away.

“You’re pale as a fish’s belly, that you are. You need a little wine. It will bring a flush to your cheeks.”

She turned her head and smiled wanly at him. She had never allowed Tom Burrows too many liberties, she had always felt that the fewer liberties she allowed before he slipped a wedding band on her finger, the more anxious he would be after their marriage.

But tonight, she felt differently. Perhaps it was the sight of that thing she had glimpsed in the fog. Or perhaps it was simply the love she had for this man.

And so she turned in his arms, put her belly to his and her arms about his neck. She smiled faintly as she lifted her lips to his kiss. His mouth was hungry, it startled her a little by that hunger. Yet something within her rose to meet it.

His hands were on her back, but as though he sensed this new yielding in her, he ran them down to slide over her buttocks. They were full and soft, and she wore only a thin pair of panties beneath her dress. The touch of that flesh put a flame in his groin.

He crushed her closer and now, against her thigh, she felt the evidence of his need of her. To her surprise, she moved that thigh to caress that rigid manhood. A flush deepened in her cheeks, her breath caught in her throat.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispered.

“And why not, Daph? Aren’t we to be married in a short time?”

Those big hands slid about on her buttocks, she felt their touch on the backs of her upper thighs. Against her will, she allowed herself to go all soft against him, nudging him again and again against that bar of rigid flesh.

Oh, he wanted her so badly! Just as she wanted him. Yes, yes. She did. She had wanted him for a long time, it had been a torture for her to deny herself, as well as him. Yet now in this cottage which would be her home, with the crackle of the fire roaring in the fireplace, warming the room as it warmed her chilled flesh, there seemed to be no denial in her.

Opening her lips wide, she gave them to him. Like a wanton, almost. Well, she did not care! Where her Tom was concerned, she was a wanton. His tongue slid between her widespread lips, she nibbled at it with her teeth.

Tom Burrows was in a fever of desire. His Daphne had never been like this. Was it the effect of seeing—whatever it was she had glimpsed in the mists? He did not know, nor did he care.

He loved this girl. This night would be their wedding night, if she were agreeable. They would be married soon enough, now. The touch of her body, the softness of her mouth, was telling him clearly enough that she would not resist him, whatever it was he wanted to do to her.

“The wine,” he murmured, turning her and leading her across the room to where a little table stood, with a wine bottle on it, and several glasses.

Always he had had wine, when she was with him, but until now she had always refused it. Yet now, even as he drew away his arm so that he might pour the wine, she was ahead of him.

She filled the glasses, gave him one, lifted the other to her lips. They drank, staring deep into the other’s eyes, and what he read in hers put a warmth in his veins more easily than did the port.

“Sit with me,” he whispered, “and look at the fire.”

She went without a murmur, and when he was seated, she sank against him. His arm was about her, he held her softness to him, and his eyes touched the mounds of her breasts.

Daphne Mason had big breasts. It was what had first attracted him to her, he thought. They strained the thin stuff of her dress so that he could see her nipple dots. She saw where he was looking and her lips curved into a smile.

She moved so that a breast nudged his chest. He slid a hand up, ran gentle fingertips across that straining breast until he came to the nipple. He nudged it with a forefinger and Daphne moaned.

From the breast, his fingers slid to the buttons on the front of her dress. He undid one, and then another and yet another. The front of the dress gaped so that he could see the imitation lace of her slip. The breath catching in his throat, he widened the dress front until the upper swells of her breasts were visible.

Daphne made no sound, but lay against him with her eyes closed, her lips a little open. It was consent, as far as he was concerned. Ah, and what difference did it make if he played with those breasts? They would be married soon.

She wore no bra. It was a simple matter to run his fingertips across the smooth skin of her upper chest, to let those same fingertips slide downward so that they caressed the tops of her breasts.

She stirred, gasping slightly. “Tom, do you think you should?” she whispered.

“You’re my wife, or as good as,” he murmured back. “A couple of weeks, no longer. We could start the honeymoon right now.”

“You’re wicked, Tom Burrows.”

“I love you, Daph. Sure and you know that.”

“Mmmmmm.”

She sighed and nestled closer, and this was all the consent he needed. Instantly his hand was sliding into the slip, was stroking the soft flesh of her breast. His fingers moved on and a fingertip touched the nipple.

Her gasp of delight, and the low moan that followed it, was an encouragement he wanted. His entire hand was now inside the slip, she was hunching her shoulders to give that hand more play.

He held her breast, felt it full and heavy in his palm. Excitement was building a fury in him, he could feel his manhood standing rigid, aching almost in its need. Tom did not know whether the sight of that man-beast which Daphne claimed to have seen was responsible for this sudden yielding, but he was no man to look a gift horse in the mouth.

His left arm, about her shoulders, turned her so that she lay upon the divan, almost under him. His mouth went to her soft throat, to her cheek, to her waiting mouth. They kissed hungrily, and the breast in his hand seemed to swell, to harden.

“Daph,” he whispered.

“Mmmmm?”

“I love you, hon. I want you. Here. Now. There’s no sense to waiting. In less than a month we’ll be wed.”

There was a little silence. Then against his mouth he felt her lips move.

“Here, then? In front of the fire?”

“In the bedroom, that’ll be ours in such a little time.”

“Another glass of wine, Tom.”

He brought it to her, and as he stood waiting for her to take it, he saw that she was reaching down to lift her skirt. Her stockinged legs showed shapely and long in the firelight. There was a faint smile on her lips as she hoisted the skirt higher.

“Do you think me a hussy, Tom? For showing off my legs like this?”

“Hussy be damned. You’re the woman I love.”

Almost slowly she began to undo her garters. He watched her fingers work, saw the white flesh of her thighs above the stocking vamps. Then she was rolling them down slowly, staring up at him, smiling that funny little smile.

Her legs were bare, they were all he could see.

“Silly,” she whispered. “Give me that glass before you spill it.”

He knelt beside the divan, letting her fingers lift the wineglass from his fingers. Her skirt was rucked up almost to her hips, he could see her thighs full and white, and just a glimpse of the white panties she was wearing.

She finished the wine and then she swung up her legs, opening them for a moment as her skirt slid back. Tom felt the passion build in him. Her legs were naked, he saw the whiteness of her panties and the smudge beneath them where her black pubic hair grew.

Then she was closing her legs, lifting a hand to him so he could lift her and swing her onto her feet. He caught her to him, kissed her throat, her mouth, her closed eyes. His hands were all over her, savoring the feel of her hips, her sides, her buttocks.

“The bed, Tom,” she breathed.

He laughed huskily, caught her and ran with her toward his bedroom. He let her go ahead, staring at the pale legs and the buttocks jiggling under her dress.

Then she was standing beside the bed, and her hands were inching up that dress, lifting it to her hips. The front of that dress gaped wide, he saw her slip and the breasts pressing into the cloth.

Up came the dress, baring her body except for the panties, and he cried out hoarsely. She was lovely, all white and with that disordered black hair falling to her shoulders. Those blue eyes challenged him, yet there was a faint shyness in them.

She had caught her slip with the dress and now her breasts came into view, large and hard, with upright red nipples. A moment those clothes were caught in her black hair, and then she was tossing them aside.

“You, now,” she whispered.

He stripped naked as she watched, her tongue moistening her lips, her eyes large. When he stood before her, she ran her eyes over his big body, so heavily muscled, and so—so manly. His erection was large, rigid.

For an instant, Daphne Mason knew fear. She was a virgin, she had never taken her clothes off like this before, never had she seen a naked man, nor had any wish to. Yet now, with this man she loved, all this was very natural.

She moved toward him and he stood tense, knowing that he must not frighten her. She ran her hot palms over his body, as though she were a blind person and must see by feel. Up this close, he could feel the animal heat of her body, and he caught a trace of the perfume she had put on this night.

“Touch me now,” she said softly.

He did as she had done, gently and without any wish to frighten her. Her breasts quivered to his caress, and when he put his fingers in her pubic hair and searched it, she moaned and closed her eyes.

Now he came closer, so that his body was touching hers. He felt her quiver, tremble as his flesh pressed her own, and she gave a little cry. Her arms came up about his neck, she urged herself even closer.

They kissed with open mouths, hungrily.

Gently his hands fondled her flesh, savoring its smoothness and rousing a fierce passion inside her. Tom had known she would be like this: eager and demanding, as fervid for kisses and caresses as himself. He half lifted her, carried her to the bed.

She turned then, crept onto the bed, lay back with her pale thighs spread wide. She did not hide herself from his eyes but lay there openly, desiring him to gaze on her, to want her.

Tom bent over her, kissing her breasts, even as he slid between her legs. He thrust, she gave a little cry.

They settled into a steady rhythm, then, as he poured his love into her flesh, trying to let her know that he loved her, that he wanted her for his woman. She responded, hips lifting, driving. She gave little broken cries, but they were cries of delight, not pain; of unsuspected joy.

For a long time they made love, and when they were done, she clung to him, keeping him on top of her. Her eyes were closed, tears of remembered happiness trembled on her eyelids.

“I never knew—it would be like that,” she whispered.

“It will always be that way between us.”

She opened her eyes, stared up into his. “Always, Tom? Will it really?”

“Every time,” he grinned, and kissed her swollen lips.

She turned her head, glanced at the clock. Instantly, she was struggling to rise. “I’ve got to be going,” she panted. “Look at the time! I ought to’ve been home by now. I’ll have to run.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No need for that. I’ll be all right.”

She slid from the bed, reaching for her garments. Tom Burrows lay and watched her, enjoying the sight of her smooth hips, the beauty of her legs, her body. The heaviness of her breasts as they dangled when she bent over began to put a fever in him again.

“Stay the night,” he said. “There’s no need for you to leave now. Everybody knows we’re going to be married. Besides, that thing you saw may still be out there.”

She paused in her dressing, pulling the dress down over herself. She made a pretty picture, with the panties on and the slip and dress partially covering her breasts as she tugged and pulled at the material.

“I can’t,” she murmured at last. “It wouldn’t be right.”

She hurried then, as though against temptation. The dress came down, she scampered into the living room where she sat before the fire and pulled on her stockings and shoes. Tom came with her, hastily donning a pair of shorts.

“You should stay,” he muttered. “I don’t like the idea of your going through those mists with that thing out there.” He paused, growled, “Wait. I’m coming with you.”

He ran for his clothes, tossed them on, then picked up an Enfield rifle. He checked its chamber, saw that it was loaded. His hand opened the door and he followed her out into the mists.

They walked swiftly, not speaking. The mists had grown thicker, or so it seemed to Daphne, but she had been over this path so many times, her feet knew it by heart. She did not know fear, not with Tom beside her, with that rifle ready in his big hands.

When they came in sight of the manor house, when they saw its chimney stacks rising upward and the faint glitter of its darkened windows, she leaned to kiss him.

“I’ll be fine now, love. You go back and get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

She turned and ran, lifting her skirts. Tom watched her, the rifle still ready in his hands. When the mists swallowed her up, he turned reluctantly and began his homeward walk.

He did not see her as she fled along the little pathway which led to the manor house, he did not see that which seemed to rise up from the mists and watch her. Nor did she notice that this silent thing came after her, loping along so as to overtake her before she reached the shelter of the house.

Heart thumping, Daphne ran. The back hall door would be unlocked, all she need do was open it and slide inside, and she would be safe. Her terrors of those earlier hours were almost forgotten. This close to the manor house, nothing could happen.

It seemed to rise upward from the ground, right before her. She caught sight of a hairy face, of back-drawn lips that showed large teeth like fangs.

Daphne screamed.

The man-beast lunged, panting harshly.

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