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Captain Mike Yates was the first to emerge from the vehicle. The man stood to his full height, fixed his tie, and placed his cap firmly on his head as the air of a cool English morning tickled his neck. He closed the car door behind him, only to hear the sound echo as another uniform disembarked and did the same.
The moustached figure of Brigadier Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart was commanding even with his lower half concealed from Yates’ view by the car. The Brigadier did not lean down, but addressed the open window with enough clarity for the driver behind it to hear, ‘Thank you, Corporal.’
‘Shall I keep the engine running, sir?’ he asked.
‘No, that won’t be necessary.’
Yates waited for an explanation that would never come. Instead, his superior simply tapped the roof of the car and watched as it departed before beckoning him to follow. They mounted the pavement and ascended a small set of stairs to the front door. The Brigadier pressed a button on the intercom and let the ensuing signal linger for several seconds before removing his finger.
After a pause, there was a click through the speaker as it crackled a question. ‘Who is it?’
‘UNIT,’ the Brigadier replied.
There was a second click from the speaker as the conversation ended, and a third and final click as the door unlocked. Yates watched the man in front of him press on with squared shoulders and a steady gait; despite there being no glaring discrepancy in the Brigadier’s consummate professionalism, Yates could not help but wonder if there was a personal investment in this case as he recalled their conversation earlier that morning.
‘Captain Yates,’ the Brigadier had said, ‘you’re to come with me.’
‘Yes, sir. But…’
‘But what?’
‘Well,’ Yates began, ‘forgive me for asking, sir, but, is this worth your time?’
‘Of course it is.’ The Brigadier was adamant that he oversee the matter himself. ‘It’s a matter of national security with potentially international consequences should it be mishandled.’
The answer was confident but did little to convince Yates. The exchange echoed in his mind as they ascended the stairs to the fourth floor and approached the flat. He stood back as the Brigadier ignored the knocker and the doorbell to instead rap his knuckles against the hardwood.
When the door opened, Yates reflexively straightened himself, but noticed that the Brigadier did not flinch. Captain Jimmy Turner was, like most of his peers, a diligent man and one of the more amiable types Yates had the fortune to know. But, the haggard visage that greeted them lacked the bright eyes and casual smile, instead bearing a seemingly unwavering expression of distress—the light in his eyes was dimmer, however, and his face was heavier than it used to be. Such expressions were common in his line of work – albeit limited to the briefer experiences in the field – but, with his casual clothes and unkempt hair, it was difficult for Yates to determine if this was even the same man.
‘Captain Turner,’ the Brigadier began, stifling the urge to demand a salute or remark on the absence of his uniform. ‘Is Miss Watkins present?’
‘Yes. Yes, sir, she is.’
‘May we come in?’ Yates asked. No sooner had the question passed his lips than the Brigadier was already three paces ahead. Yates mouthed an apology and hurried after him; Jimmy was too tired to protest and followed them both as they moved towards the closed door of the bedroom.
‘She’s just in there,’ he called out. ‘But, I should warn you, sir.’
‘Of what?’
‘She’s not herself.’
The Brigadier glanced at Yates, then at Jimmy, then back at the door. ‘And that, Captain Turner, is precisely why we’re here.’
Jimmy tried in vain to push past and enter first, but the Brigadier was already inside and striding towards the other end of the bedroom before he and Yates could cross the threshold. Nobody spoke; the Brigadier’s scrupulous eye bore through every surface and detail in the room, but avoided the bed and the woman atop it. Yates watched carefully as Jimmy’s hands struggled to settle, his fingers drumming irritably against the sides of his legs.
‘Miss Watkins,’ Yates said softly. ‘Are you—’
‘My… Dolly…’ she gasped out.
Jimmy knelt by the bed and took her hand in his, ‘I’m here, Isobel.’
The Brigadier scrutinised the corners of the room, the imperfections in the ceiling, and every possible detail around him before falling to the window. He examined the glass and the frame, noting that the latch remained firmly sealed and the curtains fully drawn back. ‘Has the window been open?’ he called out.
‘No,’ Jimmy answered, ‘not this early, at least.’
‘Meaning?’
‘We normally open it when it’s a bit warmer. Around eleven o’clock.’
The Brigadier hummed in thought. ‘But you open it every day?’
‘At least once, yes.’
He spun on his heels and looked at the couple. In the sunlight, the malaise of fatigue seemed thicker around Jimmy; his posture was fixed in a permanent slouch, his skin almost as pale as Isobel’s. The Brigadier studied the young woman closely but remained where he was. Then, after a moment, he looked to his companion.
Yates nodded. ‘When did this start?’ he asked Jimmy. ‘When did you first notice Isobel was ill?’
‘That’s the problem. I don’t think she is. Ill, I mean.’
‘I’m sorry, Jimmy,’ Yates scoffed, ‘but she’s whiter than a sheet. And, in my experience, you don’t just develop anaemia overnight.’
The young man gave no reply. A part of him knew that there was something more to his fiancée’s sudden sickness, but the shame he felt at his inability to comprehend it only made it harder to admit. He looked down at Isobel on the bed just as he had done several times over the past few days, each time wincing as she grew steadily weaker and the vibrancy of the young woman’s colourful face ebbed away. In her current condition, it became harder to look at the woman he loved—Jimmy hated himself for that.
‘So, when did it start?’ Yates asked again, more delicate than before.
Jimmy tried to clear his throat and addressed the Brigadier, ‘Permission to speak freely, sir?’
‘I believe we’re past that, James,’ he said with an almost paternal lilt in his voice. ‘But, yes. You may.’
With a deep sigh, Jimmy began to explain. Yates noticed how, with each new detail, the Brigadier’s face only hardened further; the man was adept at restraining himself, but Yates could see his jaw clench as his eyes grew slightly wider. Once Jimmy had provided a thorough recollection of the last seventy-two hours, Yates joined the Brigadier in the corner of the room. ‘Sir—’
‘What?’ he hissed.
Yates flinched. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but is something wrong?’
‘Wrong? Captain Yates, need I remind you that we are here to investigate Miss Watkins. Should I be in need of an examination, I’ll submit myself to medical. Now, do I make myself clear?’
‘Crystal,’ Yates replied with a nod.
‘Good.’ He sighed. ‘We’re going to need a fresh pair of eyes on this.’
‘Should I call for someone?’
The Brigadier scoffed, ‘This is beyond UNIT, Captain.’
‘Beyond UNIT?’
‘Look,’ he clarified in a low tone, ‘I’ve seen this before. Once. It was back when UNIT was getting off the ground; I was assigned to Eastern Europe, tasked with looking into rumours about people going missing and reports of something demonic.’ The Brigadier’s eyes looked back through the years as he continued, ‘I’d thought it was superstitious nonsense, local culture and folklore playing tricks on people.’
‘Wasn’t it?’
‘No. No, Captain, it wasn’t. I’d hoped it would be, but after that first night… There was a girl, a young woman – probably the same age as Miss Watkins – in the house across from where I was staying. I woke up to screaming, the entire village wailing.’
Yates’ face fell, ‘Who found her?’
‘Her mother.’ The Brigadier blinked slowly. ‘There wasn’t a drop of blood left in her, like she’d been drained of it—exactly like the rumours described.’
They both looked at the couple. Yates whispered, ‘And you think—’
‘I know, Captain. I know it.’
‘Then what do we do? If this is beyond us, who’s left?’
The Brigadier turned to the window and looked out at the world beyond. A thin layer of clouds curled around the sky like a winding path he found himself following as he searched the recesses of his memory for an answer. He saw a flicker of his earlier career in the military before the day everything changed; he was a Colonel when the incident in the London Underground happened, and it was on that day he learned the truth: his world was far bigger than he ever could have imagined. He remembered the old Professor, Jack Travers, telling him about a man he met many years ago, a learned man familiar with the paranormal and unexplained phenomena the Brigadier found himself encountering with increasing frequency in recent months.
He pursed his lips. ‘There is someone,’ he explained to Yates. ‘I’ve not met him, but, if the company he keeps is any indication, he’s our best chance.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘Not that I know of. Travers was rather cryptic, whether he meant to be or not,’ the Brigadier sighed. ‘Apparently, he’s a doctor.’
‘Come to me. Look into my eyes. You will obey me.’
The voice coiled and writhed through Isobel’s mind like a worm through dirt. Its dulcet tones lulled her deeper into sleep, each syllable fortifying the fantasy her idle mind conjured around her. She found herself standing alone on the British coastline, a short walk away from the village she and Jimmy had visited a few days ago—she remembered: this was the night it happened.
Even concealed behind the clouds, the full moon was blinding, its brilliant white beam cutting a path across the English Channel; Isobel gazed out at the water, her eyes following that path, and heard a voice calling to her. ‘Come to me,’ it said. ‘Come, my dear.’
Some strange influence – both foreign and familiar at the same time – compelled her to look closer still, to lose herself and focus only on the salt in the air and the sound of the gentle waves as they came and went from the shore. Isobel felt like she could walk upon the light of the moon, and the voice only encouraged her, ‘Come to me.’
But she did not move; Isobel struggled to parse through the hazy recollections from that night, but she was certain that, even with the voice’s sweet temptations, she did not move. The serenity of the night made the suggestion of looking away unconscionable; the fatigue in her body made the effort insurmountable; the sublimity of the ocean and the peace it carried upon its back was too beautiful to resist.
Isobel remained exactly where she was. Even as the water began to ripple, she did not move.
The disturbance spread out from the heart of the moonbeam, but the shape that emerged from the water was shrouded in an impenetrable darkness. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust and register the shape of a man.
Rivulets of water cascaded down the arms of his jacket; his sodden clothes clung to his frame, but it was impossible to discern any details about his appearance beyond the texture of his voice. He was neither short nor tall, neither lean nor fat, yet, somehow, he registered to Isobel as both youthful and impossibly old. He waded towards the shore with little effort until, eventually, his black boots touched dry land.
Still, his face was hidden. Still, Isobel could not describe him. But, in the back of her mind, in a dormant part of her soul, she felt as though she had known the man all her life, as though he were as much a part of her as she was. The night concealed his face, but a pair of piercing eyes fell upon Isobel. She could not move. She could not look away—that distant part of herself did not want to.
‘Look into my eyes,’ he said. ‘You will obey me.’
Isobel found herself speaking; the words came so naturally she began to doubt whether they were really hers, ‘I will.’
The dark face drew nearer. ‘My will is absolute.’
‘It is absolute.’
His looming frame eclipsed the moon, smothering what little light remained in the cloudy sky. ‘I am the Master,’ he declared, ‘and you will obey me.’
As the darkness encroached upon her, Isobel began to shudder. Her legs kicked and her arms thrashed in an impotent struggle, but she did not move. With mounting horror, she realised that her body had been fixed to the spot—she could not move.
Then, Isobel was in her bedroom. Her eyes were heavy and her throat was dry. She looked around, scowling at the darkness in the vain hope Jimmy would appear and only relenting as she remembered what had happened before she fell asleep.
Jimmy and the others had followed the instructions of the stranger, the man who called himself the Doctor; he had been ordered to leave her undisturbed for the night and was sleeping in the guest bedroom. Isobel looked at the wall, imagining the room on the other side and her fiancé sleeping in the bed there. It was a small comfort.
It did little to quell her irritation, however; an instinct gnawed at the back of her mind, a compulsion that pulled her onto her feet and guided her from the bed towards the curtains. A thought entered her mind: she needed to open the window.
The thought did not feel like her own.
All the same, still addled by sleep, her limbs carried her to the window. It took effort but, as her fingers closed around the fabric, she carefully pulled the curtains back to see outside.
Isobel almost screamed as she saw it, her ailing strength mustering only a subdued gasp at the sight before her. Standing just a few feet in front of her was a silhouette—the same silhouette from the ocean.
Only a single pane of glass separated him from her. But, even through the window, Isobel could hear his voice. ‘You will obey me,’ he said in the same authoritative tone.
She did not move as he fixed her with that same demonic glare. The impression of a mouth curled into a grin at her attempt to scream. In the presence of this nightmare, Isobel found her mind was worryingly silent; amidst the haze of the same strange influence from the nightmare, a lone thought carrying a simple fact broke through: the man was standing outside her window, but she lived on the fourth floor.
The dark face drew nearer. Bowing to his presence, the window began to crack, until, in a sudden burst of glass shards, it shattered.
The last sensation Isobel Watkins felt was the air of a cold English night as the final breath was torn from her body.