Angela Pickering

The beast inside me stirred and snuffled at the spring breeze caressing my face. The scent of snowdrops was in the air, snowdrops and crocuses I reckoned, soon to be followed by daffodils, the dancing, golden, relative of the onion. This thought gave rise to hunger and the knowledge that the creature was about to wake up.

I knew when it had woken; apart from the hunger, I could feel its tendrils of control questing through my body and brain. The long peaceful winter was finally over and I could say goodbye to the minor hope in my heart that this time, at last, it had left me permanently. As it stretched inside me, I tried to think of a way that I could resist it. I had had the whole winter while it slept to formulate a plan, but it was only now that I remembered the full horror of its possession of my being. Perhaps that was part of its power, the lulling of the senses, the forgetting in-between times.

It growled, a fearsome noise that always left me with a sore throat. Human throats weren't really designed for growling, our teeth not designed for killing, nor our hands for ripping flesh. The beast had no concern for these truths, it was awake within me and it was hungry. My body, such as it was, was its hunting tool.

The soft air of the spring afternoon gave a strange unreality to the horror that was taking me over, the gentle warmth of the breeze in direct opposition to the passionate heat that was growing inside me. I couldn't wait for nightfall when I could prowl the streets in search of prey. 

This has been the pattern of my life for five years now. I am not a werewolf or a vampire, everyone knows that such things can't possibly exist. I don't know what I am, but I do know that I am lethal. The thing that takes over my body every spring is not human, probably not even of this Earth. It sleeps through the winter like a hedgehog or a bear, and when the warm weather comes, it hunts. I can't fight it; I can only ride along with it, a passenger in my own body. I watch, powerless, as it tries to slake its thirst for blood: its hunger for flesh. And each winter it sleeps, while I doze and dream away the cold season, forgetful of the nightmare that my life has become. And every spring, I remember.

No one was surprised when I didn't eat any supper; they were used to my annual loss of appetite by now. They called it 'Spring Fever' although I am a little old for the phrase to take on its traditional meaning. I don't think any of them realised that my appetite hadn't gone, simply altered. 

At last the daylight faded and the town was blanketed in inky darkness. I slipped out of my room and through the silent house. The front door was no obstacle to my progress, of course it wasn't, I had a key. 

The beast was impatient. I could feel its lust for blood careering through my system. It was cautious though; I had always been impressed by its instinct for its own survival. I could move so stealthily while it was in control, no one had ever heard me coming until it was too late. At least, I assumed this to be the case. I couldn't actually remember any details of the previous hunts, not the gory bits anyway. It was nature's way of protecting my sanity, I suppose.

The hunts must have been successful though, otherwise the beast couldn't have slept though the winter. If it was really anything like a hedgehog or a bear, in order to hibernate it had to have laid in supplies of fat.  This year would be no different, although I was hoping that maybe I would be able to limit its destruction. Maybe only a couple of outings in the dark, only a couple of kills would satisfy it. I'm not a bad person, you see, merely a victim.

The sound of voices made me scurry into a puddle of darkness between two cars. It was late; people were coming out of the pub on the corner of our street. They were relaxed, content with their evening's entertainment. I remember how it used to be, before my uninvited hitchhiker had arrived. I had always enjoyed a drink or two myself. The beast doesn't like alcohol, so I don't drink nowadays. Only a small sherry at Christmas while it sleeps and doesn't notice what I do.

A young couple meandered past me, arms linked. They were oblivious to everything but one another. The beast sniffed again, imbibing the scent of youth and sexual attraction. This couple was perfect for me. If I took them both, then perhaps it would be enough to send the beast back to sleep a little early this year.

I followed them along the street, slipping from shadow to shadow, my feet noiseless on the cold concrete pavement. I somehow resisted the urge to go on to all fours like the beast wanted. At least semi-upright, I wasn't quite so alarming if they did spot me. Even this small rebellion would have to be paid for later. But not by me, oh no, not by me.

The couple finally paused in the deserted bus shelter, for a kiss and a cuddle. This was my moment, my chance, while they were distracted. I crept forward, picturing a lion stalking its prey. That's what I was really, a predator about to pounce. And pounce I did. 

First the male who, surprised by my sudden appearance, staggered under the torrent of blows from my clawed hands. While he stumbled to the ground, I went for the female. Here, the element of surprise was lost, but she was no match for my alien strength. 

She screamed and raised her arms in an attempt to protect her face. I howled and went for her throat, saliva dripping from my jaws in anticipation. Before I reached my target, steel bands seemed to wrap themselves around my chest.

'God, what is this?' I heard the male's voice in my ear. 'Call the police, Sophie, quick.'

I struggled, using all of the borrowed strength that I had. But it was no use. The male was simply too strong for me. It seemed to me that he had been holding me forever, the scent of his blood and his nearness driving the beast in me crazy, but there was absolutely nothing I could do. 

When the police eventually took me home, Matron was apologetic. 'Oh, Ben, you naughty man. What have you done this time?' she said to me, and then turned to the policeman. 'It's not his fault officer,' she said. 'It's what we call Ben's "spring fever". 'He always goes a little wild at this time of year. He means no harm, you know.' Stupid woman, I thought, what do you know about it?

The police gave me into what they called "Matron's custody". She was given a serious telling off about letting me go out on my own though, and she had to promise that it wouldn't happen again. Then she gave me a serious telling off, but I could tell that her heart wasn't in it.

I was very tired by the time the carer gave me my pills and put me back to bed. Such adventures when you are ninety years old, and riddled with arthritis, are quite a strain. Why the beast chose me is a mystery but, hey, it might be monstrous and alien, it might be ravenous and bloodthirsty; but no one said it was very bright.