MicroHorror

Mr. Stark, not his real name, rented the house because of the letter, not because he had any intention of living there. It was pleasant enough, a Tudor-style detached with quite a lovely garden. No doubt the neighbors, in their equally expensive houses, were nice too.

He lowered his holdall and shut the door. It was a little after ten in the morning and he planned to be out by dark. He smiled, imagining the twitching curtains as people waited to inspect the contents of the removal vans that would never arrive.

The crabby handwriting had hinted, in annoyingly elliptic language, that what he sought was hidden here.

He started at the top of the house, checking the wardrobes and the airing cupboard, and removing the side panel from both baths. Then he opened the kitchen units, looked in the unused coal bunker and the cupboard under the stairs. Next he used a sledgehammer to sound out the walls. Soon a faint cloud of plaster hung in the air and there were holes and broken laths everywhere.

Outside, dark thunder clouds had blotted out the sun while heavy rain was taking the rest of the light. He’d not bothered with the utilities; he always carried a torch.

A little despondent, he sat at the foot of the stairs and broke out a lunch of poached salmon and a half bottle of wine from an estate long given over to weeds. In the early days he’d been very successful, especially around the Weybridge stockbroker belt, but now he was having to travel further and further to follow his hobby. Money was no object, but he hated wasting time.

The carpet masked the approaching footsteps, but Mr. Stark felt a deep chill as a pale white hand clamped onto his shoulder.

“I see the letter did the trick; you forgot the loft, though. Led us a merry dance, but now the game’s over.” The words were dry as parchment.

Stark looked up into the descending fang-filled mouth. He pulled it to his own, for a garlic-flavored kiss.