Suspended In Dusk by Ramsey Campbell, John Everson, Wendy Hammer Page B

hung from the figure’s grasp.
    “You there!”
    The creature, for it was no human, ignored me, and folded the white mist into a neat square, which it tucked into the folds of its cloak. The figure bent down and caught hold of Ellen by the shoulders. It dragged her out of the alley, and up the quiet street. Shock gripped me, yet somehow it did not surprise me in the least. I did not question this peculiarity, consumed as I was by my desire to help Ellen. I struggled to move in order to follow their progress, but my feet refused to obey my commands. I pummelled my thigh with my fists, helpless and frustrated. My mouth kept moving, my vocal chords straining to cry out, but no noise would come forth. It was as though I were trapped in that terrible sort of dream in which you can see the world moving around you, but you are powerless to intervene.
    As the apparition reached the approach to Blackfriars Bridge, my feet broke their bonds. The sudden movement impelled me to stumble forward, hurrying along the pavement towards the unholy pair. Revulsion at the sight raged inside me and I no longer thought of the story that I had originally sought to tell. I sought only to better understand what was happening. I ran towards the bridge, where the monster reached the mid-point. It hoisted Ellen up onto the stone balustrade, and her body tumbled into the freezing waters below. I cried out in despair.
    The hooded figure wiped its hand on its cloak, and free of its burden, it drifted towards me. I stared, straining my ears for the sound of footsteps, but there were none. I shouted something nonsensical, I know not what, and while I saw no eyes, I was aware of the weight of its gaze. The malice that this figure bore for me was as apparent as the sensation of winter in December. This was no normal man, ruling and punishing the unfortunates of London. This was something else entirely. The apparition, belonging to some awful class of spectre previously unknown to me, continued down the bridge and turned onto Southwark Street.
    I stood in the street, my feet pointed towards the bridge but my body twisted in the direction of the creature’s exit. I wanted to recover Ellen’s body, but I would surely perish in the cold waters, and that would simply add an extra tally to the creature’s card. I had a notion to call for help, but only a priest could help poor Ellen now, and there was naught the constabulary, such as they were, could do. Part of me wanted to turn tail and flee, to run back to my rooms and avoid late night excursions into London’s bizarre streets. Yet despite the animosity that the figure clearly displayed towards me, another impulse wanted to follow it, to make sense of what I’d seen, and to quiet the rising voice inside me that sought answers. As I struggled to decide upon a course of action, another voice added its tones to the clamour, raging about what a fine story this would make.
    I could not turn myself away once my feet began walking. I kept the infernal creature in sight, and hurried along Southwark Street. My quarry sped on, although I did not think it knew I was following—unless it knew that I was on its trail, and did not care. Indeed, having seen its manner of murder, I scarcely believed that it would consider me to be a threat of any kind. I wondered if I had perhaps seen a wraith of some kind. Indeed, I remembered the novel of Dr Polidori, The Vampyre , and speculated that perhaps this was the manner of their feeding.
    The creature darted down another street, and I paid no attention to where I was. I kept thinking of Ellen, the beautiful, tragic blonde dumped into the Thames with cruel abandon. Even if she became nothing else, she could have been my muse. Now she would be another sentence or two in the newspaper, a mere footnote to the country’s mistreatment of unfortunate women.
    I followed the figure along Redcross Street. It reached a pair of iron gates, and drifted between the bars. I approached the