The Satyr's Head: Tales of Terror by Brian Lumley, Ramsey Campbell, David A. Riley

any possible ambush; but the red-head was crowding him, almost pushing him against the wall. Between the red-head and the wall there was no room to maneuver, no freedom to use his arms. To give himself time to plan, Driver stopped by a window.
    ‘Looks like the frame needs work,’ he remarked casually.
    ‘One o’ these days,’ murmured Kez. ‘Was just a’sayin’ there’s things need to be done.’
    ‘Saying?’
    ‘To th’dawg.’
    ‘Intelligent dog.’
    Driver tried to glance through the window, but the glass was so grimed that nothing but a blur could be seen beyond; a whitish blob that could have been a bed in the middle of the room.
    Kez noticed the glance. Nothing was happening as it should. It was almost as bad as the time when they had to chase the scout and cut his throat in the woods. He had screamed and struggled. If they weren’t careful, this one might scream and struggle too. This one had to be reassured about the things he had seen through the window. But when he spoke, Keziah’s voice was strained.
    ‘Guess that’s Betsey,’ he croaked. ‘You don’t have to worry none ’bout Betsey.’
    ‘Betsey?’
    The last pane of glass was broken. Kez had meant to fix it some time, but they never used the room, and Betsey wouldn’t mind. Driver peered through the hole.
    In contrast to the bright sunlight outside, the room was in shadow; but this made the bed in the middle of the room so much more conspicuous. The coverings had once been white, except where great, dark stains were splashed. A thick film of grey dust covered everything, so at first it was not easy to make out what lay on the bed. It had a human form—if human can be taken to mean a mere structure of bones covered like a drum with parchment skin. Judging by the flowing hair the thing on the bed had once been a girl: but should any girl be holding her head in her hands? —especially when that head rested on her navel.
    Slack-jawed, Driver turned from the window to find himself staring into the florid, shining face of Kez.
    ‘Said there’s things needin’ to be fixed,’ muttered Kez apologetically.
    Driver’s scream was like a trapped animal. Kez was taken aback by it, knowing that he hadn’t even touched the man. Driver turned and ran. He had reached the porch before Kez had gathered his wits sufficiently to act.
    Hearing the cry Adam leaped out from behind the shack. He did not wait for explanations, but seeing the stranger hurtling away, pounded after him. Kez followed.
    Driver could not piece together the situation. At this time he did not want to. His one concern was to get away from the shack and everyone and everything in it as soon as he could. He kicked the hoe left lying in front of the porch, and lost valuable seconds as he paused to grab it up. It was a poor weapon, but better than bare hands. Then he heard shouts behind him as he fled towards the car.
    His breath whistled painfully in his throat, his chest seemed clamped in a vice unable to admit more air; an ache spread from his calves to his ankles; his feet might have been encased in leaden boots, rising and falling as slowly as in a nightmare; and he knew that, even with the few yards advantage he had snatched, he could not reach the car. He turned at bay.
    A wild giant with a chest-length beard that flared red bore down on him. This monster, with massive shoulders and a waist like an oak, brandished an axe that might have felled a sapling at a blow. The creature screeched furiously, and with the lunacy that survives in the numb corner of a terrified mind, Driver thought of a baby whose bottle has been taken away.
    For a second Driver stared at death as he had done year’s before. Then, with a click, another man seemed to take over; a man used to finding a bayonet in his hands. Automatically he thrust the hoe at the exposed navel of the giant, who being no more than a man, bent double, winded. Adam fell forward, and the axe flew from his hands, skimming over the