"Little Sam? Are you okay over there, buddy?", he asks while looking at his mirror neckline.

Sam's reply comes through the tiny speaker from inside the mirror neckle; "This place scares me." He says it with a trembling tone.

Riven smiles as he looks at the spirit in his mirror neckline. His friend has never been afraid before! But then again, this whole adventure was new for both of them...

He puts the mirror back under his shirt collar so no one can see it.

***

It was late evening when John arrived in Merridale after driving all day across the Canadian Rockies, and he could see why most travelers would not make a first impression of this remote little frontier town as they passed through its gates. It lay still beneath gray clouds heavy with snowflakes drifting silently above darkened buildings hunched close beside one another under slate roofs, dripping wetness onto empty sidewalks.

It looked like a ghost town; there were few lights visible anywhere, only occasional lanterns bobbing up here or there among the scattered cottages and farmhouses that made up what appeared to be a collection of huddled sheep pens against the darkening mountains. There seemed to be nothing alive but darkness and the shadows moved swiftly about him as he drove slowly past the silent streets toward his hotel. He saw no signs of life except for two figures moving rapidly behind a screen door near the outskirts, where some sort of animal noise reached him faintly through the cold air. The whole place gave him a feeling of desolation and gloom, so different from any city street he had ever seen before. His thoughts must have shown on his face, however, because the man who opened the front door of his hotel turned around quickly with a suspicious glance in his direction and then led the way inside without waiting for an invitation.

"You're Mr. Riven?" he asked curtly as soon as they entered together.

"Yes," said John. "I'm sorry I didn't get your name."

The fellow glanced around nervously again, apparently expecting someone else to appear. "My name's MacDougall," he answered shortly. "This is my housekeeper, Mrs. Maitland. You'll find everything you want right over there," she said, pointing toward a dim corner of the room. "If anything happens, call me anytime." With these words spoken, he slipped quietly outside. He turned abruptly and left them alone once more.

John stood, looking thoughtfully at the closed door, while the woman bustled off to bring tea things into their cozy sitting area. She returned presently with a tray containing a teapot, cups, saucers, and a sugar bowl. Her manner was brisk and businesslike, though her eyes still twinkled mischievously. As she placed the tray on the table beside him, John noticed something peculiar about her hands. They were very large and soft, almost feminine, yet they carried themselves as if they belonged to another person altogether. When he tried to look closely at her wrists, he discovered that they were hidden under long sleeves and pinafores. For the first time since meeting this odd couple, he felt inclined to ask questions, but the old lady was already back in the kitchen, preparing sandwiches.

She brought each one and sat down opposite the young traveler. "We've got three rooms upstairs," she explained, "two singles and a double. We keep them locked up unless we know our guests pretty well. This is a strange town, stranger than you'd think for such a quiet little town. If you go walking about alone at night, you may run into trouble. But now that you're here, you might as well stay for the week. That will give us plenty of chance to get acquainted."

He accepted his sandwich gratefully; both seemed fresh-made enough so far.

"That's kind of you," said John politely.

Mrs. Maitland smiled. "There ain't much choice, anyway, seeing that you're going to be stuck here until we do get to know you. And perhaps we should tell you how we feel about strangers coming into Merridale." She leaned forward suddenly and lowered her voice.

"There's a good deal of trouble going on in this town," remarked Mrs. Maitland.

"They say there have been murders every night for weeks now. And worse than that, too. A lot of folks won't go to bed unless somebody stays awake all the time to keep them company. That's why we're glad to see a stranger."

"What do you think has happened?"

"Oh, everybody's scared stiff! But nobody knows anything definite. We've got the police investigating, and they say there's nothing much to be done till morning light comes."

She cut several slices of ham and cheese and put each one carefully between two pieces of bread, folding it in half before placing it on top of the teapot. Then she poured hot water into the pot, and, taking three mugs from the shelf above, she handed them to him.

"Thank you kindly," said John, pouring himself a cupful. "Now, if you will tell me exactly how this thing began—what caused it?"

Mrs. Maitland shrugged her shoulders. "We don't know," she answered. "All we heard was a scream, and the next minute, poor Miss Loring was lying dead in the middle of the lawn. It wasn't until later that we realized the horrible shape her throat had taken."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"Didn't anybody hear anything?"

The woman shook her head. "No, sir. Nothing. Not even the cat spoke up. If those screams hadn't awakened everyone, I suppose we'd never have known what had become of our young lady. Poor girl!"

"That doesn't surprise me," said John. "It seems to me that there may be some sort of supernatural agency behind this affair. Did you ever see or hear any sign of a man outside? Or perhaps just your imagination is playing tricks."

Her eyes widened slightly; then he added hastily, "Or no reason.'"

But instead of answering directly, she turned away toward the door.

"And what else?" asked John.

She hesitated momentarily.

"'Well, maybe you wouldn't mind having a word with Miss Loring's mother?" The last sentence came almost like a whispered question, but again, without waiting, his listener did not wait long before replying.

"Certainly not!" said John heartily. "You needn't bother about me. Just show me where to find her, and I will take care of myself."

----------------------------------------

Mrs. Sadie Loring lived in a comfortable bungalow situated near the center of town, surrounded by shrubs and flowerbeds, which gave ample evidence that she took great pleasure both in gardening and decoration. Her neighbors were very fond of her, for although she was only thirty-five years old, she had already borne four children, the eldest now twelve years old. She had been married twice and widowed three times, her husbands dying one after another under strange and unaccountable circumstances. Mrs. Loring was a small, pale, nervous woman whose hands trembled continually over her worktable and who had developed such a dread of going out alone at night that she hardly dared venture forth during the hours of darkness, save when necessary. On the morning following the death of her daughter, she sat huddled in a chair before a blazing fire, too exhausted to do more than sip a glass of tea and eat half a muffin. From time to time, she glanced out of the window, glancing across the road to where her daughter lay buried amid the laurels. Then, as though conscious that her thoughts were being overheard, she turned swiftly around and stared moodily into space. For several minutes, she remained silent until a voice broke the silence.

"Why don't you go and see if they've dug enough grave sand?"

She started violently and glared around at the speaker. A big, broad, clean-shaven man stood beside her chair, dressed in a rough tweed suit without a collar or cuffs. His face was flushed and red with drink—a whisky flask hung loosely from his hand. As she gazed at him, he held out his open palm and showed her the contents of a little silver box. Thereupon came two tiny white tablets on their bed of tissue paper; each tablet bore upon its surface three circles arranged so closely together that it seemed impossible there could be any room between adjacent ones.

"They tell me that these will cure anything except love, but I've never tried them yet."

He pushed back some stray wisps of gray hair protruding beneath what looked like particolored hornrimmed glasses perched incongruously high up above gleaming eyes set far apart.

"Who are you? Are you Mr.—er —Rosenberg...? Or whatever else people call themselves nowadays?" The words tumbled out of her lips in a torrent.

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"A Monster Hunter. It seems we know a lot about each other already. And my name is Jonathan Riven."

Mrs. Loring made no reply, but her gaze fixed itself upon him with a mixture of horror and curiosity.

"My dear lady, this must come as quite a shock to you! But you should understand that your daughter has met with foul play and that I am investigating the matter. Now, may I ask how long ago did you lose sight of her?"

"It was last night, just after eleven o'clock. We heard a scream—"

"What kind of cry?"

"—from our bedroom window. My husband went out immediately to investigate, but he didn't return. When I ran downstairs, I saw him standing among all sorts of bloodied things. He was holding something in his arms wrapped up in a sheet."

"And the thing he carried was your daughter's body," interrupted the hunter. "But he wasn't carrying it alone. In his other arm, he also held a bundle of sticks and branches covered with leaves and moss. These were the roots of trees... You remember saying that you thought the sound you heard might have come from the direction of a wooded hillside behind your house?"

"Yes, indeed."

"That would be the place. Do you know anything about this wood?"

"There is a legend that a dreadful creature lurks there—the Beast of Merridale. Nobody ever goes near it because everybody knows what happens to anyone who does go near it. So they say."

"Well, thanks for the information. And now I'm off—hope to see you again soon. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ring me up. Good-bye!"

He strode away through the snow and was gone.

----------------------------------------

The following morning, Johnathan Riven had breakfast in one of the cafés that line the main street of Merridale. A large plate of bacon and eggs, a pot of coffee and a blueberry muffin proved sufficient nourishment for the spirit.

Well, speaking of spirit, Sam was a spirit to be sure. He was a very small spirit—not much larger than a mouse—but he was extremely active and alert. Actually, he was more like a sponge—so elastic and adaptable that he could shrink or swell to suit any object. He was the guardian of the mirror. Johnathan brought him along because, although he was only a spirit, he was still a living being capable of understanding what was going on around him, and of feeling pain and pleasure. In his present state, he felt neither, since the curse had been placed upon him before it was bound into the mirror, but John knew that it would hurt him to leave the magical artifact lying about. The spirit would not survive if it fell into the wrong hands.

This particular morning, he was sitting at Johnathan's right elbow, his head resting on his shoulder. He had his own little table next to John's and the two were drinking their coffee together. Unfortunately, only John can see and hear him, but he still enjoys the company. It is difficult to explain how spirits work. They exist outside of space and time. One moment they are not there, and then suddenly they pop up beside you.

"You ate a lot this morning, Mr. Riven," said Sam.

"I needed it," the hunter replied, looking at his watch. "Only five minutes to eleven. I must get over to the Loring house as fast as possible."

"Is it important, sir?"

"Very important. She will be terribly distressed when she learns of her daughter's fate."

"Did you find anything out last night?" Sam inquired.

"No, nothing definite yet."

"But... there were some indications, weren't there? You found traces of blood, you say."

"Yes, I did."

"And you think it might be the same blood as the girl's?"

"That is my working theory."

Sam took a closer look at the coffee cup in front of him.

"By the way, what is your working theory?" he asked.

No answer came back, but it seemed to the spirit that he could hear a faint click within his own mind.

"What do you mean, 'my working theory'?" he queried.

"Well, that is to say—"

"Oh, never mind!" snapped Sam impatiently. "You're making a mystery of it all."

***