Tok

Tok
Paul Finch

**A horror short story from #1 bestseller, Paul Finch. Part of the Dark Winter Tales series: unputdownable reads for cold winter nights…**When Berni arrives to stay with her mother-in-law, following a number of murders close by, she is disturbed by the hostile welcome she receives, and the dark house she must sleep in.But what shocks her the most is the figurine she finds hiding behind an old curtain; a tribal doll, covered in black hair and wearing a necklace made of human teeth. Berni must now battle with an unshakeable feeling that the murders have something to do with the doll…and that she might its next target.As the nights draw in, get hooked on this dark and suspenseful short story – the perfect read for fans of Mark Edwards and Peter James.

Tok

Paul Finch

Copyright (#ulink_b031c117-0ae0-59d2-a8a3-0bc93050d815)

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

This ebook edition published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

First published in paperback in The Eighth Black Book of Horror by Mortbury Press, 2008

Copyright © Paul Finch 2016

Cover design © Debbie Clement 2016

Paul Finch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Ebook Edition © January 2016 ISBN: 9780008173722

Version: 2018-07-24

Contents

Cover (#u264d6e4f-e5c1-5559-8ba3-639779508dcb)

Title Page (#uc0c8f8db-47e7-51a9-af0a-3001ff19c831)

Copyright (#u80b413aa-9215-5158-aed4-548caa1ba6d4)

Tok (#u72534507-1a8b-5027-a946-1f603183e0bd)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

After they’d hacked and slashed the two bodies for several minutes, they danced on them. The firelight of a dozen torches glittered on their wild, rolling eyes, on their upraised blades, on the blood spattered liberally across the carpet of smoothly mown grass. Their shouts of delight filled the seething night. But when the little girl came out and stood on the veranda, there was a silence like a thunderclap. For a moment she seemed too pure to be in the midst of such mayhem, too angelic – a white-as-snow cherub, who, for all her tears and soiled nightclothes, brought a chill to the muggy forest by her mere presence, brought a hush to the yammering insects, brought the frenzied rage out of her captors like poison from a wound.

If it wasn’t the little girl herself, it was the thing she held by her side.

The thing they knew about by instinct.

The thing they’d seen only in nightmares.

*

It was late afternoon when Don and Berni drove onto the estate. Not surprisingly, there were police everywhere: patrol cars parked on the street corners, uniformed officers traipsing door-to-door with clipboards. Don’s blue Nissan Micra was subjected to a stop-and-check.

“Don Presswick,” he said, after powering his window down. “This is my wife, Bernadette. We’re visiting my mother for a couple of days. She lives at The Grove.”

The officer, who was young with fair hair, but wearing a grim expression, gave them a curt once-over. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any ID, Mr Presswick?”

Don didn’t have, but Berni rooted in her handbag and handed over a couple of credit cards. This seemed to satisfy the officer, though he still didn’t smile.

He passed the cards back. “You’re aware what’s been going on?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Don said. “To babysit Mum ’til it’s over.”

“Good idea.” The officer tapped the roof with his fingers. “Okay, that’s fine.”

“Listen …” Don adopted a confidential tone. “How’s it going? The investigation, I mean. Obviously it’s a concern, with my mum living on the estate.”

“Sorry Mr Presswick, there’s nothing I can tell you.”

“I’m ex-job. Don’t know if that makes any difference.”

The officer shrugged. “I can’t tell you anything because I don’t know anything. Enquiries are ongoing, as you’ll understand. We’ve a lot of bodies working on it.”

Don thanked him and drove on.

“Bloody woodentop,” he said.

“You were only a PC,” Berni reminded him.

“I had a lot more experience than him.”

“They all have to start somewhere.”