At twilight, above the Church of St. Jerome near Horsingdon Wood, the sky is split for a few brief seconds by a pulsing beam of black light - accompanied by something like the sound of thunder.
The older inhabitants of the region are all-too-familiar with what such phenomena signify: someone has rent a doorway in the fabric of creation, and given licence - if only for a short time - to something which-should-not-be to stalk the world.
That the progenitors of such a monstrous act will eventually meet an unpleasant and unspeakable end - usually at the hands or nameless paws of whatever it is they have called forth - provides little succor to local residents, whose number will also be diminished on account of the mysterious disappearances which invariably occur At such times. It is likely that the streets of Horsingdon will be more deserted than usual for the next few nights.
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