The Ninth Pan Book of Horror Stories

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The dark crouching figure ran clumsily across the ploughed field to the shelter of a solitary tree. He fell on his knees out of sheer exhaustion and clung to the rough bark with his wet hands. Perspiration trickled in little rivers down his burning face. His hair hung like black seaweed over his forehead. The moon crept out from behind a black cloud, shed some light sparingly on his trembling body and slid back behind another black veil. ‘God, don’t you start showing your silly yellow face,’ he gasped, straining his eyes upwards to the night sky.

He staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on the stout trunk. His prison clothes were ripped and filthy. He knew he could not afford to take too long a rest, he must keep going, they couldn’t be too far behind him. A few faint yelps in the distance tightened his nerves. The dogs – they had the dogs on him now. He had seen them patrolling the prison grounds; great black beasts with dirty yellow eyes which always watched you wherever you went, long white teeth just waiting to sink themselves into your skin and rip you apart.

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