16^th November, 1799
A queer matter arose last night after I turned out the light. Having been sleeping for some hours, I was woken by a horrendous crashing that seemed to come from every single corner of the house as though someone were trapped and attempting to break out. As abruptly as it began, it stopped. I thought it nothing more than my own imagination, played upon by the lonely situation in which I have placed myself; or perhaps it was a trick of the wind, I have been told it can create all manner of noises around here. At least, that is what I chose to believe until I heard it again towards dawn. This time it was followed by the sounds of children's laughter. It was strange, but the sound of that laughter was somehow discomforting, though it ceased the moment the first rays of sunlight came through the curtains.
Went to the village today, and have resolved to do so each morning with the exception of Sundays as the shop is closed and so I will be unable to receive any post. The winter weather has begun to close in on my new home with startling rapidity. Already today I have had the pleasure of seeing the first flakes of snow falling outside my windows. Unfortunately, they did not settle for long before melting. Have explored the house further today, finding little left to mark the previous occupants.
 How the wind howls each night, as though it were complaining of my presence. Sometimes the entire house seems to shake with the tempest outside. I doubt if ever I shall come to love this house amidst its isolation. I, who have spent my entire life surrounded by the hustle and bustle of London, feel as though I shall go mad with the lack of company.
(There is evidently a pause here as two lines have been missed out completely. The author's handwriting changes in appearance as though his hand was shaking as he wrote.)
Have just returned from the window. The wind a moment ago came with such force and fury that it set the windows to rattling. I got up to see that all was well outside and was met by such a terrifying countenance that I was hard-pressed to stop from crying out. The figure was like to a great bird, though devoid of feathers. Its arms and wings were as one and its body was thin and frail. An elongated head enclosed a set of deep, dark eyes and a mouth containing the most wicked set of fangs imaginable. The skin was a deep grey and it possessed a tail that lashed to and fro whilst it hovered outside my window. What manner of demon I have witnessed, I know not. I cannot remain here whilst such a creature roams apparently at will over the land. Who knows how many more there may be, lurking around the countryside, waiting to pounce on a lonely traveller. I can write no more tonight, the shock of the experience is still fresh on my mind.

17^th November, 1799
Have just returned from the village. Thought better of saying anything of the previous night's events for fear of attracting unwanted attention upon myself. I must write to my friends and postpone the gathering until I can make clear what is occurring here. The creature I saw flew away after seeing me; I can only hope it has been frightened away by my sudden appearance and has not gone to fetch more of its companions, if it has any. How can such an abomination dwell in our great country and go unnoticed. Could it be some terrible experiment gone wrong? No matter, I shall remain steadfast whatever should befall me. Whilst exploring more rooms in the house I found a matched pair of duelling pistols and they now rest beside my bed at night against any danger that might arise. Should the creature return, I believe it shall find me a tenacious adversary.

18^th November, 1799
The creature did indeed return to me last night. Having finished my previous entry and blown out the candle, I heard something tapping at the window. At first I could not bring myself to leave my bed for fear I should find what I feared the most. But when there came the most terrifying screech imaginable, I could stand it no longer. My pistols ready, I approached the window and flung the curtains aside. There hung the creature in the air, its eyes locked on mine. Fear gripped me like a vice and I almost let fall my pistol such was the tremor that ran through my very flesh. Then I noticed it held something in its wicked maw. As I looked closer, I saw it to be a child of no more than a few months. The poor soul was evidently dead and this revelation gave me courage anew. Crying out with rage and hate, I took aim and discharged my pistols into the monstrous being. The window pane was shattered, and I heard the creature scream in pain. However, it did not fall to the ground as any mortal should. Instead, it dropped its prize and flew away into the dark, though its screams continued to travel to me till dawn. I have now come to fear the night and cannot bring myself to sleep without some light. Always the creature has come after I have extinguished my candle. Perhaps it fears the light as much as I do the dark.

19^th November, 1799
(Again we see a change in the quality of the author's handwriting. His script no longer flows as in the earlier entries and it is possible that he was suffering from some weakness of the body, perhaps as a result of illness.)
Tonight may be one of my last on this earth.
A few moments ago, I was attacked by the creature and, though I was the eventual victor, I fear the injuries I have sustained will show themselves to be mortal.
Not long after the sun had set, I sat in bed with my pistols newly loaded. Fear kept me awake and I had resolved to pack my bags and leave the next morning. Oh, what fate has been waiting for me since I first heard of this accursed place!
To keep out the night and, I dared to hope, my tormentor, I had fixed a piece of board over the shattered window pane. However, some small crack lay uncovered, for the wind was free to enter and extinguish my candle. Fumbling for the matches in the dark, I heard a terrific tearing and, striking a match, was petrified to see my adversary present in the room before me.
Instantly I grabbed a pistol and discharged it into the creature's chest. The beast cried out and retreated, and I thought that perhaps I had, this time, given it a mortal wound. Yet, to my horror, the creature came forth again, the wound having healed over completely. Crying out in fury and fear, I fired my second pistol. Alas! My hand shook so that the shot missed completely. The match, which had been burning all this time, finally reached my fingers and I dropped it as the tips were burnt. Inverting my pistol for use as a cudgel, I awaited the attack. Rage burning in its eyes, the creature lunged forward and I barely had time to swing at its head. One wing went to shield its face and I was bowled over by the force of the impact. Talons sharp as knives cut my arms and chest. Teeth clamped down on my shoulder and it took almost every ounce of strength I had to break free from the vice-like grip. At last, placing my hand on the matches, I frantically struck one with the hope of scaring my opponent into flight. Such was the proximity of the creature's eyes to the flame, that I was eternally thankful when it screamed in terror and fled, leaving me, as I have noted, the eventual victor.
However, despite my victory, I am now crippled by my wounds and I fear that there is some poison at work within my body that renders me unable to leave my bed. I can barely find the strength with which to write these passages and my arms ache with the pain. The skin around my wounds has turned grey, and already it is spreading throughout my entire body. My abdomen is growing thinner for want of food, though I cannot account for the rapidity of its shrinking. My mind seems intact enough. I can write no more today and I fear I shall never see another human face again...

December 1858
"Preposterous nonsense!" snorted Mordecai Andrews as he finished reading the article Harold Burton had handed him.
They were sitting in Andrews' small seaside home in the town of Bridewell. Outside it was a typical winter day. The sun shone weakly despite the clear blue sky. A strong wind from the sea was blowing inshore and the horizon had a dark, tempestuous look about it.
Inside Andrews' drawing room a merry little fire was crackling on the hearth and the lamps were lit to provide what illumination the sun could not. The two occupants sat beside the fire talking over old times. Burton had arrived that morning with a newspaper tucked under his arm. It was one of his few days off from working for the police force and he had taken the time to ask Andrews' own opinion on the above article.
"I find it quite interesting," said Burton, "What could possibly be behind it all?"
"A simple quest for publicity and elevation in society," was Andrews' blunt reply, "The Grant family does still exist and a member of the family still dwells in Oaktree Lodge, or so I have been told. If you care to read further, you will find that there is to be a great gathering of people at the house two weeks before Christmas; though I am certain it is yet another of those frightful balls that the gentry find it necessary to partake in."
"Then, the diary was published to create a sensation and increase the number of guests?"
"Precisely. This Grant has obviously fabricated the journal to create an air of diabolical mystery about the house. No doubt, when the guests arrive, he shall have paid some of the locals to add their own ‘recollections' of the so-called ‘author' of the diary. Strange that it does not give the name of the current occupant."
Burton sighed, "It is a shame that we have not been invited. I should like very much to look over the place; just to see if there was even a shred of truth in the matter."
"Well, the article mentions that invitations are not required. Would it be possible for you to take a few days leave, or can Her Majesty's Police not function without their most brilliant mind?"
And so, after many hours of travelling by train, by coach and even on foot, Andrews and Burton arrived at the little village of Oaktree in Northumbria late at night. As they had travelled, leaving the southern climes for the more remote areas of the northern counties, Andrews and Burton had gazed about them in awe and fascination. After passing through the industrial heart of the Midlands, they reached the relatively untouched expanses of Yorkshire and Cumbria. Northumbria appeared even more remote than its neighbours. Wilderness that had the illusion of vastness stretched out on either side farther than any eye could see. Great swathes of moor lay on both sides of the railway line. These were interspersed, frequently, with great hills and mountains that towered up like massive jagged teeth. Oaktree, though one of the smallest of the country villages that England seems to have in abundance, was fortunate to have its own railway station. However, this was some distance form the village and so Andrews and Burton were forced to walk in near pitch black. Even when their eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, they could make out little except the rough track they were following. Away in the distance they could discern a few odd little lights that denoted the village they were making for. It was fortunate that both travelled light, for they were near to exhaustion and to be weighed down with unnecessary luggage would have been beyond their endurance.
"I believe this journey has been ill-planned," said Andrews, "Still, I am certain the trip will be well worth the trials we have undergone."
Burton laughed, more out of relief than actual humour. Indeed, such was his own discomfort from the long hours of travelling almost the entire length of England, he felt that his own recovery would require some weeks.
When they at last reached the dusty single street of Oaktree, they found that there was no cart or carriage to take them to the house. Therefore, not to be discouraged, they hired two small rooms in the local inn. It was, at the time, too dark to make out the sign or, indeed, the name of the place; though Burton swore he caught a glimpse of some strange creature on the sign that matched the one in the diary.
Inside the bar was filled with a thick pall of tobacco smoke. The air was positively stifling with it and Burton was hard-pressed to keep himself from instantly withdrawing into the free air. Such was the thickness of the fug and the listlessness of the air that it was virtually impossible to see from one end of the room to the other. Underneath this was the distinctive odour of stale beer. The very furniture seemed saturated in the stench. And the men and women from whom the first vile aroma was produced occupied almost every stool and chair from the bar to the door. Evidently there were more inhabitants in that small village than a stranger would have guessed from the number of buildings.
"Excuse me," called Andrews to the barman, "Might it be possible to rent a pair of rooms for tonight?" He had to call three times to the giant of a man before he could make himself heard over the roaring din of the patrons.
Finally, however, the two companions secured themselves the rooms and a hot meal in a corner of the bar away from the centre of the throng. So weary were they that neither could care as to how thick the smoke was becoming nor how great was the volume of conversation.
"I believe we should attempt to snatch some rest before the morrow," called Burton to Andrews.
"Certainly," replied the other.
Burton found himself considering how, were he present, Sir Arthur Truscott-Smith, Andrews' esteemed friend, should have no trouble quelling the din with that mountain-shattering bellow of his.

The next day dawned dull and miserable, the clouds threatening either rain or snow. What few birds remained during the winter months put forth their own songs as the sun climbed lazily into the sky.
Andrews, as always, was up at first light. He had packed what few possessions he had been called upon to unpack the previous night and was awaiting Burton in the now empty bar.
"Good morning!" he called cheerily, seeming to have regained his usual vigour after one night's rest. Burton could merely nod in reply, his own energy far from replenished.
"I have had the most fortunate luck," announced Andrews as Burton sat down to order breakfast, "A gentleman by the name of Trappington has agreed to convey us to the house this very morning and thus save us any further excursions for the present."
Burton's mood picked up at the news that he would not be walking, though the announcement from the barman that they had no eggs was a trifle disheartening.
Oaktree Lodge, built sometime during the fifteenth century, had been improved upon and rebuilt so that almost nothing remained of the original house. In the extensive grounds there was an ancient chapel of uncertain origins that had fallen into decay. At certain points, as had been fashionable during the eighteenth century, were built a number of follies intended to appear older than the house.
The grounds themselves were on a large spit of land that jutted out into the sea like a great finger of rock. There was very little grass, save where the waters could not reach.
As the small dog cart that Andrews and Burton had hired drew up to the house, the latter tapped his companion on the shoulder and indicated one of the windows of the house. In the window, somewhere on the third floor, there could be seen a figure dressed in a flowing gown of dark material.
"If you are recalling the events at Berringdon Hall last year that the papers described so vividly, my dear Burton, do not forget that, according to general folklore, ghosts do not appear in the daytime."
Burton could not help but laugh at his friend's ironic humour.
Alighting leisurely, the two men thanked their driver and paid him a few coins for his trouble. The grizzled old man touched his cap and, with a few mumbled words of appreciation, turned his cart about and drove off at a greater speed than he had when he arrived.
"Well, perhaps this shall prove an interesting experience," mused Burton, "Though I suppose every country estate such as this has their own wild stories."
"I never thought of you as a sceptic," gasped Andrews in mock surprise.
They were greeted at the door by a thin young man who was evidently the butler. Andrews announced his and Burton's names and informed the man as to why they had come.
"My lady is currently indisposed," said the butler in a thick, nasal drone, "If you would care to follow me, sirs, I shall show you to the other guests."
Andrews glanced quickly at Burton and smiled. They had been too hasty in assuming the diary's publisher to be male.
They allowed themselves to be led by the butler into an opulent hall. There were gathered all manner of English, Scottish and Welsh gentry.
"Mr Mordecai Andrews and Mr Harold Burton!" called the butler to no-one in particular. A few heads glanced briefly towards the newcomers, but the majority chose to ignore the servant's announcement. Andrews surveyed the gathered men and women intently. It appeared that every important and fashionable name in the British Isles (with the exception of those in Ireland, of course) had chosen to attend for the occasion. There stood Lord and Lady Chambers, one of the youngest couples of the upper class; across from them were Colonel and Mrs Roget, the former being a celebrated military hero and politician; nearer to Andrews and Burton were Mr Benjamin Attley and his young fiancée Victoria Knowles, he supposedly one of the more up and coming industrialists, she the daughter of yet another noble family.
Such colour, such wealth, such superciliousness.
"Mr Andrews!" drawled a thickset Welshman who approached with his hand outstretched, "Arthur Jones, so delightful to meet you at last!"
Andrews had to almost pry his hand lose from a vice-like grip as his arm was pumped up and down in a vicious parody of a handshake.
"I've heard all about your exploits over the years; fascinating, absolutely fascinating!" Jones' enthusiasm apparently knew no bounds as he engaged Andrews in almost unceasing conversation, most of it concerning the latter's own work against crime.
Burton, apparently forgotten by Andrews and the excitable Jones, moved off to one of the windows and gazed out over the sea. His mind was so distracted that he didn't hear the voice at his side until he felt a light touch on his elbow and, turning rapidly, found himself face to face with one of the most captivating women he had ever encountered.
"I'm sorry," he flustered, "I was distracted."
The woman smiled, "I was asking if you came with Mr Andrews?"
Burton nodded, "My name is Burton, Harold Burton."
"Silvia Millington," was the swift, yet beautifully-voiced response. She was a tall, thin woman not much past her mid twenties with a great sweep of auburn hair styled in the latest fashion. Her gown was of deep blue and whispered softly as she moved.
"Have you met the hostess?" asked Burton.
"I should hope so," chuckled Silvia musically, "I am the hostess."
Burton tried not to look sheepish. Instead, he did his best to appear as casual as possible as he began to ask a few of the questions that had been pressing his mind.
"I was wondering where you found that diary you had published?"
Silvia directed him gently to a window seat before answering, "It was in a chest in the attic. My servants were looking around for anything that might have shed some light on the stories. Oh, yes the tale has been told to me several times, especially when I was a girl."
"Do you think there's any truth in the matter?" asked Burton.
"Would I have published the diary if I did? Indeed, I think it all an elaborate fabrication. Families like mine are not in the habit of announcing to the world that there is a history of madness in our blood. The story, I believe, is merely that; a story."
The rest of the day proved one long marathon of tediousness for Burton.
Whilst Andrews might find it perfectly natural to talk of matters small and mundane, Burton was a policeman and therefore a creature who often takes the easiest course of action. Such lack of energy amongst a group of people was an entirely new experience. Even Silvia, with whom he spent some time in conversation concerning the house and its origins, proved uninteresting when it came down to nothing but talk.
Slowly the day drew on, past lunch, which again consisted of more discussion than actual eating on the part of the assembled aristocracy. Andrews, however, did manage to find time enough to satisfy his own appetite and to trade impressions with Burton.
"You seem to have become well-acquainted with our hostess," said Andrews between mouthfuls of roast beef.
"She is a remarkably attractive woman, though I found her a little too relaxed for my tastes."
Andrews almost choked as he burst into energetic laughter, "My dear Burton that is the epitome of the upper classes." He spoke quietly, after recovering from his fit of humour, so as to avoid being overheard and causing unnecessary offence.
"The members of the gentry are phenomenally well-versed in the arts of conversation. They can go on for hours on a single subject with the minimum of pauses or interruptions. I, too, find them a trifle dull, but they are also one of the most interesting features of modern society."
He was forced to pause, however, as the butler announced the arrival of Mr and Mrs Alfred Millington. Indeed, Mrs Silvia Millington, nee Grant, had organised the entire occasion on the discreet request of her husband. They had been married for one year and had finally taken up residence in one of the ancestral homes of the Grant family, now embodied solely in Silvia. The Millingtons, too, were a near extinct house, save for one ancient uncle who had been pronounced not long for this world.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," called Alfred Millington, "My wife and I cannot thank you enough for taking the time and trouble to make your way here." There was a general murmuring of approval and a light ripple of applause.
"Tonight we hope that you shall all join in celebrating the marriage between myself and my dear wife, Silvia. Together, we have united our two families and shall ensure that they live on in our children." This longer speech elicited a wild roar of approval and thunderous applause. To Burton, however, it seemed that Silvia was not all together pleased with her husband's remarks. He caught, or thought he caught a glimpse of a slight grimace at the mention of families and children. Could it be that she had not married of her own free will? Burton, of course, drew Andrews' attention to this slight sign of displeasure, though neither commented on it much.
There is little need to recount the interval between lunch and dinner. Indeed, most of the day was a repetitive stream of chatter and self-glorification on the part of the gentry. Burton and Andrews found themselves beginning to regret they had ever made the strenuous journey.
However, shortly after dinner had been concluded, the event took a very different turn.

Many of those who lived nearby had departed for their own homes. These were notably the members of the gathering who were not of particularly high standing amongst those who had attended and who felt that their presence was unnecessary.
Eventually, the gathering had whittled down to some dozen aristocrats and industrial magnates.
They had returned to the great hall which, like all those possessed by country houses, seemed to have an almost inexhaustible supply of family portraits. The highlight of the evening was to be a reading of the diary by Silvia Millington. The audience were seated or standing as per their fancy and the reader was coming to the first appearance of the terrible creature mentioned in the diary.
Suddenly there came a piercing shriek from outside the window. All turned to stare and there, in all its terrifying and diabolical glory was the very creature itself!
Its tail lashed to and fro, sometimes striking the window pane.
"Ye gods!" cried Benjamin Atlee, hurriedly withdrawing from his seat directly below the creature.
"Everyone out of here!" ordered Colonel Roget, his military background lending him a commanding authority that served to initiate the swift, yet orderly evacuation of the great hall into the entry corridor. When all were safely out, Andrews and Burton assisted in stacking heavy furniture in front of the door in the event the monster should break through into the house.
"We must ensure the creature cannot enter the house," said Andrews, his own tendency to command coming into play, "If it should happen to break in anywhere, I doubt if any should survive."
"Damn this!" shouted Jones, the Welshman who had accosted Andrews earlier, "I'm going for help. Any who wish may accompany me. I'll attempt to return as soon as I may with as much strength as I can muster."
Andrews laid a hand on the brave man's arm, "I think that an unwise plan," he advised, "We have no knowledge as to what that creature is capable of. It is likely, however, that it could kill anyone who ventured out into the night. We must wait until morning." He turned to the assembly, failing to seek out for Silvia Millington's face amongst those gathered, "You will all recollect, those of you have read the article in the paper, that according to the diarist, the creature will not venture out into the light. There lies our one hope."
There were a few muttered agreements to this; however Jones remained as indefatigable as ever.
"You may wait here till dawn if you wish, Mr Andrews, I shall make my own attempt. I shall meet you all as soon as I can."
Before Andrews could stop him, Jones had opened the front door and set off as fast as he could in the pitch dark.
With a dreadful scream that seemed to come from all directions, the creature swooped down from whatever perch it had chosen and was on the poor Welshman before anyone could shout to warn him. Jones' scream was as terrible as that of the monster itself. Some of the women fainted when they saw the attack on their helpless comrade.
"Damn you, after the fiend!" cried Colonel Roget.
So saying he snatched up an umbrella from the stand beside the door and rushed out to do battle with the dreadful foe. Several others, Burton included, followed after. At their approach, the creature took to the air and beat a hasty retreat to the roof of the house. Roget and the others who had followed him bore up the body of Jones and swiftly conveyed him into the house. Attempting to keep the sight from the women, they took the body into the study and laid him on Alfred Millington's desk. The chief wound was to the neck where the creature had evidently bitten its victim. Andrews managed to manoeuvre close enough to see for himself. There, sure enough, were the marks of the creature's teeth, yet something wasn't quite right. Taking an eye glass from a nearby shelf, Andrews examined the wounds.
"Could someone pass me a handkerchief?" he asked.
Several were offered, but Andrews only took one. He wrapped it around his fingers and poked gently into the wound. The blood had finally stopped flowing as the last spasms of the heart ceased altogether.
"Burton," called Andrews, withdrawing his fingers and closing his fist about some small object.
Burton entered the room and was allowed to approach the corpse.
"What do you make of this very singular wound?" asked Andrews in a fairly unconcerned voice.
"It looks as though the creature bit Jones in the neck and severed the arteries, though I am not a medical man and I cannot be certain. There was a great pool of blood when we approached the body."
"My conclusion exactly."
"How on earth can you talk so damned casually man?" cried the Colonel.
"My dear Colonel," said Andrews in a soft, soothing tone, "I and my colleague are merely attempting to ascertain what kind of creature we are dealing with. We are, effectively, prisoners here until a way can be found to either avoid the beast or neutralise it somehow." With that, the gentlemen left the unfortunate Welshman until his body could be conveyed outside for burial.

Several hours passed and there had been no sign of the creature. Andrews and Burton had stipulated that no-one should move about alone in case the creature found a way inside. Some made an undignified attempt to sleep on the tables or in chairs. Others, the more apprehensive, found such a simple act nigh impossible. Andrews, one of the latter, remained awake whilst the cogs and gears of his mind turned over in ceaseless mechanical thought. His was the kind of intellect that desired nothing more than information. He craved it more than any other man he knew. If he did not know something, he thought it a failing of himself and endeavoured to amend the situation in whatever way seemed most appropriate.
"I cannot believe it," Burton heard Andrews mutter.
"Care to share your thoughts?" Andrews' head snapped up at the sound of the question.
"Ah, Burton!" he exclaimed, "Glad you're awake. Perhaps you may be able to piece some of these facts together."
Burton came and sat next to his friend. Andrews took out the blood-stained handkerchief and opened it carefully. Gingerly he picked up the small object he had extracted from the wound in Jones' neck.
"What do you make of this?" he asked, handing it carefully to Burton.
"Why, it's metal!" gasped Burton in a half-whisper.
"Exactly! That is no flesh and blood monster out there. Someone has deliberately fabricated the appearance of the creature and given it fangs capable of causing fatal wounds. Why?"
Burton thought, "Not to simply scare us; whoever created the thing actually means to kill."
Andrews nodded, "I concur. Yet we must move carefully." He looked around. Even the members of the party who had remained awake were oblivious to the hushed conversation.
"We need to ‘draw out' this thing and prove it to be false. If we can do that, we will be half-way towards uncovering whatever foul motive lies behind it all."
It was towards half-past five in the morning that the last moments of terror befell the men and women trapped in the house.
Andrews had not slept all night, his brain feverishly working over the problem of how to decoy the ‘creature' out into the open where they could take hold of it and remove the threat to anyone leaving the house.
One thought that constantly occurred to Andrews was that they could not remain in the house for long lest the rotting corpse of Jones, the Welshman, in the study allow disease to spread.
"I have it!" he cried suddenly, leaping to his feet and disturbing those who were sleeping.
"What in thunder are you talking about?" demanded the Colonel, startled from his own troubled dreams.
"I have the answer to our problems; that creature must be caught and I know how to achieve it."
The plan was outlined thus:
One of the party would run out into the grounds and attempt to gain the attentions of the creature. This person would be tied about the waist to a rope should any trouble arise and the others have to haul them in. Once the creature had been decoyed, the ‘bait' would return to the house with the beast chasing after. As many men as possible would ambush the monster and attempt to subdue it.
"It sounds implausible, not to mention impossible," observed the Colonel.
"We seem to have little choice as to our options," answered Andrews, "However, I do admit that there are some difficulties. It will require everyone to be present." He laid special emphasis on this point, stressing the need for complete cooperation from everyone.
"Who will volunteer to be our ‘bait'?" asked Andrews, not expecting many to put themselves forward.
"Very well," said the Colonel, when no-one else was forthcoming, "I shall go myself."
Andrews looked at the middle-aged figure dubiously.
"I am faster than I may look," said the Colonel, catching Andrews' expression, "I was an infantryman before I attained any privileges."
So the plan was set.
Everyone knew the details inside out and were prepared for the worst. The Colonel, a length of rope procured from the servants quarters tied around his waist, stood by the door. On a nod from Andrews the front door was opened and the Colonel wordlessly dashed out into the night. He ran twice round the gravel before the house but the creature made no appearance. Finally, when he had run round for the third time, the Colonel returned, his face the colour of beetroot, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps.
"We should try again," said Andrews, "The creature may not have seen the Colonel." He looked at the exhausted man before him, "My dear Colonel, thank you for your efforts. We can ask no more of you tonight." He turned to the rest of the party, "Will someone else volunteer?"
None raised their hands until, his wife having whispered something in his ear, Alfred Millington stood forward, untied the rope from around the Colonel's waist and tied it about his own.
"I'll go next," he said and ran out.
"Mr Andrews!" called one of the women, "Mrs Millington's fainted!"
Andrews looked over to where three of the party were bending over the collapsed form of their hostess.
"Convey her to somewhere away from here," Andrews ordered two of the men, "Do what you can to refresh her and then return here."
In minutes the two men had returned and reported that Mrs Millington was recovering and rejoin them soon.
"A fine time to have to deal with that sort of thing," snapped Andrews unnecessarily.
"Look!" cried Burton.
Outside, whilst he ran about the gravel drive, Millington was suddenly pounced upon by the very creature he had attempted to decoy. He heard its cry and attempted to pick up his pace.
"Head for the gates!" shouted Andrews, "Don't turn back!"
Somehow his voice carried above the shrieking of the fiend and Millington pelted along until his legs felt as though they would give out under him. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the beast broke off its pursuit, wheeled high into the air and began to return to the house.
"I'll stop this once and for all!" cried the Colonel, quite recovered from his own exertions. He had grabbed a rifle from off a wall in one of the adjoining rooms, loaded and was preparing to fire.
"Wait until it comes nearer," advised Andrews, "The range is too great."
"Don't advise a soldier on a soldier's practices!" snapped the Colonel before he fired.
The crash of the rifle left some ears ringing for some time after the incident. Those who were able to see through the smoke before it cleared, could see the creature continuing on in its flight as though nothing had ever happened.
"Is there another weapon!" cried Andrews, "By God I need another weapon!"
Someone called out and handed a loaded pistol to the excitable man.
"Ah!" he gasped, "Short range; perhaps it shall suffice."
With that he took aim, fired and shouted in delight.
Those nearest the door saw the creature suddenly fall, wings outstretched, to the ground. Andrews and a few men ran out to the creature. What they saw left all save one speechless.
The ‘creature' was a fabrication.
Its body was made from cloth stretched over a wooden frame. The teeth were steel and sharpened to a deadly point. From the top of the head and the middle of the spine there dangled two pieces of rope. The group of men, at the moment heedless of the significance of their discovery, paraded the thing back to the house in triumph. Andrews received congratulations from some of the men for his timely aim.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," he called, "However, there is a more pressing matter that we must address."
"My God! Is that the creature?" asked Silvia Millington as she came down the stairs.
"It is," said Andrews, "Are you quite recovered from your faint?"
"What? Oh, yes, I'm sorry to have been so much trouble."
Andrews smiled, "Indeed, it was no trouble. You really ought to have attached the teeth more securely."
"What on earth can you mean?" gasped the Colonel, "Are you accusing..."
"I am," said Andrews, "Silvia Millington, nee Grant, was married against her will. Do I speak the truth?"
"You do."
"You're family is all but gone. As is your husband's. You knew that, if your husband should die, all his possessions would pass to you.
"This story of an ancestor beset by some fiend of the night provided the means by which you could arrange for your husband's death. You fabricated the creature and published the diary. Of course, you needed witnesses and so arranged this elaborate display to clear your name. However, being the only person who could operate the creature, you had to remove yourself from the room. Except," Andrews paused, "Except that you were present when the creature first made its appearance."
Andrews, taking Silvia into the great hall, investigated behind the lectern upon which had rested a copy of the so-called manuscript.
"Ah!" cried Andrews.
The congregation had followed them in and were now gathered around. Behind the lectern, disguised by a piece of false panelling was a simple pulley mechanism. It ran down the back of the lectern, under a piece of carpet and into a cavity in the wall.
"A remote mechanism to operate the creature," said Andrews, "I suspected there must be some means by which you could orchestrate the monster's appearance whilst you were present in the room. you had to time it right so as to coincide with the correct part of the story."
Silvia broke down, "It's all true!" she wailed, "I couldn't abide being married to someone I did not love."
Andrews sighed, "An old tale, and one that I am sure will be repeated through the many years to come. I must admit that it was a shot in the dark on my part; however the facts seemed to fit very well. Indeed, it was the metal fang that proved my theory that the creature was a fabrication. The rest was simple reasoning. There were only two people who would be able to arrange such an elaborate hoax; yourself or your husband. The ‘creature' attacked your husband when he ran out and so that eliminated him from my short list of suspects."
Mr Millington, having returned swiftly and heard all as he came in, sat down heavily on a window seat.
"You could have told me," he half-whispered, "There was no need for this elaborate hoax. We could have arranged some other recompense for you."
"You idiot!" shrieked Silvia, all signs of grief vanished from her countenance, "You're family was one of the richest in the country. Mine was a penniless rabble not fit to call themselves noble. With your money I could have become a true member of aristocracy!" she shrieked and wailed as Burton, finally announcing that he was a policeman, escorted her to another room.

In short, for this account has already run to a needless length, the newspapers reported the hoax. Silvia was sent to prison where she resided for some years before dying of an illness. Millington remarried and his line was carried on by his many children.
Andrews, of course, received little credit for the unmasking of the whole affair; Burton, as the only police representative present, was given high praise for his actions. Naturally, he tried to give Andrews his due, but the latter was content that he had done his part and that further tragedy had been averted. He was also content to begin his own preparations for the festive season.