Taking a seat at one of the tables in the small dining area of the Inn, the old woman made her way around the nests of tables and chairs.

"Looks like you've been in a fight," she said, eyeing the cuts and bruises on my face.

"I'm okay," I said, forcing a smile.

"It ain't right," she said, pouring me a mug of coffee.

"What isn't?" I asked.

"A pretty girl like you being a cop 'an all."

"How's that?" I asked, kind of flattered by her remark.

Then looking over her shoulder as if being spied on, she turned to me and said, "If you're not careful, you'll end up dead...or worse."

"What could be worse than being dead?" I asked her, sipping the coffee.

"One of the living-dead," she whispered, and her voice sounded dry and rasping.

Looking into her grey-cloudy eyes, I was just about to ask her to tell me more, when Roland appeared in the doorway that led from the dining area and into the kitchen.

"Mother!" he hollered, and the old woman seemed to flinch at the sound of his voice. "How many times have I told you not to go upsetting the guests with your stupid stories?"

Before turning to face her son, the old woman slipped her hand into her apron, removed something, and gave it to me. Then winking, she said, "That's on the house." Before I had a chance to say anything, she had shuffled away. Uncurling my fingers, I could see that she had slipped me one of the tiny bottles of holy water that I'd seen the previous day.

Hiding it beneath the table, I watched Roland come towards me. His beefy face looked hot and tired. "I'm sorry about that," he blustered. "Mother doesn't know when to stop talking."

"It's okay," I assured him.

"What can I fix you up with?" he asked, wiping his greasy hands on his white apron. Although I felt a little sickened by the sight of his lack of hygiene, my stomach continued to rumble.

"Bacon and eggs would be good," I told him.

"Bacon and eggs it is," he smiled, turning away.

As he wobbled back across the diner, I called after him and said, "I don't suppose you've seen a guy hanging around here this morning?"

Turning to face me, Roland said, "I don't think so. What did he look like?"

"I don't really know," I told him. "He was wearing a hoodie so it was kind of hard to see his face."

"Haven't seen anyone like that," he said. "What did he do?"

Taking the envelope from my pocket, I held it up and said, "He left this tacked to my door about five minutes ago."

"How do you know it was in the last five minutes? It could've been left at anytime." he said.

"The seal is still damp from where he licked it," I told him.

"Oh," said the fat little man, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't suppose you have any CCTV do you?" I asked.

"CC what?" he asked.

"Never mind," I told him and drank my coffee.

Despite Roland's greasy hands and apron, the bacon and eggs were wonderful. The bacon was crispy and the scrambled eggs were light and fluffy. After breakfast, I wrapped up warm and drove my car into town. I wanted to get a better feel of my surroundings and pop into the police station to speak with Sergeant Murphy about what had happened the previous night.

The day was bitterly cold, but the rain had stopped at last. The sky looked like a layer of bruised skin, as dark purple clouds covered the sun. Turning on the car's heater, I warmed myself as I navigated the narrow, winding roads. As I reached town, I couldn't help but notice that the streets and shops were pretty much deserted. I only passed a handful of people, their heads down, as if too scared to make eye contact with anyone. Parking my car in front of a small Post Office, I walked the length of the small high street towards the police station. There was a tea shop, and a couple of old people gathered around a table out of the cold. I passed a shop that sold walking and hiking equipment, but a CLOSED sign hung in the window and the lights were out. There was a fishmonger, butchers, and green-grocers, but none of them seemed very busy, and again I wondered how these little shops made any money.

Turning off the main high street, I made my way up the small cobbled side road towards the police station. Reaching it, I pushed against the door and was surprised to find that it was locked. Standing on tiptoe, I peered through the small front window. The station was in darkness. Biting my lower lip, I wondered why the station wasn't open. Didn't they have a dayshift on duty?

"You won't find anyone on duty at this time of day," someone said from behind me.

Spinning round, I found an elderly gentleman walking his dog. The black-coloured Labrador was taking a leak up a nearby lamppost.

"What did you say?" I asked the man.

"They only seem to work at night," the man said. He looked as if he were in his mid-sixties. He was on the scrawny side, with a wrinkled face and short, white beard. His eyes were a piercing blue. On his head he wore a flat cap, and in his hand he carried a walker's cane, which had a distinctive silver top. He wore a green wax coat, tweed trousers, and a worn pair of hiking boots. Without even knowing that I was doing it, I could tell he was a heavy smoker, he liked a good drink, and he wore glasses to read. At some time in his life, he had been a military man and had served in the parachute regiment. He was returning from a walk along the beach, not the woods, and he was going to have sausages for his dinner, some of which he would probably share with his dog - not with his wife - she was dead and had died recently.

"Don't you know it's rude to stare?" the elderly gentleman asked me.

"I'm sorry," I said, but I couldn't help notice the dark brown nicotine stains on the first two fingers of his right hand, the deep red capillary veins on his cheeks, the pinch marks on either side of the bridge of his nose left by his glasses, the winged crest of the parachute regiment pin attached to the lapel of his jacket, the sand covering the tips of his boots, cane and the paws of his dog, the pack of sausages protruding from his coat pocket and the black armband strapped around his left forearm. Sometimes I wished I didn't have to see all these things. Why couldn't I just look at someone like any ordinary person would? My father called it a 'gift' but I often thought of it as a curse. Sometimes my head felt like it was going to burst with all the information that my eyes absorbed.

"Like I said young lady, you won't find any police on duty at this time of day," the old man said. "If you want to report a crime, come back then."

"Okay, thanks," I said.

"Visiting are you?" he asked, and eyed me with suspicion. "You're not a reporter, are you?"

"Why would I be a reporter?" I said, feeling bemused.

"Come to spread lies about what's been going on in the town?" he said.

"'What's been going on?" I asked.

"Well if you don't know, then let's keep it like that," he said, and whistled for his dog to catch up with him. "What you don't know can't hurt ya."

He whistled again, but his dog seemed reluctant to come towards us. "C'mon you daft thing!" the man spat.

The dog cowered by the lamppost and made a whining noise in the back of its throat. "Come here I'm telling ya!" the man ordered his dog. But again it whined, like it was scared of something.

"What's got into ya?" he asked, walking back towards the animal.

Taking hold of the dog by its collar, he dragged it towards the police station. As they got near, the dog began to bark and howl. I watched the man struggle with his pet, as it dug its claws into the street, not wanting to come too close to the police station.

"Stop messing about, you stupid thing," the old man shouted and slapped the dog's hind quarters. Again, the dog howled as it was dragged nearer to the station. Then, as the old man succeeded in drawing the dog level with me, it started to snarl. Its lips rolled back from its teeth in anger - or was it fear? Looking back at the empty building, I could only wonder what had upset the animal so much.

With a struggle, the old man managed to get his dog past the station and almost at once the dog seemed to calm down. Looking back at me, the old man said, "So long, pretty lady. Whatever your business in The Ragged Cove is, leave as soon as you can." Then releasing his dog, he followed it away and out of sight.

Pushing against the door of the police station one more time, I made my way back to my car. Sitting behind the wheel and strumming my fingers on the dashboard, I thought about what the old man had said. Why weren't there any police officers on duty during the day in The Ragged Cove? Then, realising I knew very little about my colleagues, I wondered where they went, where they lived, and what they did in such a small town when not on duty.

Outside the Post Office, I noticed a public telephone box and it gave me an idea. Climbing from my car, I went to the phone box and yanked open the heavy red door. On the off chance, I lifted the receiver and wasn't surprised to find the line was dead. But it wasn't the telephone I wanted, it was the telephone directory. Taking it from beneath the phone, I thumbed through it until I got to the letter 'M'. How many Murphys could there be in such a small town as this? Running my finger down the list, I couldn't find one Murphy listed. I then looked under 'P' for Potter, but again there wasn't anyone with that surname living in town. Drawing a deep breath, I turned to the letter 'B' and just like the others, there wasn't anyone with the name Bishop listed either.

Stepping out of the phone box, I went into the Post Office. By the door, there was a stand that contained postcards. Taking the first one that came to hand - I really didn't care what picture was on the front - I wrote this message.

Dear Sgt Phillips,I believe I'm in great danger in the Ragged Cove. I don't want to leave my post - but please come. Your help and advice urgently needed.Kiera Hudson. I quickly scribbled the address of Police Headquarters onto the card and bought a stamp from the postmistress. Taking it from me, she placed it into a sack that hung on the wall behind her. Leaving the Post Office, I went back to my car and drove away. As it was still early, I decided to go back to the church. I wanted to examine the open grave in daylight - I needed to know if there was anything that I'd missed and anything that might lead me to the vampires, if that's what Kristy Hall had really transformed into. Not only that, I wanted to have my facts straight for when I returned for my nightshift. I suspected that Sergeant Murphy would want a full account of what had happened.

Following the winding roads out of town, I managed to find my way back to the church. Parking just down the road from the front gate that led into the graveyard, I climbed from the car. The day had turned bitterly cold, and I thrust my hands into my coat pockets. My fingers brushed against the bottle of holy water and the crucifix and I hoped I wouldn't have to use them again so soon.

As I approached the wall circling the graveyard, I could see flecks of white paint where I'd crashed the car. The gate wailed on its rusty hinges as I made my way into the graveyard. I weaved through the gravestones and although it was day, it took nothing away from the creepiness of the place. As I made my way deeper into the graveyard and towards the overhang of the trees in the corner, I could see two people standing by the desecrated grave that I'd climbed into the night before.

Crouching, I ducked behind a gravestone and peered into the distance. One of them was the priest, Father Taylor, and the other I couldn't quite see. Darting from my cover, I raced towards another gravestone and snuck behind it. From here, I had a better view of the second person. Looking at them, my stomach began to knot and my mouth turned dry, realising Father Taylor was deep in conversation with the hooded man who'd been following me and leaving crucifixes outside my bedroom door. Shifting my position behind the grave, I strained to see his face beneath that hoodie. But however much I tried, it was dark beneath the trees, and the overcast sky only made it more difficult to see him. I was too far away to hear what they were saying to one another. From my hiding place, I watched them talk. Several times the hooded man pointed into the open grave.

After only a few minutes of spying on them, they shook hands, and Father Taylor walked away. And as he did, I noticed that he was limping. He hadn't done so the night before - I was sure of it - I would have seen it.

Making myself as small as possible, the priest walked right past me on the other side of the gravestone that I was crouching behind. I watched him go back towards the church. Turning back to spy on the hooded male, I watched him kneel down and carryout some kind of an inspection of the earth around the open grave. Taking a small bag from his jacket pocket, he scooped up some of the earth and placed it inside the bag.

As I watched, part of me wanted to sneak up on him, pull back his hood and find out his identity. But what if he saw me? I'd already had a confrontation with him and come off worse for it. So I decided to wait for him to finish whatever it was that he was doing, then follow him. After all, he knew where he could find me and it would be nice to be on equal terms. I didn't have to wait long before he turned away from the open grave and started back across the graveyard.

Peering over the top of the grave, I watched him go to the front of the church, where he disappeared from view. Scrambling to my feet, I darted amongst the gravestones, desperate to catch up with him. As I neared the front of the church, I saw the male speed out from the other side on his bike and cycle down the path to the gate. On reaching it, he lent forward, pulled it open and maneuvered through it and was gone. Then a thought hit me and I froze. To get back down the road, he would have to cycle past my car. He would know that it was mine - how many other beat-up old red Mini's were there in the town?

Keeping as low as possible, I made my way towards the wall. Peeking over it, I could just make out my car parked further down the road next to the hedgerows. I couldn't see the cyclist. Passing through the gate, I made my way towards my car. Once I was sure that he wasn't nearby, I ran towards it, wanting to catch up, so I could follow him from afar and see where it was he was headed.

Climbing into my car, I started the engine, and turned the car on to the road. Hitting the accelerator, I drove back towards the town, scanning the road ahead for the cyclist. After a mile or so, I'd hoped that I would have seen him ahead of me, but it was like he had vanished. Then glancing in my rear view mirror, I hit my brakes. He was tailing me on his bike. Not believing what I was seeing, I pulled over and stopped, but kept the engine running - just in case. I stared at him in the rearview mirror and waited for him to draw level with me, but he didn't. Once he was within a hundred yards or so of my car, he stopped in the road.

Jumping from my car in frustration, I clenched my fists and shouted up the road at him, "What do you want from me?"

Again he said nothing, but just sat on his bike, staring at me from the shadows of his hood.

"Right, you chicken-shit," I said under my breath. "I've had enough of your fun and games." Then climbing back into my car, I spun it around in the road and raced towards him. On seeing me coming, he took something white from his coat pocket, lent over on his bike and attached whatever it was onto a branch protruding from the hedgerow. Then swooping left on his bike, he cycled away and sped down a narrow lane set between two fields.

Pulling alongside the lane, I could see that it was far too narrow for me to drive my car down. Thumping the steering wheel with my fist, I screamed in anger as I watched him disappear into the distance. Looking to my right, I tried to see what it was he had placed in the bushes. Climbing from my car, I went over to find that the male had skewered a folded piece of paper onto a branch. With the edges of the paper flapping in the breeze, I pulled it free. Unfolding the note, I read what was written upon it.

Sorry, didn't mean to hurt you yesterday. There is more danger to come - be careful.

I looked at the piece of paper and I knew that the cyclist had been aware of my presence in the graveyard the whole time. The piece of paper had been torn from a bigger piece. In the far corner, I could just make out the word 'Mary's', which suggested that he had taken it from a piece of headed note paper from St. Mary's church. The only opportunity he would've had to write the message was while he'd gone to the church to collect his bike after leaving the graveyard. And if he'd written the note then, he must have been aware of my presence in the graveyard. He then hid somewhere along the road and waited for me to pass him in my car.

Whoever he was - I was certain that he meant me no real harm. He'd had a couple of opportunities to do so. But who was he? And why did he have to behave as if he were some kind of guardian angel?

Tucking the note into my jeans pocket, I got back into my car and headed back towards the Inn. As I pulled-up out front, the first specks of snow flurried past on the wind. Hurrying to my room, I pulled the bedcovers over my head and tried to get some rest before my next vampire shift began later that evening.