The beast stalked, drooling, along the unlit street. I could hear his laboured breath, the rasping sound of spittle sucked in and forced out through a tight throat. I was afraid to approach the cracked panes of the window for fear that he was outside, waiting, with eyes afire and lips pulled back over curved yellow fangs. The sound of his footsteps told me he was near enough to detect my scent, but I knew not how far the disease had distorted his senses. I slumped against the wall beside its fragile opening, newly aware of the sound of my own laboured, rasping breath.
Jools Banwell currently lives in Sheffield, UK with her two cats, and works as a university lecturer. She was shortlisted for the Penguin Random House WriteNow scheme in 2016 and had a poem published in The NW zine’s second issue last year. She is a writer of fantasy fiction and of poetry, and has almost finished her first novel. She blogs at https://joolsb695987447.wordpress.com/