The Horror Megapack_ 25 Classic and Modern Horror Stories ( PDFDrive )

As he reached her side, she shuddered and slumped flat, no longer making
instinctive efforts to protect herself.
Crane rolled her over into the crook of his arm. He saw then what mist and
motion had masked: her throat was savagely torn, her breast and stomach clawed
and lacerated. Her face was a gory crisscross of bruises and slashes. The filmy
fragility of the shoulder-to-hip shawl had not hampered her assailant enough for
him to tear it from her body.
Neither pulse nor breath was perceptible. Though her sweetly curved body was
blood-splashed, her wounds could not have killed her; but terror and despair
could have.
Her face must have been as lovely as her body; but horror blinded him to the
sleekness of her hips and the shapeliness of her legs and firm young breasts. His
eyes narrowed as he recovered sufficiently from the shock to interpret certain
significant signs.
Her hands had the incredible softness of one utterly a stranger to the lightest
work; but what she still clenched in her fingers was a startling revelation.
It was similar in shape to a military campaign badge; purple, with a rosette of
the same color. A decoration awarded to an elect few.
But most revealing of all was the silken shawl. It placed her beyond any
question. There was only one house in Bayonne where the girls paraded in such
costume; and that place was on the street that ran along the city wall.
Then he noted that she was breathing; and a slash on her inside arm was bleeding.
It might not be dangerous, but it was near an artery. He drew a clean
handkerchief from his breast pocket, and devised a tourniquet.
The town was asleep, and he’d have to carry her to the house on the wall; but
first give that tourniquet a twist. He fumbled for a pencil—
But Crane’s first aid was not completed.
The sand of the moat bottom gave no betraying crunch; the mist thinned
moonlight cast no warning shadow; and Crane’s intuition was an instant too late.
He dropped the battered girl, but before he caught more than a fleeting glimpse
of the dark figure which loomed monstrously above him in the grayness, a flying
tackle carried him crashing to the ground.
The impact knocked him breathless. Iron hands clutched his throat; but Crane’s
fist hammered home. Splintered teeth lacerated his knuckles, and blood gushed,
drenching his face. His opponent, snarling scarcely articulate curses, jerked
back. Crane’s boot lashed out.
But the moonlight was blocked by another figure with monstrous, outspread