"Just what I'm looking for," said Michael.

He led the dog into its new home. When it saw them come in, the cat arched its back and retreated on tip-toes to the back of the room. Every hair on its body was electrified, standing straight in terror and outrage.

"I think we understand one another very well now," said Michael.

The cat said nothing.

12 BOLINBROKE AVENUE.

Peter James.

IT WAS A pleasant-looking mock Tudor semi, with a cherry tree in the front garden and a wooden birdbath. There was nothing immediately evident about the property to suggest a reason for the terror Susan Miller felt each time she saw it.

Number twelve. White letters on the oak door. A bra.s.s knocker. And in the distance, the faint sound of the sea. She began to walk up the path, her speed increasing as she came closer, as if drawn by an invisible magnet. Her terror deepening, she reached forward and rang the bell.

"Susan! Susan, darling! It's OK. It's OK!"

The dull rasp faded in her ears; her eyes sprang open; she gulped down air, staring out into the darkness of the bedroom. "I'm sorry," she whispered, hoa.r.s.ely. "The dream. I had the dream."

Tom settled back down with a grunt of disapproval and was asleep again in moments. Susan lay awake, listening to the steady, endless roar of the traffic on the M6 pouring past Birmingham, fear roaring like an icy flood-stream through her.

She got out of bed and walked over to the window, afraid to go back to sleep. Easing back the edge of a curtain, she stared out into the night; the large illuminated letters advertising IKEA dominated the horizon.

The dream was getting more frequent. The first time had been on Christmas Eve some ten years back, and for a long while it had recurred only very occasionally. Now it was happening every few weeks.

After a short while, exhaustion and the cold of the late October air lured her back into bed. She snuggled up against Tom's unyielding body and closed her eyes, knowing the second nightmare which always followed was yet to come, and that she was powerless to resist it.

Christmas Eve. Susan arrived home laden with last-minute shopping, including a few silly gifts for Tom to try to make him smile; he rarely smiled these days. His car was in the drive, but when she called out he did not respond. Puzzled, she went upstairs, calling his name again. Then she opened the bedroom door.

As she did so, she heard the creak of springs and the rustle of sheets. Two naked figures writhing on the bed swirled in unison towards her. Their shocked faces stared at her as if she was an intruder, had no right to be there. Strangers. A woman with long red hair and a grey-haired man. Both of them total strangers making love in her bed, in her bedroom. In her house.

But instead of confronting them, she backed away, rapidly, confused, feeling as if it was herself who was the intruder. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry. I'm-"

Then she woke up.

Tom stirred, grunted, then slept on.

Susan lay still. G.o.d it was so vivid this time, it seemed to be getting more and more vivid just recently. She had read an article in a magazine recently about interpreting dreams, and she tried to think what this one might be telling her.

Confusion was the theme. She was getting confused easily these days, particularly over time. Often she'd be on the verge of starting some job around the house, then remember that she had already done it; or rushing out to the shops to buy something she had already just bought. Stress. She had read about the effects of stress, in another magazine she got most of her knowledge from magazines and that it could cause all kinds of confusion and tricks of the mind.

And she knew the source of the stress, also.

Mandy. The new secretary at the Walsall branch of the Allied Chester and North East Building society, where Tom was deputy manager. Tom had told her about Mandy's arrival a year ago, and had then never mentioned her since. But she had watched them talking at the annual Christmas party last year, to which spouses and partners were invited. They had talked a d.a.m.ned sight too much for Susan's liking. And they e-mailed each other a d.a.m.ned sight too much.

She had not been sure what to do. At thirty-two she had kept her figure through careful eating and regular aerobics, and still looked good. She took care over her short brown hair, over her makeup and her clothes. There wasn't much else she could do, and confronting Tom without any evidence would have made her look foolish. Besides, she was under doctor's orders to stay calm. She had given up work in order to relax and improve her chances of conceiving the child they had been trying for these past five years. She had to stay calm.

Unexpectedly, the solution presented itself when Tom arrived home that evening.

"Promotion?' she said, her eyes alight with excitement.

"Yup! You are now looking at the second youngest ever Branch Manager for the Allied Chester and North East Building society! But," he added hesitantly, "it's going to mean moving."

"Moving? I don't mind at all, darling!" Anywhere, she thought. The further the better. Get him away from that b.l.o.o.d.y Mandy! "Where to?"

"Brighton."

She could scarcely believe her luck. In their teens, Tom had taken her for a weekend to Brighton; it was the first time they had been away together; the bed in the little hotel had creaked like mad, and someone in the room below had hollered at them and they'd had to stuff sheets into their mouths to silence their laugher. "We're going to live in Brighton?"

"That's right!"

She flung her arms around him. "When? How soon?"

"They want me to take over the branch at the start of the New Year. So we have to find a house pretty smartly."

Susan did a quick calculation. It was now mid November. "We'll never find somewhere and get moved in within a month. We've got to sell this place, we've got to-"

"The Society will help. They're relocating us, all expenses paid, and we get a lump sum allowance for more expensive housing in the south. They're giving me the week off next week so we can go there and look around. I've told the relocations officer our budget and she's contacting some local estate agents for us."

The first particulars arrived two days later in a thick envelope. Susan opened it in the kitchen and pulled out the contents, whilst Tom was gulping down his breakfast. There were about fifteen houses, mostly too expensive. She discarded several, then read the details of one that was well within their range, a very ugly box of a house with a small but charming garden, close to the sea. She liked the idea of living close to the sea, but not the house. Still, she thought. You spend most of your time indoors, not looking at the exterior, so she put it aside as a possible and turned to the next.

As she saw the picture, she froze. Couldn't be, she thought, bringing it closer to her eyes. Could not possibly be. She stared hard, struggling to control her shaking hands, at a mock Tudor semi identical to the one she always saw in her dream. Coincidence, she thought, feeling a tightening knot in her throat. Coincidence. Has to be. There are thousands of houses that look like this.

Twelve Bolinbroke Avenue.

Number twelve, she knew, was the number on the door in her dream.

The distant roar of the sea she always heard in that dream.

Maybe she had seen the house when they had been to Brighton previously. How long ago was that? Fourteen years? But even if she had seen it before, why should it have stuck in her mind?

"Anything of interest?" Tom said, reaching out and turning the particulars of the ugly box round to read them. Then he pulled the details of the semi out of her hands, rather roughly. "This looks nice," he said. "In our bracket. In need of some modernization. That's estate agent-speak for a near wreck. Means if we do it up it could be worth a lot more."

Susan agreed that they should see the house. She had to see it to satisfy herself that it was not the one in the dream; but she did not tell Tom that; he had little sympathy for her dreams.

The estate agent drove them himself. He wore a sharp suit, white socks and smelled of hair gel. "Great position," he said. "One of the most sought-after residential areas of Hove. Five minutes walk to the beach. Hove Lagoon close by, great for kids. And it's a bargain for this area. A bit of work and you could increase the value a lot." He turned into Bolinbroke Avenue, and pointed with his finger. "There we are."

Susan bit her lip as they pulled up outside number twelve. Her mouth was dry and she was shaking badly. Terror was gripping her; the same terror she previously experienced only in her dreams, gripped her like a claw.

The only thing that was different was the For Sale board outside. She could see the cherry tree; the wooden bird bath. She could hear the sea. There was no doubt in her mind; absolutely no doubt at all.

She climbed out of the car as if she were back in her dream, and led the way up the path. Exactly as she always did in her dream, she reached out her hand and rang the bell.

After a few moments the door was opened by a woman in her forties, with long red hair. She had a pleasant, open-natured smile at first, but when she saw Susan, all the colour drained from her face. She looked as if she had been struck with a sledgehammer.

Susan was staring back at her in amazement. There was no mistaking, absolutely no mistaking at all. "Oh my G.o.d," she said, the words blurting out. "You're the woman I keep seeing in my dream."

"And you," she replied, barely able to get the words out, "Y you you are the ghost that's been haunting our bedroom for the past ten years."

Susan stood, helpless, waves of fear rippling her skin. "Ghost?" she said finally.

"You look like our ghost; you just look so incredibly like her." She hesitated. "Who are you? How can I help you?"

"We've come to see around the house."

"See around the house?" she sounded astonished.

"The estate agent made an appointment." Susan turned to look at him for confirmation, but could not see him or Tom or the car.

"There must be a mistake," the woman said. "This house is not on the market."

Susan looked round again, disoriented. Where were they? Where the h.e.l.l had they gone? "Please," she said. "This ghost I resemble who who is was she?"

"I don't know; neither of us do. But about ten years ago some building society manager bought this house when it was a wreck, murdered his wife on Christmas eve and moved his mistress in. He renovated the house, and cemented his wife into the bas.e.m.e.nt. The mistress finally cracked after a couple of years and went to the police. That's all I know."

"What what happened to them?"

The woman was staring oddly at her, as if she was trying to see her but no longer could. Susan felt swirling cold air engulfing her. She turned, bewildered. Where the h.e.l.l was Tom? The estate agent? Then she saw that the For Sale board had gone from the garden.

She was alone, on the step, facing the closed front door.

Number twelve. She stared at the white plastic letters; the bra.s.s knocker. Then, as if drawn by that same d.a.m.ned magnet, she felt herself being pulled forward, felt herself gliding in through the solid oak of the door.

I'll wake up in a moment, she thought. I'll wake up. I always do. Except she knew, this time, something had changed.

APPEt.i.tE FOR MURDER.

Simon R. Green.

I NEVER WANTED to be a detective. But the call went out, and no one else stood up, so I sold my soul to the company store, for a badge and a gun and a shift that never ends.

The Nightside is London's very own dirty little secret; a hidden realm of G.o.ds and monsters, magic and murder, and more sin and temptation than you can shake a wallet at. People come to the Nightside from all over the world, to indulge the pleasures and appet.i.tes that might not have a name, but certainly have a price. It's always night in the Nightside, always three o'clock in the morning, the hour that tries men's souls and finds them wanting. The sun has never shone here, probably because it knows it isn't welcome. This is a place to do things that can only be done in the shadows, in the dark.

I'm Sam Warren. I was the first, and for a long time the only, detective in the Nightside. I worked for the authorities, those grey and faceless figures who run the Nightside, in as much as anyone does, or can. Even in a place where there is no crime, because everything is permitted, where sin and suffering, death and d.a.m.nation are just business as usual . . . there are still those who go too far, and have to be taken down hard. And for that, you need a detective.

We don't get many serial killers in the Nightside. Mostly because amateurs don't tend to last long among so much professional compet.i.tion. But I was made detective, more years ago than I care to remember, to hunt down the very first of these human monsters. His name was Shock Headed Peter. He killed 347 men, women and children, before I caught him. Though that's just an official estimate; we never found any of his victims' bodies. Just their clothes. Wouldn't surprise me if the real total was closer to a thousand. I caught him and put him away; but the things I saw, and the things I had to do, changed me forever.

Made me the Nightside's detective, for all my sins, mea culpa.

I'd just finished eating when the call came in. From the H.P. Love-craft Memorial Library, home to more forbidden tomes under one roof than anywhere else. Browse at your own risk. It appeared the Nightside's latest serial killer had struck again. Only this time he'd been interrupted, and the body was still warm, the blood still wet.

I strode through the library accompanied by a Mister Pettigrew, a tall stork-like personage with wild eyes and a shock of white hair. He gabbled continuously as we made our way through the tall stacks, wringing his bony hands against his sunken chest. Mister Pettigrew was Chief Librarian, and almost overcome with shame that such a vulgar thing should have happened in his library.

"It's all such a mess!" he wailed. "And right in the middle of the Anthropology Section. We've only just finished refurbishing!"

"What can you tell me about the victim?" I said patiently.

"Oh, he's dead. Yes. Very dead, in fact. Horribly mutilated, Detective! I don't know how we're going to get the blood out of the carpets."

"Did you happen to notice if there were any . . . pieces missing, from the body?"

"Pieces? Oh dear," said Mister Pettigrew. "I can feel one of my heads coming on. I think I'm going to have to go and have a little lie down."

He took me as far as the Anthropology Section, and then disappeared at speed. It hadn't been twenty minutes since I got the call, but still someone had beaten me to the body. Crouching beside the b.l.o.o.d.y mess on the floor was the Nightside's very own super-heroine, Ms Fate. She wore a highly polished black leather outfit, complete with full face mask and cape; but somehow on her it never looked like a costume or some fetish thing. It looked like a uniform. Like work clothes. She even had a utility belt around her narrow waist, all golden clasp and bulging little pouches. I thought the high heels on the boots were a bit much, though. I came up on her from behind, making no noise at all, but she still knew I was there.

"h.e.l.lo, Detective Warren," she said, in her low smoky voice, not even glancing round. "You got here fast."

"Happened to be in the neighbourhood," I said. "What have you found?"

"All kinds of interesting things. Come and have a look."

Anyone else I would have sent packing, but not her. We'd worked a bunch of cases together, and she knew her stuff. We don't get too many super-heroes or vigilantes in the Nightside, mostly because they get killed off so d.a.m.n quickly. Ms Fate, that dark avenger of the night, was different. Very focused, very skilled, very professional. Would have made a good detective. She made room for me to crouch down beside her. My knees made loud cracking noises in the library hush.

"You're looking good, detective," Ms Fate said easily. "Have you started dying your hair?"

"Far too much grey," I said. "I was starting to look my age, and I couldn't have that."

"I've questioned the staff," said Ms Fate. "Knew you wouldn't mind. No one saw anything, but then no one ever does, in the Nightside. Only one way in to this Section, and only one way out, and he would have had blood all over him, but . . ."

"Any camera surveillance?"

"The kind of people who come here, to read the kind of books they keep here, really don't want to be identified. So, no surveillance of any kind, scientific or mystical. There's major security in place to keep any of the books from going walkabout, but that's it."

"If our killer was interrupted, he may have left some clues behind," I said. "This is his sixth victim. Maybe he got sloppy."

Ms Fate nodded slowly, her expression unreadable behind her dark mask. Her eyes were very blue, very bright. "This has got to stop, detective. Five previous victims, all horribly mutilated, all with missing organs. Different organs each time. Interestingly enough, the first victim was killed with a blade, but all the others were torn apart, through brute strength. Why change his MO after the first killing? Most serial killers cling to a pattern, a ritual, that means something significant to them."

"Maybe he decided a blade wasn't personal enough," I said. "Maybe he felt the need to get his hands dirty."

We both looked at the body in silence for a while. This one was different. The victim had been a werewolf, and had been caught in mid-change as he died. His face had elongated into a muzzle, his hands had claws, and patches of silver-grey fur showed clearly on his exposed skin. His clothes were ripped and torn and soaked with blood. He'd been gutted, torn raggedly open from chin to crotch, leaving a great crimson wound. There was blood all around him, and more spattered across the spines of books on the shelves.

"It's never easy to kill a werewolf," Ms Fate said finally. "But given the state of the wound's edges, he wasn't cut open. That rules out a silver dagger."

"No sign of a silver bullet either," I said.

"Then we can probably rule out the Lone Ranger." She rubbed her bare chin thoughtfully. "You know; the extent of these injuries reminds me a lot of cattle mutilations."