The clock ticked.

It seemed to be shouting out to the world, louder than usual in the still night, "ANOTHER SECOND HAS GONE! YOU'VE LOST ANOTHER ONE! AND ANOTHER! AND ANOTHER!"

The man watched it, mentally shouting back "SHUT UP!"

His brow was furrowed in intense concentration, mixed with frustration at the incessant interruptions from the clock. He could feel his body decaying with each tick. With every stifled movement of the second hand, he could sense cells dying and brain synapses fading like the light of the day crumbling to twilight.

His twilight. A short-lived one which would rapidly turn to night.

Jackson McKenzie. A man who always pronounced the 's' in his surname even though everyone else insisted it was a 'z'. A man who weighed much less than he should and appeared much darker than he was. He had eyes of such a deep blue they appeared black. A deliberately unshaven face obscured a smile that had been known to win him almost anything he wished for. His hair was short, brown but blackened by the glossing effect of whichever product was currently on offer. His hands were smooth, fingernails neat, one ring on the third finger of each hand to give an unnecessary symmetry purely to appease the slumbering OCD which hid beneath the blanket of his consciousness.

Jackson Mckensie. A man who was 'Jack' to no-one other than his long deceased father. A man who, until recently, had worked in an office, in charge of a small administration team and had enjoyed movies, the occasional beer and the sound of rain on his windows. His eyes would sparkle in time to his smile. His jokes, laced with an intoxicating hint of sarcasm, would inspire laughter. A man with friends and life.

Jackson McKensie. A man with a secret.

He sighed, a weighty release of pent up breath which refused to ease the tension coiling like a snake in his stomach, rising up slowly towards his heart, ready to strike. It was no good. The clock was taunting him. Its hands were wrapping themselves around his mind and strangling it, preventing him from thinking coherently. He knew he was missing something, some key which would unlock whatever door barred the way to the knowledge of what that secret was.

He tried to think back, to recall what may have happened. Had he met someone? Had he hurt someone? Perhaps hit them with a car and his brain had erased the evidence to protect him? Had he stolen something? No. He was no thief, nor was he a careless driver.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

He stood, suddenly, and reached up, taking the clock off its nail above the door to the room. He spun it over and, fumbling slightly as if he was suffering from a migraine which was making his hands shake and his head throb, removed the battery. He returned the clock to its place above the entrance. He smiled, knowing he'd beaten it, knowing he was victorious and the clock's taunts had been silenced.

Jackson McKensie sat down again, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His fingers massaged his temples, wanting to coax the memories forth. They remained hidden, however, sneaking in the shadows of his mind. Come find us, they whispered. Seek us out. Catch us if you can.

He tried to mentally chase them into the light but, when he stepped into the shadows, he felt as if parts of him - of his spirit - were being stripped away. He felt the darkness draining him. Devouring him.

He brought his mind back to the clock. To the deceased timepiece of his torment. Tick, tick, tick it didn't go. His heartbeat filled in the blanks, echoing in his chest in protest to the stifling of its beating sibling.

"I can hardly take my heart out of my chest and take the battery out," he said to the room.

The room didn't answer, indifferent to his woes and his whines.

Jackson stood again and switched on the television. There was nothing in particular he wanted to watch, but he just needed some noise - some aural company. Flicking through the channels, passing news programmes, chat shows, adverts and soaps as if they were prospective passengers at a station and he was the driver of the train but the brakes weren't working properly, he finally settled on Top Gear. Clarkson, Hammond and May, the three kings of motoring comedy, with the Stig their wandering star.

It was an old episode, one which he'd seen before. Clarkson was driving a Reliant Robin - a 'plastic pig' - and it was continuously rolling over as he drove around corners, requiring passersby to help put both it and him back the right way. The corners of Jackson's mouth, though, had seemingly forgotten how to lift. They remained fixed, joined together by a tight line, perhaps weighed down by the deep ruts his frown was creating in his forehead.

He watched it, worrying but not know what, exactly, concerned him. What was the secret? What was so dreadful it filled him with such dread?

His nose twitched. A sneeze building? A stray hair tickling? No. A smell? Sniffing, Jackson walked into the kitchen. He didn't bother with the light, his eyes adjusting quickly from the glare of the television to the gloom of the darkened room. He didn't recognise the smell immediately, but his stomach growled with a sudden hunger. It smelled meaty. Following the odour, he opened his fridge.

Ah. Bacon.

Odd, that he could smell it from the living room, but hey. He was a fan and maybe his mind and his stomach had combined forces to tempt him. Oh well. He wasn't going to argue. A bacon sandwich would do nicely, and would lull his grumbling tummy back to sleep.

Switching on the grill, he laid three slices carefully across the grill-pan. He paused. His stomach knotted. Sod it, he was hungry. It wouldn't hurt, just this once, to have a full pack.

The smell filled the kitchen, and Jackson's nostrils, quickly as he buttered the bread. His hunger was fast becoming a twisted pain in his gut. Surely it hadn't been that long since he'd eaten?

Normally, he preferred his bacon crispy, but he decided to forgo that in this case. The meat could have done with a few more moments, but he felt his whole body was drooling. Though he was normally a patient man, his hunger had turned into a ravenous need and he urgently stuffed the bread with the hot bacon, ignoring his burning fingertips.

He didn't notice he'd finished until he was licking his fingers and wiping his mouth. Jackson McKensie was shocked with himself. He'd never eaten anything like that - so rushed he'd barely chewed the food. Normally, he preferred to savour what he was eating rather than shovel it in as if his stomach was a grave which needed quickly filling lest the corpse inside climb out.

"Come on Jackson," he said to himself. "Sort yourself out. Chill. Get a grip."

Easy for you to say, he replied mentally. You're not the one who has something to hide.

"Well, actually I am. I just don't know what it is."

Well, yes. Of course you are. But still, don't have a go at me. Figure it out or let it drop.

Jackson often spoke to himself like this. He'd argue things out, talking them through until they were resolved. He didn't see it as a form of madness, more self-therapy. He wasn't having a conversation with voices in his head as such, he was more simply working out the kinks. His mental self was right. He had to either figure out what was bothering him or let it go and get on with things. If something cropped up further down the road, then hopefully he'd have the chance to jump out of the way of the oncoming car before it hit and splattered him all over his problems.

Nice turn of phrase.

"Thanks, I do try."

Yes, you do indeed. Very trying.

"Ba-dum, tshhh!"

Smiling, in spite of the cloud hovering over his head zapping him with little lightning bolts, Jackson returned to the room and tried to concentrate on the TV. To a certain extent, he managed it. The episode of Top Gear had finished and been followed by another. The team had to cross the River Kwai and needed to build a bridge of their own to do so. Jackson hadn't seen this one so settled back in the chair and tried to relax.

Usually, relaxation came easily. A little music. Something not too intense on the TV, maybe. A game of something on his phone. Probably a small 'stumpy' bottle of beer, the sort which came in packs of 12 in the local supermarket and cost less than a fiver. Slightly more alcoholic than water but fine for a touch of the 'hard stuff'.

That's the jobbee.

Agreeing, he returned to the kitchen and retrieved a beer from the fridge. The top twisted off and Jackson had downed half the bottle by the time he'd sat back down.

Just the trick.

"You're not wrong."

When am I ever?

"Fair point," he said, smiling.

The smile felt good, and hardly forced. He even managed a laugh as Richard Hammond fell into the river.

A dog began barking from the back of the house.

"Frank!"

He'd always wanted a pug called Frank, ever since he'd first watched Men in Black. His dog was actually a Labrador, and female, but she was still called Frank. With a sigh, he stood again and walked through to the conservatory. Frank tended to like to lay on her bed there. It was cool during the summer months and the front room tended to retain the heat, even with the windows opened. She was a good dog. A little fussy and over playful sometimes, but she knew where the toilet was (not inside the house) and didn't pull when she was walked.

But she would bark at a fart. The slightest sound could whisper by on a breeze and a growl would rumble in the back of her throat, escalating until she could contain it no longer and a tirade of barking would ensue.

Frank was in her usual place, a bed that should have been the wicker sofa for Jackson to sit on during the summer nights, where he'd like to read whilst listening to music, but which was now claimed by the large black Labrador currently barking loudly. When she saw her owner, she cowered down, shrinking back, teeth bared. The barking reverted to its growling phase, a strange mix of fear and warning.

"What's up with you girl? Something in the garden? Someone?"

He peered through the window of the back door. The security light would have been on if someone had, in fact, been prowling where they shouldn't. As expected, he could see nothing.

Somebody probably sneezed three street away or something.

"You're not wrong."

He turned back to his dog. Frank was still snarling and Jackson realised it was aimed at himself. He reached out to stroke Frank's back, to calm her down, but a barely missed snap made him pull his hand back.

"What the...!?"

Shocked, he opened the back door.

"Out!" he commanded.

For a moment, Frank didn't move, then the Labrador dropped off the settee, keeping low to the ground, and sloped outside. Jackson didn't believe in striking his dog, so sending her outside was the easiest way to ensure he kept to that belief.

Bloody dog. Pain in the backside, sometimes.

But you love her anyway.

"Yada, yada."

Again, Jackson returned to the room, intent on losing himself in a television show. Intent on losing the feeling he was missing something, forgetting something... burying something? The chatter of an ad break pulled his attention in, a welcoming lure which made his concerns fade into the inane music and proclamations of SALE PRICES which filled the room. He picked up the remote control and flicked down through the programme guide.

Ah. A crime drama. He liked them, especially the ones produced by this particular channel. Settling back once more, he breathed heavily, expelling his fears to float around the room aimlessly, shades of worry which could alight where they wished as long as they were exorcised from within him.

The programme had just started. A boy had been killed. Found in a forest. He'd been missing four years. A newly promoted officer was in charge - something to prove, lots to lose and an ego with bruises. Jackson momentarily half listened to the TV and half for the sound of Frank barking to be let back in. When the latter didn't happen, the former filled in the gap and held his interest.

Part way through the show, his stomach rumbled its discontent. Without thinking, Jackson grabbed a packet of crisps from the kitchen cupboard and ate them quickly, washed down by the remnants of his small bottle of beer. His nose twitched again, filling with a coppery, vaguely familiar scent. He did his best to ignore the smell, though it made his mouth water and his stomach continue to protest, and concentrated on the drama.

When the programme finished, he slumped back. Without realising, the act of focussing solely on the television was tiring and was making his head throb. The smell still caressed his senses and he felt compelled to investigate.

At least it wasn't bacon.

It occurred to him Frank was very quiet. Maybe she knew she was in his bad books and was keeping out of the way. Well, she'll have learned her lesson by now. Let her in, give her a fuss and a treat and say no more about it. He didn't like to hold grudges, especially not with his dog. He expected her to be waiting by the door. She'd normally stand on the small step outside, body flat against the glass as if she was hoping to melt through to the inside.

She wasn't. Nor was the security light on, triggered by Frank's movements as she sniffed and circled and crapped on the grass.

He opened the door.

"Frank!"

No movement in the darkness. The light from the kitchen didn't venture this far out, preferring to stop at the door and windows of the conservatory and leave the security light to breath light into the outside world.

"Frank?"

Where was she? Had he forgotten to shut the gate properly? She was a right Houdini when she wanted to be.

"Fraaaank!"

He stepped through the door, a sudden breeze snatching his breath, then throwing it back in his face along with a heady dollop of that copper smell. He groaned as his hunger pangs returned with a vengeance, feeling as if claws were dragging up from his stomach to his throat in search of sustenance.

The security light was set to flick on if he, or anyone else, stepped into the main body of the garden. The range of the sensor didn't quite reach to the back door, so he was used to stepping across the pathway to the grass - Jackson still called it grass even though it came on a roll and required hovering rather than cutting. He did so, more worried about his faithful friend than the twisting of his innards.

His foot slipped on something and he stumbled back onto the path. The light flicked on for a moment before dipping off again.

It was enough.

More than enough.

He knew what had happened to Frank. Well, he saw what had happened to her, but his mind couldn't quite sort that into coherent thoughts. She hadn't escaped. She couldn't.

He'd slipped on her. Or part of her. Or part of her insides.

He needed to see again. As much as the vomit was rising in his throat, he had to move forward once more to activate the light to see.

To see...

The blood.

The entrails.

The severed head and the glassy, glaring, accusing eyes.

He swallowed back the upsurge of puke and took a step. The garden was illuminated suddenly, not giving him chance to steel himself against what lay before him.

A savaged animal. A pet torn apart. A garden wet with blood and viscera.

A sob escaped him, desperate to be amongst the remains of his beloved friend. His knees buckled and he fell forward, hands landing in intestines. He raised them up, the thought that he could possibly shove them back into the rent carcass and somehow reanimate the corpse briefly occurring to him.

Then his nose twitched again. The smell, the coppery, heavy scent which had so inflamed his stomach. It was coming from Frank. It was coming from her blood.

Blood.

Jackson Mckensie took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma. His tongue was reaching out from between his lips, a snake wanting to taste the meal before it. Shocked, he dropped the intestines and pushed himself back.

What the hell?

His head was whirling. His eyes were losing their focus as the ruins of his dog seemed to swim towards him, organs dancing with bowels before him.

The twitch, again, caused him to absently scratch his nose. As his arm lifted a searing pain shot through from his elbow to the top of his spine. His head fell back as the base of his skull seemed to explode. The pain then ripped down, making him feel like each vertebrae was popping individually as if made of corn and exposed to a great heat. He arched his back, crying out, his fingers digging into the ground.

His face contorted, at first with agony then with something else. Something more. Something which stretched his features forward. His fingers lengthened, the nails breaking off to remain in the mud as he pulled his hands back. New nails - almost talons - forced themselves forth from the fingertips causing a searing fire to envelope his arms.

Needles seemed to be forcing themselves through his cheeks and the skin of his arms and legs and he raised his hands up to feel. It wasn't needles.

It was hair. Fur.

The growl from his stomach crawled up to his throat and rumbled out into the open air, gleeful and free and corrupt.

Jackson looked up.

The moon was full. The moon was high. The moon lit the sky with an insane blaze which flooded Jackson McKensie's body with madness - a wild, ravaging madness. The moon angered him, enraged him, threatened him.

Jackson McKensie howled at the moon and bounded off into the night to join his brothers.

He was hungry.