What follows is an excerpt from the files of the Irish branch of Torchwood. Active members at the time of writing include the commander Arven, the second officer Susan, and the medic David. The creation of this team is still a classified story. I bring you this story at great personal risk. The truth must be known!
In the corner of the tavern, the smoldering fire had ebbed to little more than an ember. The room was mostly empty, save for a sparse few regulars, and the hearty rumbling of friendly conversation. A shrill bell punctured the atmosphere, as a voice bellowed "Last call, lads!". In a more modest tone, it added, to an elderly man at the bar,
"Same again Frank?"
"No, I'd better be getting on, really. I've a hankering for a bacon buttie" replied Frank, as he stood up and buttoned his long coat, preparing for for the February chill outside. "See you soon though. Slán".
The streets outside seemed oddly devoid of life, as if even the beetles and bugs had left in search of a more inviting spot, mused Frank to himself. He turned up his collar against the biting wind, the chill giving him a sudden image of a great beast, breathing on his neck, except cold, cold as the grave. With a shudder, he pushed the uninvited image from his mind, attributing it to a bad pint. "You'd jump at your own shadow, Frank" he voiced to nobody. He hoped.
As he continued along the street, he was unable to shake the feeling of being watched. Paranoia crept into his nerve endings, causing him to twitch, each movement bringing with it a fresh flash of panic. Eventually he wheeled around, looking desperately for a source of his discomfort, anything that might explain his unbridled fear. Students playing silly buggers, he'd even accept the judgmental stare of a feral cat! But there was nothing. No explanation for his terror. He breathed an insincere sigh of relief. "It must be in my head. Must be." Feeling slightly better, he turned around, facing again for home. And froze. There it was. Right in the middle of the street. A woman. In white.
He stared at this apparition, dumbfounded, unable to explain how she had arrived. There were no side streets near enough for her to have emerged from... Then, his rational mind stopped. He saw her face, masked by a shear veil, but undeniably grotesque. Grey, peeling skin stretched across a bony outcrop, eyes sunken and milky, unseeing yet piercing, a tangle of matted hair framed her face, her mouth twisted into a leering grimace, revealing rotten, pointed teeth. And then she began to sing.
A haunting, beautiful melody, like a siren's call, reminding Frank of childhood, his mother, and of olden days. For a moment, a brief blissful moment, his fears dropped away... Then, the song changed, in an instant, twisting itself into a discordant wail, increasing in volume, deafening and piercing like a high velocity icepick to the eardrum. Frank screamed in a bizarre harmony to the music, falling to his knees, until, with a gasping rattle, he released his grasp of life.
Meanwhile, the woman's cry echoed across the city, impossibly loud. And though most did not understand it, everyone felt a pang of grief. Something terrible had happened... And three young investigators realised they had received another call to action.
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