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Story three, Cruel Sumner, Hungry Sumner.

The hunched form of what was once a man clambers over broken concrete to peer into the pitch blackness of the old shelter.

There's no light, yet the creature can see almost as clearly as if it were day down in the depths below London.

He's been here a long while, Sumner has, so a bit of pure inky blackness is nothing for him.

Smells the dead, Sumner does.

Sumner mumbles to himself, old spirits, bad gays and ghoulies.

Sumner lifts his head and sniffs long and loud.

Oh yes, yes, many a haunt still in there.

Many a, many a...

Shoving the shelter door wide, Sumner climbs inside on all fours.

He had given up standing straight many, many, many years earlier.

No point down in the dark.

Bump your head, Sumner would.

So, Sumner crawls, one hand in front of the other.

One foot after the other follows behind, has feet are wont to do.