I was dead. No, I was dying. My last memory were the blinding headlights of a lorry. I told myself, if only I'd listened, if only I'd stayed. But it was too late. The night had won. The fight was over. That's not the beginning. Far from it, my story began in a small town up North, in Lancashire, a tiny place called South Hill. A place where I was just a seventeen-year-old and the words vampire, werewolf, and witch were creations of fiction.