People are going missing in the town of Bridgestone, and The Doctor already knows it's nothing human.
The light gave a little glow from the warehouse, tangerine. A light that wasn’t supposed to be.
The caretaker, his body curved by age, sighed. He had already settled down in the building across the street, the television on low volume, a hot cup of tea steaming on the table beside him. Mumbling about whose fault it was this time, he grabbed his coat and the set of keys that gave the only access to the warehouse. It might have been that the lights were playing up again, but it might also have been young pranksters. The town had its own gangs of them, like any home.
Shuffling across the street, the caretaker squinted his old eyes towards the building, confused. The glow was not being emitted from the main bulbs that he had been tasked with looking after; the light had its own base, its own luminance. The caretaker stopped for a moment, almost transfixed by the strange lights.
He pushed at the front door; it was unlocked, and, in fact, the locks had been broken. The caretaker’s eyebrows shot up in disdain. He braced his torch, and barged in.
There was no one there. Even the light had snapped off. The caretaker’s meagre beam searched the corners, but no body lingered there.
“Hello?” the man called. “Who’s there? Don’t hide- I saw your light.”
A low hiss echoed from behind the man. He spun, furious, and eventually the flicker of a multi-coloured garment was picked up by his torchlight.
The hiss again split from the other side of the caretaker. Once more, he turned, but again, all he spotted was the quickly-vanishing fabric. Two hands on the shaking torch, he followed the fabric down to where he knew had to be a dead end.
The sounds of hissing were booming in his ears. Suddenly, a limb wrapped itself around his feet. The torch clattered to the floor.
All that was left of the man were his screams, as he was pulled towards the orange luminescence.