Witch's Bile Part One: Eliza Says Hi.

Before we start I would like to say that this is the first instalment in what will be an series of short stories about Eliza Belmont. She's a witch, and she hates everything. As regular readers will know, she has previously appeared in Eliza is a Witch and I Can't Be Any Clearer. I liked her so much I wanted to write more things for her, so this is the first in what will be a series of stories under the heading Witch's Bile. I hope you enjoy reading her as much as I enjoyed writing her.

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WITCH'S BILE PART ONE: ELIZA SAYS HI.

I moved to America because I hate it here. I never feel any inclination to go outside, to talk to anyone, to find out how anyone’s day has been. Yes, it’s big enough to get lost in, but anyone who knows me, or knew me, would know me well enough to know that I’d never hide out here.

I haven’t been hiding. Scratch that. Hiding implies…fear. I’ve been avoiding. Avoiding, yes. Fuck hiding.

And if I’m being honest I can’t say that I hate America too much, at least not anymore. I suppose it’s grown on me. I mean, I’ve held onto my accent, as you can tell. I’ve held onto it like a whore to a headboard. Which makes them more curious. All these welcoming little towns, all these welcoming little people (not all of them little, mind you) so inquisitive about their new neighbours. Well, the welcome stops once they find out what I am and that’s fine by me.

I’m a witch. But you know that. I’ve been told that the purpose of these tapes is to account for my actions over the past few years and to keep you informed as to what my actions continue to be. Clunky wording. Anyway, it sounded like a stupid idea. I was going to say “Why didn’t you just punish me?” but then this is punishment, isn’t it, Émilie Étienne? Clever bitch. Full name appropriate. You earn the full version. Spat.

So what am I doing here? That’s question one, right? I ran away. I wanted to be left alone. I felt that the coven was getting a little too…rigid and I wanted to be free to do whatever I wanted. You were telling us when and where we could do what we do and I had no interest in that. Still don’t. Of course, one of the disadvantages of running away from an oppressive regime like yours is that you sacrifice most of your freedom just to keep your head down. Can’t have anyone noticing me fixing the telly or killing somebody.

And yes, I’ve killed. I’ve killed quite a lot but this is only because people are too inquisitive for their own good. Like I said: small towns. People wondering what exactly that strange middle aged woman with the mad hair is doing behind those closed curtains. Finally, a neighbourhood kid breaks in to prove he’s not scared, and so I give him something to be scared about. The first child I sent back outside with all the skin removed from his face provoked the biggest scream I’ve ever heard, so big I found the name of the boy responsible and wrote it down. Edgar Fortham. Big kid. Big lungs.

Anyway, I moved, didn’t I? I couldn’t stay there. And in the next town I told everyone exactly what I was, and made it clear what would happen if I wasn’t left alone. And what happened? Exactly the same thing. Except this time I didn’t stop at the face, I took his heart too. I stopped the half-measures. But people, and I’ve learned this is especially true of children, never do what you tell them to.

Was I practising magic in the meantime, killing aside? Of course. But never too much, always keeping it quiet enough that you people wouldn’t notice. I know how it works. As long as you keep it small, insignificant, things get past you, Émilie, queen bee, even if you pretend they don’t. But then there was the incident last week. Four bodies in one night. I didn’t have time to clean up properly; apparently they found teeth in the carpet. Teeth. I’m getting sloppy.

But I’d already left and found a new home. I’m there not two days before your lackey comes knocking on my door. Dressed formally. A card announcing who she is. Blonde hair down to her skinny waist. Tight little smile. So pleased to be on official business. And she had that telephone with her. She gave it to me and before I could think, I took it. And there was your voice.

“Eliza, how lovely to hear from you,” you said, before I’d said a word. And I knew I was fucked.

And you explained how you’d found me. How you’d decided to send this little blonde girl to tell me. How you want her to be my protégé. Then you hung up before I could really get going on my protest so I took it out on the girl. Jo, she said her name was. Yeah, Jo got an earful.

I know you like this system, this mentoring the next generation thing, but I don’t see what she’s going to learn from me. I can teach her how to be a reclusive freak who kills small children, is that what you wanted? I can teach her to hate you. I’ve certainly got that down. Or I could set her on fire. But you’ve got me trapped now, you’ve got me cornered. So I suppose I’m stuck with her. She told me she couldn’t wait to work with me. What exactly did you tell her about me?

So, this is Eliza, telling you to go fuck yourself, and thanks for the assistant. I’m sure she’s in constant contact with you and you’ll be telling her what to do, so let’s see how long she lasts.

One thing that has made my day: The look on her face when I told her that I was your daughter. I take it you’ve still got the body of a twenty nine year old, you old bitch. Ha. Whatever I slithered out of was at least a hundred. 

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Eliza and Jo will return in Witch's Bile Two: Getting to Know You.

I hope you enjoyed it, please let me know what you thought! 

I Can't Be Any Clearer

It wasn’t the sound of the back door opening that woke me up. It was the sound of the door closing. The latch clicks so noisily, I had been thinking about getting it fixed but it’s really useful for situations like this. There are other ways of being alerted to the fact that somebody’s breaking into your home but most of those involve other people being made aware of it too. I don’t want anybody coming to help me. I’ve noticed that a lot of you Americans have guns for home protection. Which is fine, I suppose. I can see the appeal, but they’re not particularly elegant, are they?

Anyway, I lay still for a moment, wondering what could have possessed someone to do something quite so stupid, what possible motivation there could have been. Then I got up. I stopped myself cracking my knuckles, just in case I needed to do so for dramatic effect later.

I went quietly to the top of the stairs and listened for a moment. I could hear hissed conversation, four distinct voices. Judging by the overpowering scent of Lynx deodorant and beer, I guessed that they were teenagers. Just what I needed, I thought. Drunk, stupid teenagers. I sighed and cracked my knuckles, making a lovely sharp noise. I heard a cry of alarm and three voices telling whoever had exclaimed to be quiet, for fuck’s sake.

“You can’t get out,” I said. This was true. I also counted on it scaring the piss out of them, whether they believed it or not.

The four voices stopped bickering. I could hear their breathing, that particular noise that people make when they’re trying to be silent. I thought about the best course of action to take. The one that would require the least amount of fuss. Cleaning up is such a hassle and people would notice that they’d gone. But then, a point had to be made. And I was already up. I might as well do things properly. I turned the light on in the hallway and cleared my throat.

“If you come out, I won’t hurt you.”

There was a pause, and more hushed arguing. I drummed my fingers against the bannister, loud enough for the noise to carry. There was the sound of a brief scuffle, and I distinctly heard the words “Fucking pussy!” being spat. Then a young man shuffled out and stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at me. He had shoulder length lank hair that had been dyed black, a baggy black t-shirt with what I assumed was a popular band’s insignia printed on it, and black jeans that were much too small for him.

“Please,” he said, pushing his hair out of his face. “I just want to go home.” From the look in his eyes, I could tell that he meant it. But, like I said, a point had to be made.

I smiled and focused on his heart-beat. He started to whimper as I found the rhythm, then screamed as I perforated his heart, lungs, and stomach. Blood began to ooze from his mouth and he turned to face the kitchen. I could imagine the horrified expressions on the faces of his friends as they watched him die. When I felt the moment was right I punctured his brain and he dropped to the floor like a stone. This is a trick that I picked up some years ago. Once you know how it’s really quite easy, especially if the person is panicking.

As the screaming started I made my way down. I saw two figures make a run for the basement door under the stairs, which seemed like an incredibly bad decision on their part. Although it was currently unoccupied there was absolutely no means of escape from there and I hadn’t got around to replacing the light bulb. I let them go. They slammed the door behind them, leaving a boy in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at me.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt him,” he said. He had similar shoulder-length hair to the dead boy, though his was light brown. Large wire-framed glasses threatened to fall off the end of his nose. He was so skinny his t-shirt hung off his shoulders and shook as he shivered. He looked familiar. He also looked surprisingly unsurprised at what he’d just witnessed.

“He broke into my house. There are consequences for that. And why aren’t you screaming, boy?” I asked. When he didn’t answer I drew closer. “What are you doing in my home?”

“I had to show them,” he told me. “They didn’t believe me; they said I was a liar.”

“What didn’t they believe?” I asked. He hadn’t looked away.

“That you were a witch, Eliza” he said. I grinned.

“Well, clearly, they should have. How do you know me?”

The boy looked away for the first time, over at the body lying on the floor. It was bleeding onto the carpet. Sadly there is no spell on earth that can get blood stains out of carpeting once it’s in there.

“You killed my brother,” he said. As I opened my mouth to answer, he continued. “No, not him. He’s just a friend from school. I told him not to come, but he wouldn’t listen. He was trying to impress the others.”

I could hear whispering from behind the cellar door but I decided to ignore that for the moment. Instead, I put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Oliver,” he said.

“So, Oliver, I killed your brother. In which case, what on Earth are you doing here? Have you come for revenge? Have you come to join him? Because that can be arranged.”

He shook his head. “I wanted to be sure,” he said. “I wanted to know that I wasn’t crazy, that you were what I thought. That I remembered.”

“Well, if you want more proof,” I said, and clicked my fingers.

The cellar door swung open and I pulled the two cowardly boys into the corridor. They were muscle bound; short blonde hair and lovely blue eyes, probably brothers, wearing those ridiculous letter jackets that only the popular sporty boys are allowed to wear here. I made them hover about a foot off the ground as I plucked those blue eyes from their sockets. When I made a start on their impossibly white teeth Oliver started to shout, screaming at me to stop it. I paused, mainly so I could make myself heard over all the howling.

“What did you think was going to happen, Oliver? What was the plan here? Were you going to burn me at the stake? Is the rest of the town outside with pitchforks?”

He looked up at me, tears streaking down his face. And he started to talk. He told me about how terrible his life had been since I had taken his brother from him. How his parents had started fighting and stopped talking before finally splitting up and how his mother was married to another man in another state and how they had died in a car crash two Christmases ago and how his dad was in a coma after taking an overdose of painkillers that didn’t quite do the job. How he’d been moved to this town and a new foster home, only to realise that I had moved here too. I’m giving you the broad strokes because that’s all I managed to get through his sobbing. Clearly, something had gone wrong in the boy’s head, he needed what the people in this country are so fond of referring to as closure.

“I remember your brother now,” I told him. “I remember you, too. I let you go, about six years ago, wasn’t it? Your brother and his friends broke into my house to see if I had any, what was it they called it? ‘Witch Stuff’ I think they said, wonderfully imaginative. You were standing guard outside, shivering and trembling. He was punished for it. One moment he was standing in my living room, then he blinked, and he was in a crematorium’s furnace. It was relatively quick, I’m sure. Those things burn very hot.”

This didn’t help. Oliver kept on crying. The two boys were still conscious, still screaming away, teeth dangling from the gums by the roots.

“Look, I’m sorry, I can’t focus with this, just bear with me…” I said and opened their ribs. I let them drop with their offal and they landed in a surprisingly neat pile on top of the other bloody corpse.

“I’ll give you a chance,” I said, and he looked up at me, eyes full of something that could have been hope or terror, I wasn’t sure. “I will let you go if you promise to never try and find me again.”

His jaw started wobbling.

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “You know, Oliver, you were a lot cuter when you were little. This crying, all this snot and moaning, this isn’t making me feel remotely bad about anything.”

I was nice. I did it quickly, quicker than the other three. A simple separation of the head from the shoulders. When he stopped twitching I loaded their bodies into my van and dropped them on the front porches of their parents’ houses. They’d all wished very strongly for home as they died so it wasn’t hard for me to find where they lived, the residual longing was like a GPS. Then I went home and got ready to move again.

Now, you might be wondering why I’m telling you this. You’re all looking at me like I’m crazy. You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to. But I am a witch. And I want to be left alone. If any of your children come to my house, you will never see them again.

Whenever I move to a new town, I tell people exactly what I am. I explain things very simply to them. And I always get the same slack-jawed look that I’m getting now. But this has to sink in. Leave me alone, and I will do you no harm. How hard is that to comprehend? Please, I’m asking you to be the first town that does as I ask. This isn’t a diabolical test; this is just me asking you to respect my privacy.

That aside, I would like to thank you for this lovely welcome to the neighbourhood. I think I’m going to be very happy here. But that’s up to you and yours, really, isn’t it?

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Hello there,

I hope you liked this one. There's not really a lot to it but I wrote it for two reasons. Firstly, I wanted to do a reverse of the usual perspective of this sort of story. Secondly, I wanted to write the character again, Eliza and Oliver were the subjects of a story from last year called "Eliza is a Witch" I have vague plans to write a series of short stories about Eliza that will turn out to have a plot. She exists in the same universe as my novel (and the sort-of-in-progress sequel), and so I thought it would be a good way to keep putting things on the blog while staying in the same world as the longer things I'm writing. 

So, I hope you like her. She's a horrible, horrible character but she's fun to write. Probably because she's so horrible. 

I'm moving house next week, which is exciting. I was at Sheffield Doc/Fest (coverage at Fohnhouse here) last week so there's not been much fiction happening but this will change.

And here are The Magnetic Fields with Abigail, Belle of Kilronan.

An update on Jonathan Hatfull's activities and current thinking.

Hi there.

No story today, or for the last couple of weeks. You may have noticed. If you're saying "What short stories? What period of absence? Who is this Hatfull?", that's fine too.

I have been shockingly unproductive over the past couple of weeks. Heinously so. But, in my defence, I've had my reasons. Real life did that irritating thing of poking its grotesquely misshapen nose into my affairs and messing things around a bit. I didn't get something that I was pretty sure I wasn't going to get anyway but I did want, actually, and had been working on for several months. As you can imagine, that was a kick in the gonads. I'm also trying to sort general life things out a bit. Work, money, living situations, whether or not to shave my scraggly winter beard. All these things weigh heavy on the mind of someone who spends most of his time daydreaming and thinking how awesome it would be if there was a film in which Tilda Swinton and Isabelle Huppert played lecturers at a prestigious Swiss university who go on an icily detached, gory killing spree through the Alps. I have a tendency to get grumpy and indulge on a bit of self-pity, which is far less productive than you might think. Plus it was my birthday last week and I was busy catching up with lovely people and having fun. So, there. A combination of being kicked in the gonads and being warmed to the cockles of my heart.

So essentially I have been doing little of late. A few months ago I was putting up a short story every week. Madness, given that they were of varying quality and that I should have been spacing them out with some blog posts about writing, which is what I said I would do.

But this period of non-productivity has ended. I have decided this. This has been decided, by me.

So what am I doing? How about an update on my projects?

1. Lovely Creatures, or, The Book That Nobody Wanted: It's had about five edits now, and I'm waiting to do my final edit, I think. I've been deliberately leaving it for a bit. I have a tendency to declare things finished when they're anything but, and this needs to be definitively finished before I wade out into the murky world of self-publishing.

2. That other, earlier novel that I occasionally refer to that was originally called Lovely Creatures: I can't remember how much I've talked about this, but this was something I wrote before my writing course started. It's set in the same universe as the finished novel, but much shorter, over a single weekend, and more straightforwardly unpleasant. I have decided to give it a tentative second draft to see if its worth rescuing. I like the characters, but the writing needs a lot of work. It's interesting to see ideas that still work (I think) but expressed badly. (Sorry, younger me) If it works

3. The sequel to Lovely Creatures that I posted character prequel chapters for: Right, this is stewing in my brain, to put it simply. I'm enjoying thinking about it but I want to get editing done properly on the outstanding writing before I commit to writing this. If I'm writing something new, I want to just be thinking about that, especially when I've got:

4. The script-thing: First draft is done. Second draft has begun. Don't really want to say anything about it yet.

5. Other things: There are things that I want to get finished, bits and pieces of writing that I'd like to complete. Hopefully over the next couple of months I'll have time to get to them.

So there's quite a lot, really. This is going to require some planning and time management. These are two things which I am going to learn how to do.

I am also planning to write a bit more non-fiction on here. I have some ideas about horror and horror writing that I'd like to explore with you, as well as chatting about the writing process. I always wanted this blog to be a combination of actual fiction and talking about fiction, not a diary. I hope that you'll be interested in reading it.

And that's another thing. I'd like to know what people would like to read on this blog. Writing about films, which I do elsewhere, is great because it's specific. It's for people who want to know about that particular thing. With fiction, I'm writing it for me and I'm putting it out for anyone who cares to read it. Which is fine. And it's nice that some stories seem to have entertained people. But if there's anything specific that you'd  like to see, please let me know. There will come a time when I will actually have to decide whether to self publish or not and then that will be a whole other kettle of self-promoting fish but, for now, I just want to make this fun to read.

Anyway, if you've read all of this, I hope you'll continue to come back. Blog updates will be more frequent from now on, although there will be more non-fiction than before. Thanks for reading, everyone. I'm always surprised and grateful that you do. Here, listen to Swans by Camera Obscura.

Oh while you're here, listen to Camera Obscura's cover of Abba's Super Trouper. I love it. I saw them do it live once and it was lovely.

I'll Take You

The man who bought the vacant house on Maple Street was watched closely by his new neighbours as he signed the paperwork and took the keys from Joe Skrout, who had never had such a stroke of luck in his eleven years as the town’s only real estate agent. As Skrout drove away the neighbours watched the newcomer walk up the front path to the three stories American Foursquare and worried. The man turned in time to see three sets of curtains hurriedly close but not before they saw his tired face, his crumpled clothes, and the single suitcase he took from his car.

He turned the key in the front door and stepped inside his property. Despite Skrout’s eagerness to sell the house, he had been decent enough to explain to his client the state of the place that he was buying. Some routine maintenance work had been done two months ago but the house had not been lived in for over a year. The interior was clearly beautiful through its thick coat of dust.

Extensive work had been done on the house around fifty years ago, Skrout had told the man, making it an unusual, very special piece of real estate. The ceiling in the living room had been removed, (“and the room above it, too!” Skrout had laughed) and the room now stretched all the way to the floor of the attic. The beams that lined the ceiling were thick, stout pieces of carpentry which Skrout felt confident using as a guarantee of the structural integrity. After all, it hadn’t fallen down yet. Why would it now?

A large fireplace stood in the far wall of the living room under a frame where a similarly large mirror had obviously stood. Skrout had not explained the mirror’s absence, and the man had not asked.

A door under the stairs led to a small cellar. Skrout had explained that it was where emergency supplies (“light bulbs, fuses, water, you know the kind of thing”) could be stored but he had decided not to take the man down to see it. The kitchen, like the rest of the rooms on the ground floor, was large for one man by himself. Skrout had asked if the man had family joining him and had received a non-committal grunt by way of a reply. But as long as the money was good, what business was it of his? He took the man upstairs and showed him the three bedrooms (“one double, and two for any little ones”), the study, and finally the attic.

Skrout explained that the attic was small and that the man could use it if he wanted to, but would be just has happy if he never touched it. There was enough house that the attic shouldn’t have to be used for anything. He was relieved when the man seemed happy with this statement and accompanied him back downstairs.

Throughout the tour of the house Skrout had the distinct feeling that his client wasn’t paying attention. He seemed bored with Skrout’s patter, staring off into space and nodding at unpredictable intervals. Skrout had worried that this had all been a waste of time. The man didn’t seem like the sort who would have the necessary amount of ready cash needed for his purpose. He needn’t have worried. The man had the necessary. When he returned to the office, Skrout decided he would close early.

At four o’clock, with half an hour before her children returned home from school, Mrs Polly Ledingly took a deep breath, summoned her nerve, and crossed the street. The autumn leaves had begun to fall and crunched underneath her feet as she made her short journey from her front door to the stranger’s. Her heart beat a little quicker as she moved quickly up the front path and the three steps before knocking on the front door. Her answer came almost instantly.

The man who opened the door was slightly shorter than she was. Mrs Ledingly stood at a little over six feet in flat shoes while the man in front of her was a little under in heavy boots. His salt-and-pepper hair had been combed down at one point, though it stood at alarming angles where he had clearly pushed his hand through it. His narrow-framed glasses were pushed right to the top of his nose, and through the lenses the red rims of his eyes were visible. He raised his eyebrows and when his voice came it was cracked and hoarse.

“Hello. Can I help you?”

Polly had come here for a reason and she wasn’t going to let nerves get the better of her.

“Hello, yes. My name is Polly Ledingly, I live across the street. I saw you arrive earlier and I wanted to…this is going to sound strange, but…”

“Would you like to come in, Miss Ledingly?” he asked. He pushed the door open a little further and Polly felt a chill run through her.

“No, thank you…It’s Mrs…I’m sorry, I don’t know why I…no, I can explain just as well out here, thank you.”

The man raised his eyebrows but didn’t budge, which she was grateful for. She took a deep breath, adjusted her posture, and prepared to speak her piece.

“I know I don’t know you…” she began.

“My name is Joe Manse,” he said.

“Pleasure,” she said out of habit. “But, Mr Manse, I felt that I had to tell you about…I’m worried that you might not have been told, I don’t know if Skrout told you, and I’m not judging, times are hard and we’ve all got to make a living, but he should have told you and if he didn’t, well, then…and that’s what I’m here to do.”

Manse nodded. “I see. And what is it that you are here to tell me?” he asked.

“I need to tell you what happened here. And I’m not a gossip. I don’t believe in stirring up other people’s business and spreading stories but you need to know what happened here. You need to know why everyone was watching you when you arrived.”

“And what happened here?” he asked. He sounded more intrigued than scared, and Polly wished that she could share that with him.

“The family that lived here before you, they were….well, they were killed here, Mr Manse. Murdered. Last year, you must have read about it? The man, he killed seven families and just disappeared. The family here, they were the first.

The police said that he must have got in through the attic window, though God knows why, or how. The glass up there was smashed and there was no other sign of forced entry. Then he worked his way down, killed those poor children in their beds, killed the mother in the bathtub, and killed the father in his armchair as he watched the television. He left the adults where they were but he took the children, the boy and the girl, down to the basement and sat them up against the wall, looking up at the stairs. Nobody heard a thing. But when we hadn’t heard from them for a few days a couple of us went over to see if Deborah and Matt were OK. We saw…we could see something from the downstairs window so I ran home to call the police.

We heard about the other murders from the papers. We couldn’t believe that he just seemed to keep going, it never seemed like the police had any idea what they were doing. And then a few months ago he just stopped. But you know what they say about these people, Mr Manse. They don’t stop. They just wait, and that’s why I felt I had to come over and tell you.”

Joe had listened to all this in silence. He hadn’t made a single noise of acknowledgement or agreement. When he was sure that Polly had finished he sniffed and pushed a hand through his hair.

“Well, that is quite a story, Mrs Ledingly. And I would like to thank you for sharing it with me. Mr Skrout obviously didn’t feel it was necessary, or perhaps he didn’t feel it was wise, to tell me.”

Polly felt a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had done the right thing.

“I think you should go and see him right now,” she said, “and you should tell him that you want your money back. It’s not right that he should sell you this house and not tell you what happened here, what we all know happened here. I’d be more than happy to come with you, I’ll tell him…”

But Joe held up his hand, and she found herself coming to a halt.

“That’s really very nice of you, but it won’t be necessary.”

“I don’t…I don’t understand. How can you stay here, knowing?”

Joe took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Polly felt a tremendous compulsion to help him. He was exhausted, he wasn’t thinking clearly. This man needed help.

“Mrs Ledingly, it’s just that….I can’t ask you to understand. But I have to. Thank you for your concern. You have been most neighbourly, and a credit to your community.”

As Polly opened her mouth to argue he closed the door and went back inside.

Joe retreated to the living room where he watched Polly turn and walk quickly back across the street. When she was back inside her house he turned and opened his suitcase, which lay in the middle of the living room floor.

He took out a folded blue duvet. He took cushions from the sofa and laid them in a row on the floor as a makeshift mattress. He took out a thick black notebook and placed it next to where his head would rest.

He spent the next few hours moving slowly around the house. He went from room to room, lingering in the doorways. He went up to the attic and examined the new glass of the round window through which the killer had found his way in. He went to the basement, where he knelt down and picked at fresh coat of white paint at the foot of the stairs.

When night fell Joe opened a bottle of wine and sat in the living room. He moved occasionally from the armchair to the sofa, alternately watching the street through the flimsy net curtains and staring into the fireplace. He had been travelling through the country for months now. His work was tiring, stressful, and he felt utterly drained. But he had finally reached the end. Soon, he would be able to stop. When he had finished the bottle of wine he crawled under the duvet and closed his eyes.

When Joe opened his eyes the room was lighter than he had expected. The moonlight shone in through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the floor. But his eyes were drawn to the ceiling.

A young dark-haired boy in white pyjamas clung to the wooden beam a full story above his head. Directly above him. The boy’s expression was blank. A long dark line went across his neck.

Joe lay on his back. He did not move. He lay there, staring up at the boy. The boy stared down at him. Joe blinked.

The boy was barely an inch above him. The dark line was now plainly an open wound, a clean cut across the throat. The boy’s expression was unreadable. Joe felt his heart stop. He did not move. He blinked again.

The boy had gone. Joe exhaled and moved his arms and legs an inch, more to see if he could than out of any intention of getting up. He wanted to make sure everything still worked.

His left foot made contact with something. The heel of another foot. Joe stopped moving. With a great effort of will he turned his head to the left. 

A figure was next to him in his makeshift bed, which had somehow stretched to accommodate this intruder. In the moonlight Joe could make out wet, frizzy, light brown hair. A thick dark liquid ran down her neck and over her back. He blinked.

The figure was gone. Joe took a deep breath and started counting. “One.” He sat up in bed. “Two.” He got to his feet. “Three.” He turned to face the door.

A dark-haired man sat in a t-shirt and boxer shorts sat in the armchair by the door. A mug lay upended with its contents spilled on the floor by his feet. He had the same wound on his neck as the boy. Blood ran down his front, staining his white t-shirt. Joe took a breath, blinked, and walked past him. He pretended he didn’t see the man’s eyes follow him as he did.

As Joe reached the stairs he opened the door to the basement. Turning on the light, he looked down towards the bottom of the steps and saw a young girl staring back up at him. She wore light pink pyjamas and had the same light brown frizzy hair as her mother. He went upstairs.

The floor outside the bathroom was wet. He could hear the tap dripping into what sounded like a full bathtub. He did not look inside. He walked past the children’s room. The door was ajar, and he could see the illustrated shadows of a nightlight. He went back downstairs.

When he came back into the living room he saw that all four members of the family had found their way there too. They stood by the fireplace watching him. Their expressions were unreadable. It occurred to Joe that they were simply waiting to see what he was going to do.

He took the notebook and tore out six pages. He moved slowly past the watching figures and put the pages into the fireplace. Taking a deep breath, he took a lighter from his suitcase and set it to the pages.

The effect was almost instantaneous. The room was filled with a cold glow and Joe was surrounded. The living room was now host to six more families, each one standing still, waiting to see what he would do.

For a moment Joe could do nothing. He merely stood and stared at the assembled company. But one group in particular held his gaze. A woman and two small girls stood a little closer to him than the rest. She nodded, and Joe turned and left the house.

From her bedroom, Polly Ledingly heard the front door of the house across the street slam shut. She got out of bed, quietly, to avoid waking her husband, and went to the window. She saw Joe walk down the front steps to his car. He opened the boot and removed a large brown trunk with some difficulty. He dragged it back up the steps to the house, pulled it inside, and closed the door behind him. Polly watched the house for another half an hour. At one point the light in the attic went on. It was only on for less than a minute, and she thought she could make out a silhouetted figure before it went off. But she could have sworn she heard somebody scream.

When she called round the next morning she found a note pinned to the door saying simply that Joe Manse had left and would not be returning. She felt reassured, at least, that he had gone, and that she had done her neighbourly duty.

When Mr Skrout came around to examine the state in which this eccentric had left his house, he discovered something else entirely.

He explained to the police that he had never realised quite how much blood a human body can hold, or how many parts go towards making a whole person. But his examination of the house that day showed him exactly how rich, complicated, and extensive a thing the human body is. Every room of the house contained a piece of the man that DNA tests would reveal to be Archie Teak, who had been missing for some time. It would be about a further month or so before the police found evidence that Teak was the man they had been looking for in connection with the murders. As for Joe Manse, they caught up with him a lot quicker, but not quickly enough. He was found in a hotel room bathtub, with a short, simple note explaining that his work was finished and he’d gone to join his family.

----------------

Hello there,

Hope you enjoyed this week's horror short story (That was my effort at tags!). It's partly based on a nightmare that I had recently (God, that sounds pretentious, but it's true. The bit with the boy on the ceiling and the woman in the bed anyway) and I wanted the house to be the one from the poster for the original Fright Night which I will link to here because it's just perfect. And the title comes from the song below. I'm going to be working on the two novel-shaped projects and the script-flavoured things a lot for the forseeable future so blog updates will be a bit less frequent but I will tweet and whatnot when I do post things. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it.

Necessary Evil

The heavens opened with a roll of thunder and the rain started. Sands stood by the side of the road waiting for a car to slow down and pick him up. The rain wasn’t making the heat any more tolerable. Instead it just collected at the nape of his neck before trickling down his back, mingling with the sweat. Of all the places he’d ended up, this had to be one of the most irritating. But he couldn’t look at it like that. Once you got started down that train of thought things got progressively more aggravating and that wasn’t the point.

He moved to turn the collar of his coat up before remembering he’d done so when the last bout of torrential rain had started a couple of hours ago. Right on cue, a lorry sped past, its front tires slicing directly through the puddle in front of him. The water arced upwards and covered him like a coat of paint. He would not get annoyed. That was the wrong way to go about things.

There was the car. A green Land Rover. Its headlights were on full beam, causing him to lift his hand to shield his eyes. As he did so, he unclenched his fist and extended his thumb. The car slowed, and the rear passenger door next to him was opened.  He shook as much water from his coat as he could and climbed inside.

A small blonde girl that was a good year too old for the pacifier in her mouth was staring at him. Her eyes were wider than seemed possible for her round miniature face, and she clutched an empty plastic juice cup in both hands.

“What are you doing?” asked a woman’s voice from the front seat. He knew the question wasn’t directed at him.

“What, he was out there in the pouring rain!” replied a man’s voice from the driver’s seat. “You say you’ve never seen me do something that’s not for me, here you go! An act of bloody charity!”

“I can’t believe you,” she replied, her voice hoarse. Sands knew they’d been arguing for some time before she turned in her seat to face him. He saw from the mascara trails running down her cheeks that she’d been crying too. “I’m sorry, Mr…”

“Mr Sands,” he said. The woman didn’t seem to care.

“…but I think….”

She was cut off as the car pulled away from the curb and back into the road, faster than it should have done.

“For Christ’s sake, Les. I can’t believe you, I just can’t,” she said, turning back to face the driver.

“I know you can’t believe me, you keep telling me. Every bloody day you tell me the many ways in which I’m an unbelievable disappointment to you, and you know what? I’m fed up with it. I’ve had enough, Sarah. I don’t need to hear about what a terrible fucking person I am. I’m not exactly sure how you’re capable of judging that.”

“Can you please not bring that up again?” she asked. She was crying again now. Sands turned to look at the child. She was still staring up at him. It was obvious that her nappy hadn’t been changed in some time. Sands sighed. He would not get aggravated.

“Oh, I’m sorry, so you’re allowed to reel off all the ways in which I’ve failed as a husband and a person but I’m not allowed to talk about all the times that you’ve fucked up? How you’ve failed me over the years?”

Les turned to face his wife. Sands saw the rage he’d seen a thousand times before. “Can’t I talk about that?” he shouted.

“Please, watch the road!” she screamed, and reached for the wheel. Les’ right hand shot out and struck the woman across the face. She cried out in pain, her outstretched hand flailing. The rest happened very quickly. The man could feel the car drifting across the lanes. He saw the headlights of the lorry. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again he was upside down. Sands didn’t turn to look at the child but he saw the pacifier and the juice cup. He undid his seatbelt and grunted as he fell against the roof of the car. He picked his way out, ignoring the unnatural angle of the wife’s neck. He stood up, testing his arms and legs gingerly. Nothing that a few minutes and a walk wouldn’t fix.

He saw Les standing in front of the car. He was staring at the shattered windshield, the spray of broken glass. The rain was creating pink puddles around his feet. The front of his throat flapped open and shook as he spoke to himself.

“I should be dead,” he muttered. Sands nodded.

“Well, you are.” He patted him on the shoulder and grimaced as he felt the broken pieces of bone in his arm find each other and start to bind. Les looked up at him.

“What are you…Why would you say that?”

Sands took a deep breath and summoned patience.

“I know it’s a lot to take in, it always is. Every time. We’ve been doing this for the last six months, Les. On and off. But every time you find it hard to believe and I...You know what happened. You killed your family, Les. And you died with them.”

He watched as the glimmer of recognition started in Les’ eyes. He watched the usual range of emotions, the predictable combination of confusion, shock, regret, despair, and finally, rage. Every time Les reached that final stage Sands knew that they would have to go through it all again.

“You bastard. You did this to us, you bastard. What are you, some kind of devil?” he asked. Les was growing faint; the car with the two corpses had already disappeared.

“No, for the thousandth time. I’m not a kind of devil. You can tell because I’m trying to help.”

But Les had already gone, and Sands was talking to himself.

The rain had stopped. There was no blood on his coat, and there were no longer any breaks or tears in his body. Physically, he was as good as new. He had an hour or so to wait before Les reached the final stage of his journey again. His brother Berith was in the area. Seeing him might do him some good. It might help to put things in perspective.

He wasn’t exactly surprised a pair of headlights appeared from around the bend and a dark blue Mercedes appeared. He might not be that close to Berith anymore but brothers are brothers. Sands smiled as the car pulled to a sudden stop inches away from him. He walked around to the passenger side and climbed in.

Berith sat, grinning at him. He looked well, dressed in a dark blue suit and tie.

“Sandalphon. You look terrible. Get in, there’s a café just up the road.” As he pulled his coat inside the car and closed the door, Berith cackled. “Course, you’d know that. How long have you been stuck on this road now?”

“Six months. Not that long.”

“It is to them.”

With that, Berith drove in silence until they reached the roadside café. He’d always liked having the last word, and evidently that had not changed.

The café was nearly empty but the waitress managed to make their presence seem like an imposition anyway. They sat at a booth in the corner. Sandalphon ordered coffee and a full English breakfast. Berith looked amused asked for a cup of tea.

“Full English? Seems a bit much for you, you lanky bastard. Aren’t you supposed to abstain from things like delicious animal fats?”

Sandalphon grinned. “I’ve been out in the rain for six months. I’m a bit peckish. You haven’t turned vegetarian have you?”

Berith shook his head and looked around for an ashtray before clicking his fingers.

“Smoking ban. Gives us longer to do our thing, eh?” Sands nodded and thanked the waitress as she brought over their drinks.

“So, Berith. What have you been up to?” he asked. “I know you don’t have the same structure that we do.”

Berith grinned and spread his hands expansively. “The usual. Chatting to people, convincing them that the way they’ve been going about things isn’t exactly right. Or maybe they’ve been doing exactly the right thing and just need to keep doing it. Same old, same old. A bit boring really.”

“Yes, I imagine it would be,” replied Sandalphon, and was met with a snort in turn.

“Oh come on, you’re going to sit there and tell me that you’re not finding your work utterly repetitive? This coming from the one who’s been stuck with the same family for the last six months?”

It was Sandalphon’s turn to shrug. “I suppose it is a bit repetitive. It would be nice if they could take the message on board a bit quicker, if they could understand what it is we’re trying to do.”

Berith slurped his tea and leaned in closer. “Right, explain it to me again. When exactly will you stop having to escort this miserable prick through the last moments of his life?”

Sandalphon kneaded his fingers and cricked his neck. “When he stops being angry at us and realises it’s his own fault. Every time, right before the end, he turns to me and asks if I’m a devil. Completely missing the point. It’s not torture; we’re trying to help him.”

Berith giggled into his mug. “As if we would come up with a torture that boring. Repetition works for a bit but it’s so dull keeping it going. Can you imagine us lot having the patience to dish out the exact same punishment over and over again?” As Sandalphon opened his mouth to interrupt Berith held his hand up “I know, I know it’s not punishment. Still, I’d have a word with the man upstairs if I were you, tell him that you’ve got some fresh ideas. I could help you out with some suggestions.”

Sandalphon smiled across the table. “Ah yes, because going to the man upstairs with fresh ideas worked so well for you and all your friends. No thank you, I’m very happy with where I am. Always have been.”

“As am I. But don’t you find it a bit galling that here we both are? With one major difference. I mean, I fell, and I’m roaming pretty much as I please. You’ve still got your wings and you’re stuck in the same loop.”

“You’ve still got wings.”

“Yes, but they’re not the same as yours. Covered in shit most of the time, and they’re on fire. No, I miss the nice, clean white feathers. What I wouldn’t give to have those back. But no, burned off in the fall, and grown back wrong. Still it’s not like we can use them here, anyway.”

It was true, but it was difficult to remember in the heat of the moment. When Sandalphon had come to earth in the 1950s he’d crossed the road into the path of an oncoming bus. In his panic, he’d attempted to spread his wings and fly away and had merely resulted in spreading his arms, creating a flat surface for the bus to hit. His body had healed quickly but the embarrassment lasted a lot longer.

“That can’t be the only thing you miss about heaven, the wings,” he said. Berith was getting under his skin. He had known that it would happen. It was how they worked together, picking away at each other until it was time to get back to work. Neither bore the other any particular grudges.

“Of course it’s not. I mean, I love being here. Any chance I can get to be away from down below, I grab it. And sometimes I’ve got to go down there for business or to check in but I’m pretty much my own man as long as I’m towing the company line.”

“I assume the company line is the same as it ever was?” asked Sandalphon. He knew the answer.

“Of course it is. If you’re asking if I would change the company line, then yes, maybe I would. There are some days where I see someone and I think, ‘Maybe I should help this person. Maybe this person needs my help. Maybe convincing him to gamble his wife’s savings away before telling him that sticking his wife’s head in the oven is the best way to not feel guilty about the gambling isn’t the right way to go about things.’ But then, that’s what you’re there for isn’t it? You lot get to do that, stop them putting each other’s heads in ovens. I mean, technically you’re helping this car crash guy, right?”

“There’s no technically about it,” he replied quickly. “Yes, I’m helping him.”

Berith sighed and leaned back, stretching his arms along the top of the booth. “It doesn’t always feel like that though, does it? I bet it doesn’t when he calls you devil.” As Sandalphon opened his mouth to reply, Berith held his hand up again. His ability to halt interruption was renowned, and deeply irritating.

“No judgment, I know how you feel about all this. The boss man called the tune, and you dance to it. Right?”

Sandalphon smiled. “Right.” Simple jibes like this were easier to take in his stride. “What tune are you dancing downstairs?”

Berith gave him a toothy grin back. “We polka.”

“You do miss it though, don’t you? Heaven, I mean.” He wanted to score at least one more point before he left, one more for the road. Then he could go back and watch Les kill Sarah, the nameless child, and himself again.

“Yes. I would rather never go back to Hell at all. It’s easy to get used to the idea that there are some things that actually can’t be set on fire when you’re up here. But wouldn’t you rather stay here and get some pudding than go back out there and wait for that idiot to come past and kill his family again?”

And there was the question that finished their chat. Sandalphon got to his feet and pulled an old twenty pound note from his wallet.

“You’re not going to wait for your fry-up?” Berith asked.

“You eat it. How much longer are you in town for?”

“Why? Fancy meeting up for another chat?” Berith replied. Sandalphon shrugged, and got another smile in return. “I’m around her for another couple of months, then they’re moving me around a bit. Maybe America. Never a challenge, but it’s always fun. When’s your next sabbatical up in Celestial Heights?”

“When I’ve finished,” said Sandalphon. Berith traced an imaginary tear down his cheek and picked up a napkin.

He walked the journey back to his spot on the side of the road. He moved to turn the collar of his coat up and remembered that he had done so countless times before. He pulled his coat tighter around him as the heavens opened and the rain started again. Like clockwork.

---------------------

Hello there,

Right, this week's story is a bit of an odd one. Hope you liked it. I wanted to do something a bit different, non-horror. Plus I've been very annoyed this last week as something I was hoping for didn't pan out, so it's maudlin and depressing. Sorry about that.

Writing about angels and demons is something I've been wanting to do for ages but it's tough to find a tone. I'm not sure whether I got it right, but I liked writing them. Their names are from Wikipedia, so yes, a HUGE amount of research went into it. I chose Berith because he stirred up trouble, and Sandalphon because he hasn't been used in Supernatural (to my knowledge). Interestingly, Sandalphon is apparently the angel who assigns gender to children in the womb. Also, he may be called Sandalphon because he wears sandals. Wikipedia is a font of information that may or may not be true. Love it. 

Because I'm grumpy, have two Belle and Sebastian songs this week!

The Horror at Gladly Cove

If I am quiet they may think that I have escaped. However, I fear the only escape left to me is my own death. If you are reading these words, I want you to know that I am truly sorry for my part in what has come to pass. If I had listened to my sister perhaps this disaster could have been averted. If you are reading this, then perhaps it has been. There may still be time. But as the rain beats harder and harder against the walls of this lighthouse, and the ones outside beat harder and harder against the door, I find it hard to believe that there is any salvation to be had.

And to my sister, my dear Beatrice, I can only tell you how sorry I am. I did not believe you, and through my inaction I have doomed us all.

I have included in these pages her diary which gives perhaps the fullest possible account of what has happened here. There is much that I do not understand, but I do not think that what has entered this world today allows much understanding.

I must extinguish this lamp. But I cannot tear myself away from the window. And this storm grows worse. The words below are my poor sister’s. I hope that she can forgive me.

The Diary of Beatrice Webster

November 2^nd

I am writing these pages while looking at the sea from my window. How funny to think that yesterday the view would have shown me the tiled roof of the tannery. A new start was what my brother said I needed, and a new start is what I have.

I am determined to get better. I want this bracing sea air to clear the cobwebs from my mind. I cannot thank my brother George enough for bringing me here. He knew how vehemently opposed I was to another stay in the Dunwich sanatorium, and it was he who heard about this independent “house of mental restoration” on the coast. I am told that it was built two years ago for the very purpose of assisting those with a similar condition to mine. It is too early to tell, I have been here for two hours only, and only one of those without my brother by my side, but I have a good feeling about this place. Even the name, Gladly Cove, inspires such a feeling of warmth in my soul that is quite at odds with the wind outside!

George accompanied me here, and we were both met by the married couple who act as both doctors and innkeepers. Their names are Sebastian and Lilly Duchamp. As they escorted us to my room they told us a little of how they had spent much of their lives travelling together, treating men and women suffering illnesses of the mind throughout the world. Having seen how poorly these lost souls had been treated in the further reaches of civilisation, they decided that they would settle here and create a safe haven where those in need could convalesce. There are paintings and sculptures all over the home that they have collected on the travels. Some are really quite extraordinary, with several paintings of what I can only assume to be a pagan god. At some point I hope they will tell me the stories behind them, I am sure that there are some fascinating tales.

My clothes and my books are the only things I have brought with me from London. I felt no need for other keepsakes or memories of the terrible last few years. A new start, Beatrice. A new start.

I must put down my pen as I am expected to take my evening meal with the other residents. George tells me that they are at full capacity so I am sure to find somebody to talk to. I am determined to make a good friend here. I believe that things will be much better from now on.

November 2^nd, later

I can barely keep my eyes open but I had to write this down. I have made a friend. Her name is Lucy and she is a year younger than I am. We talked all through dinner and have agreed to go for a walk tomorrow morning, weather permitting. How my heart swells with happiness!

November 3^rd

I woke early, with the sun shining through my window. I dressed quickly for breakfast and sat next to Lucy at the same table as last night, but she seems in worse humour than yesterday. She snapped at me when I asked why she looked so downcast, but apologised quickly. She had slept badly, she said. She said that she could hear raised voices in the night but when she went to find the source she could not locate it. However, she told me that she would still very much like to join me for a walk, which was a great relief. I put on my walking shoes and watched as she tied her laces laboriously. Poor girl, her exhaustion was plain.

We set off along the cliffs. I had imagined that Lucy would lead our walk as she had been here for a couple of days longer than I but she moved without any sort of enthusiasm or sense of direction. I didn’t much mind; it gave me the chance to explore. However, as the clouds loomed on the horizon I asked her gently to walk a little quicker so as to make the most of our time outside before the rain started. She made no answer but she matched my pace.

“How long have you been here?” I asked her. She shrugged. “Come now, Lucy. Surely your sleepless night has not deprived you of your memory as well as your energy?”

“I lose track,” she said.

I was about to ask exactly what she meant by that but before I could she looked up and began to walk with great purpose down the path that led to the beach. I struggled to keep up and told her so. She gave no indication of having heard me. I decided to take things at my own pace and picked my way carefully down towards the sand. The path was not without obstacles but they did not seem to present any problem to Lucy. Before very long she was on the beach and still moving quickly.

Then she stopped abruptly, and made a left turn towards the sea. I called out to her to be careful; she would get her dress wet. Evidently this did not concern her. She waded into the waves until the water came up to her waist. The she plunged her hand under. I watched, at a loss as to what to do, but after a moment she pulled her hand out, clenched around an object that I could not make out.

She walked back towards me. As she approached, I saw her eyes were unfocused, she was staring into the middle distance. I was afraid that this was some part of her condition and that perhaps, by bringing her outside, I had triggered some sort of relapse. I reached out to take arm. She cried out and recoiled. The sound startled me and instinctively I took a step away from her, but her expression softened and it was as if she only now recognised me.

“Beatrice?” she asked. I nodded, at a loss for words. “I’m so cold.”

I got her back to the house as quickly as I could. I didn’t ask any questions, and I never got a clear look at what she had pulled from the water. All I could see was that it was a rock of some kind, truly pitch black.

The rain started soon after we returned to the house. There was not much prelude to it, it was as if someone had upturned a bucket of water over Gladly Cove. I found Mrs Duchamp making lunch and told her what had happened. When she had found Mr Duchamp the two of them took Lucy to her room. I was told to wait outside, which I agreed to reluctantly. They came out a few minutes later and closed the door behind them before I could get a look at my friend. They told me that she was resting and that she had a mild fever. I hope that is all it is.

The rain has not stopped.

November 4^th

I had a terrible dream last night.

I dreamt I was on the beach again with Lucy, watching her go towards the sea. I called out to her to stop. I knew that something was wrong, that something was different this time. The wind took my words or perhaps I did not speak them at all. Lucy stepped into the waves, and the water came forward to greet her. The sky grew darker and the noise of the waves almost deafening. Then as Lucy plunged her hand into the water, the noise stopped. I waited with bated breath to see what she what pull out this time.

But she did not take her hand out of the water. Instead, a dark shape broke the surface and wrapped itself around her arm, moving slowly up towards her shoulder. I could hear the sound it made as it pushed itself over her skin, the wet smacking sound as it lifted part of itself free to propel the whole upwards.

I saw that the water further out was growing darker too. The ground beneath me began to shake. I turned to shout to Lucy but she was gone. All I saw was the tip of the shape drop beneath the water and at that moment I knew that it was part of a larger whole beneath the waves. I was terrified that whatever it was would soon reveal itself and as I opened my mouth to scream I awoke.

When I went downstairs for breakfast I asked Mrs Duchamp if Lucy was feeling any better. I was told that she was still resting, and that a doctor had been sent for. It was good to hear that they were taking her condition seriously but I am afraid for her. Perhaps I should have stopped her yesterday. I am guilty of letting her risk her physical health, which will almost certainly have an effect on her mental health.

I spent the rest of the day inside reading my books and watching the rain through my window. It hasn’t stopped yet. The only consolation is that my brother will be visiting tomorrow to say goodbye before he returns to London. It will be good to see a friendly face, if only to bid farewell to it.

November 4^th, later

Thank God my brother is coming tomorrow. I fear it may already be too late. Something terrible is happening here that I do not fully understand.

After I went to bed I heard a terrible moan. I recognised the voice as Lucy’s. Her room is on the floor above mine, somehow it was loud enough to get through the thick stone from which the house is built. I rose quickly and put on my robe but leaving my room I somehow knew that it was important to proceed quietly. I wrapped my robe tightly around my shoulders and crept up the stairs. I could see Lucy’s room ahead of me, and a flickering light from inside it told me that a candle had been lit.

She moaned again and I was about to rush into the room when I heard a man speaking, muttering in a language that I didn’t understand. I didn’t recognise the voice at first but when I heard a woman’s voice answer I realised that the Duchamps were inside.

I crept closer to the door. By an incredible stroke of luck it had been left open a crack, and I brought myself as close as I dared. I was desperate to see what was going on inside.

The Duchamps stood by Lucy’s bed. She lay on her back, her face slick with sweat. Her eyes were closed. Mr Duchamp bowed his head and held out his hand over her face. It took me a moment to realise what he was holding. It was the black piece of rock that Lucy had pulled from the sea. As the candle flickered it illuminated it briefly, and I saw that it was covered in elaborate carvings that I had not noticed before.

As I watched, Lucy arched her back and opened her mouth. At first I thought that her tongue had turned black. But as it curled and arched towards the rock I saw that it was more a tentacle than tongue. It reached for the black rock, caressing it lovingly. A deep cooing sound of pleasure issued from Lucy. I gasped and the thing retracted into Lucy’s mouth as all three turned towards the door, Lucy’s eyes still firmly shut.

I ran back down the stairs to my room and locked the door. I put my back against it, sure that they would hurry after me and punish me for what I had seen. But nothing happened. There were no footsteps. There were no sounds at all.

So I have sat awake. I thought of running, but in this storm I am as likely to run off the edge of the cliff as I am to find rescue. I must stay awake and wait for George to arrive, and then I will tell him everything. I only hope that he will believe me.

November 5^th

How did I come to be in my bed? I fell asleep in the chair by the window.

The door is unlocked. My God, what have they done to me? This nausea…

I hear my brother downstairs. I must reach him before they do.

November 5^th, later

I should not have expected him to believe me. The tale is too bizarre; I can scarcely believe it myself. But I had hoped that he would have enough faith in me to….But I know now that I cannot count on his help in this.

I told him what I had seen, and he spent a moment or two in silence. He turned his hat in his hands and looked at me carefully.

“Beatrice,” he said, “I thought we agreed that these fantasies of yours were to stop. That you would put them from your mind. I have paid a great deal of money to install you here, and yet I find you more distressed than ever.”

“George, these are no fantasies. I saw last night, with my own eyes, something is…inside Lucy. Some animal, some monster. And these two in whom you have invested so much money and trust, are party to it. Whatever ungodliness is going on here, they are helping to bring it forth.”

He rose from his seat  and I was afraid of his temper. I didn’t want to drive him away; I only wanted him to help me. At that moment there was a knocking on my door and Mrs Duchamp entered holding a steaming cup.

“Forgive my intrusion, Mr Webster, but I have brought Beatrice something to soothe her.”

“I have no desire to be soothed, Mrs Duchamp,” I spat, but George shushed me. The woman smiled and placed the cup in his hands.

“I believe that I can shed some light on what Beatrice thinks she may have seen last night. In our travels, my husband and I were witness to several shamanic rituals designed to help those convinced that they were possessed by an unclean spirit or demon. Of course, such belief is nonsense, but there is a great deal to be said for the willingness of the patient to believe the absurd. We set up an elaborate show to convince poor Miss Lucy that she was having an evil creature pulled out of her. We even used a weathered rock she found in the sea as part of the illusion.”

I did not believe her for a moment. I knew what I had seen. But George was stroking his chin and muttering “Fascinating.” I wanted to scream but I did not want to offer further proof of my instability. Then, to my horror, George handed me the steaming cup. “You will drink this,” he said. “And you will stop this nonsense about monsters.”

I drank it. God help me, I drank it.

The drowsiness started. I was vaguely aware of George leaving. I fell asleep before I realised that I was tired.

I dreamt I was on the beach again. But this time I was much closer to the water. The sun was going down over the horizon, shining through the clouds and turning the sky a sickly shade of yellow. I waded into the waves without knowing why. I plunged my hand into the cold water because I knew that there was no choice. I was not in control here. And when the tentacle slithered its way around my wrist and up my arm I was not unduly alarmed because I knew that was what happened. As it did so the great dark shape further out in the sea seemed to grow closer, and I felt my legs grow weak.

When I woke the Duchamps were standing over my bed. I wanted to scream but a gag had been placed in my mouth.

“Not long now, child, and your job will be done,” she said.

“You’ve done so well. We’re so proud of you and Lucy,” he said.

“She carries the body, you carry the blood,” she said.

“And tomorrow night, we will all go down to the beach to call him together,” he said. They turned to look out of the window. I could hear the rain hammering against the glass. I knew that they were looking at the sea. Then he turned and grabbed my mouth, pulling it open. Before I had time to struggle, Mrs Duchamp was pouring a liquid down my throat from a china cup. I recognised it as the same tea they had given to subdue me earlier that day.

“Carry the blood, Beatrice,” she said.

The blood of what?

They turned and removed my restraints. They locked the door behind them, but it was a pointless act, I am too weak to go anywhere. Writing this down has taken all the energy I have. I am afraid to sleep but I cannot keep my eyes open.

November 6^th

I must be quick. I have to hide this once I have finished. They are coming to take me to the beach, and poor Lucy as well.

I know what will happen, I saw it last night. I dreamt that we four stood waist deep in the water. The Duchamps were chanting in unison, holding hands and calling to the sea. Lucy stood, eyes still shut, her whole body convulsing.

As for me, my skin felt as though it were on fire. I wanted desperately to sink under the water to extinguish this burning but I knew what waited for me underneath. As I watched my companions I suddenly realised what was expected of me. I walked over to Lucy and took her shaking hand. I led her through the water towards the dark shape that waited for us there. She shook harder and harder, and holding onto her hand took nearly all of my strength. The sky darkened as the water reached our shoulders. I knew that we would not return.

There was a terrible crack as the ground opened beneath us. But instead of sinking we were propelled upwards into the sky. I couldn’t believe how high we flew. I could see the house below us, perched on the cliff, it was so small. As I started to fall I closed my eyes. Not because I feared the ground that rushed to meet me. But because I feared to even glimpse whatever had thrown me to the heavens.

When I woke the door was locked. There is no escape.

I close this journal now. I can hear them coming up the stairs. I can hear Lucy’s moans. I do not know about the other residents here. I do not know if they are aware of what has been happening, if they have all played a part in this. If they have, I hope that whatever comes out of the sea tonight is punishment enough.

I pray God’s forgiveness for whatever part I have played in this. And to my brother George, I forgive you. How could you have known? I can hear them at the door. The key is in the lock. I must hide this.

Poor Lucy! How foolish and heartless I was to dismiss her so!

I returned to Gladly Cove tonight, I felt that something was terribly wrong. My heart told me that I should have paid more attention to what Beatrice was saying. Since the accident took our parents I have been all she has left to hold on to.

I had brought me Doctor Clarence Myeern, an acquaintance from my club and an expert on tribal medicine. I thought he would be very interested in talking to the Duchamps, and might be able to shed a bit more light on those paintings hanging around the house. When I had described them to him he had grown very excited and had almost insisted on coming along.

When we arrived at the house I went to Beatrice’s room. I cannot tell you why, but I was somehow drawn to open the drawer of the desk by the window. There was a thick envelope with my name on it, written in Beatrice’s hand. I had barely picked it up when a twitching red-headed woman appeared to tell me that the Duchamps had taken Beatrice and her friend Lucy to the beach for some fresh air. Doctor Myeern agreed to accompany me, telling me that he would welcome the opportunity to stretch his legs after the long journey.

We retrieved our sticks from the coach and walked out along the cliff top to meet my sister and her physicians. We had begun to discuss the importance of misdirection in shamanic ceremonies when I saw something that could have been no magic trick.

Beatrice’s dream was...accurate. I cannot begin to describe the thing that rose from the water. The stench of death rushed towards us like a tidal wave. I could not bear to face it; I turned my head, clenched my eyes shut, and screamed. Some minutes had passed before I was able to open my eyes again. Doctor Myeern sat next to me. I attempted to ask for his help, his opinion on what should be done.

But Doctor Myeern merely rocked back and forth, repeating the same word over and over again. I cannot spell it, but it was not of any language that I recognised. I realised with the slow stupidity that comes with shock that his hair had turned white. The fright had clearly driven him out of his mind. I am ashamed to say that when I realised that I could not get through to the poor man, I ran.

I found the lighthouse and entered, seeking only the safety of a door I could lock behind me. I opened the envelope and found the diary you have just read. I don’t know what would have happened if I had simply taken Beatrice away with me, or if I had never brought her here in the first place.

I can hear something moving outside. Whatever it is, there are more than one of them. They hammer at the door, making a sort of squelching noise as they do so. After the first blow to the door I let out a cry of alarm, which was followed by a low gurgling noise from outside. I can only describe it as laughter.

I don’t know how long the door will hold. Forgive me, Beatrice.

My God, they are inside.

--------------------------

Hello there,

Right, so this is my attempt at a Lovecraft-type story. It's a bit silly and it doesn't really make any sense, but then that was sort of what I was going for. There's a bit of Cthulu, a bit of Dagon, and it ended up being a bit more of a Poe rip-off in places as well, but then H.P. was guilty of a bit of that in his time.

I wrote this for David Hayes, who has been a consistent supporter of the blog (Hello, David). I hope he enjoyed it.

Here a couple of songs that have been in my head recently!