tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31114897335374361512024-02-19T02:49:29.163+00:00A Hatfull of HorrorHorror fiction and writing about writing by Jonathan Hatfull, the owner of the hat.Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-21705098832968837082015-12-19T17:17:00.002+00:002015-12-19T17:18:46.620+00:00Ghosts<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I saw my
first ghost yesterday. First ever. I was sitting at my desk at the end of my bedroom,
trying to decide whether to go to sleep or have another glass of wine, and out
of the corner of my eye I saw this, this figure, staring at me. I say figure,
it was a bloke, standing in the corner of my room. Just by the door where the standing
lamp is. My first reaction was obviously panic. Strange man in my room, no idea
how he got in there. My second reaction was a quick scrabble to see what I
could use to hit him with. By the time I’d grabbed a hardback book he was gone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The longer I sat there with my copy of The Goldfinch and an empty wineglass, the more convinced I was that he’d been a ghost. A proper
spirit. He’d been wearing a suit. Three-piece, I think. I couldn’t tell you if
it was black or dark blue but he was definitely formal. A formal fucking ghost,
with his grey hair slicked back like he’d used a great dollop of Brylcreem. His expression? Well, I mean, he didn’t look happy. He looked at me
just before he vanished and I could tell that the feeling he was feeling
was…well, sadness. Melancholy might be a better word. Yeah, melancholy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Now, I
might have put all of this down to the wine, because, if we’re being totally
honest with each other, I’d had more than a few glasses before the old fella
chose to apparate beside my standing lamp, if apparate’s a word. In fact, that night I
lay down and I spent a good hour trying to convince myself that I hadn’t seen
anything. That it had just been a shiraz-driven trick of the light, combined
with the spirit of the season. Well, everyone thinks about these things around
Christmas, don’t they? I don’t know if it’s the shortened days, or all the talk
of miracle babies, or just all the festive cheer, but you can start to wonder
about what you’re actually doing with yourself. Anyway.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Anyway.
Yes, so the second ghost, the second ghost I saw the next morning. This morning, in fact. I was in the
shower, with the heat about as high as I can bear it to try to drum some kind
of sense into me. It’s not great, the shower in my flat, it dribbles when you
want it to hammer, but…sorry, I’m getting off topic. The girl. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She stood
at the other end of the tub, standing there in some kind of green…I want to say
ball-gown, I don’t know dresses. I shouted and spun, nearly fell out of the
shower completely. But I got a hold of myself, and I’m glad that I did, because
this girl had something to tell me. And I knew that she was a ghost, you see,
because all this amazing long black hair that she had, it wasn’t getting wet.
And that green ball-gown thing, it was fucking immaculate. And she looked at me
with these bright blue eyes and she pointed at me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">You know,
when a ghost points at you, it’s hard to imagine that the situation’s going to
be good. You think the hour of the final judgment is at hand, or at least I did.
So I stood there, trying to blink the shampoo out of my eyes, my hands covering
my bits, and just dreading whatever was going to come next. I thought, in the
moment or two before she opened her mouth, that maybe the old bloke had been a
harbinger. An early warning system. But what would have been the point of that?
To tell me not to go to sleep? Anyway.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Anyway, she
pointed at me and she spoke to me, and I tell you, I heard her words clear as
day. They rang through that steamy bathroom like a fucking church bell at a
state function. She said “Sort yourself out.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Sort
yourself out.” That was it. She nodded at me once and she was gone. I was
in my shower, by myself, having been given a message by someone from beyond.
Insanity, right? Surely. You know what kind of accent she had? Brummie. Why
would I make that up? A beautiful Brummie ghost in a ball-gown. In my shower. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Third
ghost? Yeah, I know, it’s Christmas, and ghosts come in threes. And
yeah, there was a third one as a matter of fact. Earlier tonight. I was expecting
another one, like you were, after the first two. Same reasons. I thought they’d
probably come back to hammer it home. They always do.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I was
packing up to go home from work when I saw him, standing on the other side of
the door. Now, the other two had been strangers. Never seen them before in my
life, so I really didn’t expect the last one to be someone I knew so well. My
best friend, as a matter of fact, Peter. He died in an accident last year.
Somewhere outside of Leeds, I think. He was driving north for Christmas and got
hit by a lorry driver who’d fallen asleep. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Sorry, that all got a bit heavy, didn’t
it? Don’t want to bring the mood down. Not at a Christmas party, eh?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Hmmm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Yeah. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">No, it was
great actually. It was lovely. I’d not really realised how much I’d missed him,
or I just hadn’t admitted it to myself, as they say. You remember how the other two were all dolled
up? Pete was dressed up just as sharp, in this lovely suit he’d worn at his
wedding, and he grinned at me when I came through the door to greet him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I kept
thinking he’d disappear but he asked me how I was, and he walked down the stairs
with me and out into the street. I decided to push my luck. I kept walking,
kept talking to him, I felt like I needed to keep him engaged. He suggested
that we pop into the shop and pick up some cans, and then we walked down to
the beach. Daft, I know, in late December, but he was there with me every step
of the way. We just walked and talked for a bit. Went down to the end of the
pier to look and went back again. After a bit he was gone, I didn’t see him leave. But
hearing his voice, seeing his face, it was…fuck, I don’t know. It was something
special. Something special.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">------------------------</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br />The blog is alive. On an unrelated note, Merry Christmas, and a huge thank you for reading.</span></div>
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-86792934490839853222014-12-07T16:33:00.000+00:002014-12-07T16:37:32.199+00:00The Night Before <div class="MsoNormal">
The most embarrassing, most horrible, most brutally awkward night I’ve
spent with a girl was with Marie Stahlman at the end of the first semester of university,
on Christmas Eve. If I’m being honest, that night was just a sequence of truly
awful events that I’d like to take back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. Leaving feelings and when
not to express them aside, I suppose the moral of this story, or the start of the
story at least, is: Never approach a man with a dead cat, even if you’re drunk
and it’s Christmas. Probably a given, I know, but maybe it bears repeating. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Marie Stahlman, to my knowledge, had never owned a cat.
However, my knowledge of Marie Stahlman was limited owing to the fact that,
before the night in question, I’d spoken to her once and it was limited to a
garbled “Hello.” She was studying Medicine, I was studying English, and I’m not
even sure if she realised that we lived in the same halls of residence or if
she just assumed that I was following her everywhere like some terrible
stalker.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I certainly wanted to talk to her. She was…well, she was
stunning. With her long dark red hair and a consistently amazing not-quite-vintage
wardrobe, she looked like she should be the mysterious bassist in the kind of band
that I would pretend to have heard of. Of course, given that she lived two
floors up from me, we had some friends in common who informed me that she was
generally a brilliant person. I was encouraged to just talk to her and stop
being a lurking menace but after three months I still hadn’t really introduced
myself beyond a shy smile and an awkward jock nod when we passed each other at
the front door. I told my friends and myself that I hadn’t found the right time
to talk to her properly but I didn’t know who I was fooling. Almost certainly
no one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, this terrible night happened at the very start of our
first Christmas holiday. I still don’t get on with Christmas now, but I used to
hate Christmas for a much more obvious reason: Everyone goes home. If you’ve
got a family to go home to, that’s great, but I didn’t have that luxury. So after
we’d had the exams, the very drunken Christmas parties and the only slightly
less drunken Christmas dinner, I watched my friends pack up their bags and head
back to wherever they’d sprung from for the holidays.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The people who ran the flats had agreed to let me stay over the
holidays. They’d stressed the loneliness that I would feel, especially given
that we were a campus university half an hour from civilisation. I don’t know
if it helped that I assured them that I wouldn’t kill myself. Probably not. Anyway,
by the time Christmas Eve rolled around I had one friend left and I’d gone with
him into town to have a farewell drink at the pub before he caught his train. One
farewell drink had turned into many farewell drinks and as he finished the
plate of chips that I’d ordered, Andy looked up at me and gave me a sleepy
wink. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know that Marie is staying in the flat tonight, don’t
you?” he asked. “Lucy told me that she’s leaving tomorrow morning. You should
go and talk to her when you get back.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s late,” I countered. “She’s not going to want to talk
to me when it’s late and drunk.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Always excuses with you, isn’t it?” he muttered and stood
up. “Confidence, Rob. Confidence.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After Andy had caught his train I’d stayed
for a few more self-pitying Buddha-shaped bottles of beer than I should have
done while thinking about how miserable the holiday season was and how I would
never be the kind of person to have the nerve to go and see if Marie Stahlman
fancied a nightcap. It was a miracle that I caught the last bus back to campus
but my night would have been less horrifying if I’d just passed out in the
toilet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the University bus steered its way out of town and into
the night I struggled to stay awake. After my head had nodded nearly to my chin
a couple of times more than was safe I looked around for any fellow passengers.
I couldn’t be the only lonely idiot spending Christmas Eve alone. I turned to
look behind me and sure enough there was someone else, but he didn’t look like
a student. He sat slumped forward, long white tufts of what could have been
hair or a beard tumbling out from the hood of his red coat. Gnarled,
yellow-tinged fingers gripped the handles of a blue plastic bag between his
feet. Every time the bus slowed he almost fell forward. I was wondering where
he could be going when he reached out his hand and gripped the railing, pulling
himself to his feet. He lurched forward, slid his hand down the pole to
press the bell and continued lurching. It wasn’t until he got to the door
that I noticed he’d left his bag.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“’scuse me…” I slurred, trying to both get his attention and
gesture to the bag he’d left. He looked down at me. What little of his face I
could see past the hair and the hood was bearded, but it seemed expressionless.
His bloodshot eyes seemed to look through me before he moved on past me and stepped
through the doors and off the bus. What I did next was very stupid. As the bus
started moving again I got up and walked over to where he had sat, where the
bag still sat on the floor. Why did I? What did I think would be in there? Was
I hoping for another drink? I honestly don’t know. I did look, though. I looked
in the bag.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took me a moment or two to make sense of what I was
looking at. It was a mass of something, a shape. At first I couldn’t identify
any one particular element that would define what it was. In my drunken state,
I picked it up to bring it closer to my face in an attempt at clarity. As it
swam into focus so did the deep cuts in its side, the claws on its feet and the
whiskers springing from its scratched nose. It was a cat. A most definitely
dead cat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I let out a gargled cry and dropped the bag on the floor. As
it landed with a thud the bus took a turn, sharper than I expected, and my
balance was lost. I threw my hands out to steady myself as I tumbled to the
floor but rather than finding a railing, they found the cat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew they'd connected with something because of the sudden sharp pain in my left hand. I
looked over to see what could be causing it and saw that the matted, bloodied
ball of fur had somehow grown teeth and that they had latched onto the patch of
flesh between my thumb and forefinger. I cried out and waved my hand furiously around
in an attempt to shake the creature off. Predictably, this only seemed to make
it more determined to cling on. The driver hadn’t seemed to notice anything and
the bus kept moving despite my yelling. Finally, in an act of desperation, I
slammed my hand, cat first, into the side of the bus. There was a loud crunch
and the cat stopped moving. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cautiously at first, in case it was somehow still alive, I
grabbed the animal with my free hand and forced its mouth open, pulling the
teeth free. It offered a little resistance but I decided to put this down to
rigor mortis that was either early or delayed, I had no idea. The bite marks on
my hand were jagged and angry but they didn’t seem to be bleeding too badly. I
thought if I could just get back to my room, I could put some antiseptic on it;
maybe a plaster or two, and it would be alright. I was wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We finally arrived at the campus bus station and I hobbled
off, mumbling insults and waving my bloody hand at the driver, who either didn’t
notice or didn’t care. It was a ten minute walk back to my halls of residence
and the cold air, combined with the pain, did a decent job of sobering me up.
As I walked past the dark Arts Centre and the shuttered Student Union, I began
muttering about what had happened to me. What the chances of my being attacked
by a dead cat were. Why this would never happen to any of my friends. Why it
would only ever be me. As I hustled along the pavement, I slipped on a patch of
ice by the library, the patch that everyone knew to avoid, and fell. Without
thinking, I put my hands out to steady myself. This was another mistake. I
landed on my mangled hand first and a jolt of pain shot from my fingertips,
along my arm and emerged from my mouth as a full-blooded scream. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pain was so intense that I was sure I had broken
something. Once again, I cautiously lifted my hand to my face. Under the yellow
glow of the streetlight I saw that the wound had not stopped bleeding. The
bites were oozing a combination of a clear fluid that I hoped was pus and a
thick sludge that looked too black, too heavy to be blood. The skin around the tears
in my hand had gone horribly dark, a vivid purple that looked very, very wrong.
For a moment I forgot about the pain and focused on the fear. This wasn’t
normal. This wasn’t good. TCP would not fix this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was panicking as the names for various animal-carried
diseases that I didn’t fully understand whirred through my brain. I clambered
to my feet and began hurrying as fast as I could back to my building. With my
good hand I dug in my pocket for my mobile and let out another anguished yell
when I realised that it wasn’t there. It could have fallen anywhere in between
the pub and here. As I reached my flat I realised that I only had one option.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rather than opening the front door, I hit the button for the
third floor. I pushed it over and over again and held it down until I heard the
sound of the phone being lifted from the cradle and a sleepy, angry voice asked
me “Who is it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Marie?” I burbled. “It’s Robert. Robert Campbell from
downstairs. I’m really, really sorry but I need your help!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did you forget your keys?” she asked. I let out a little
cry of pain as my hand convulsed, somehow tightening. I didn’t want to know
what it was doing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No!” I shouted. “I…I need your help! I need your doctor
help! My hand is…I need your help!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The front door buzzer sounded and I hurried inside, stepping
on a festive balloon that burst as I crashed into the stairwell. I looked up
and saw Marie in her glasses and green dressing gown, peering down at me from the third floor through the carefully-arrange
pound-shop Christmas decorations. “What
happened?” she called down. I began climbing the stairs while trying to order
some kind of explanation. I didn’t want to start with the pub
in case she jumped to conclusions about my story about the man on the bus and
the dead cat, but when I reached the top of the stairs I saw a revolted
expression on her face that made me apologise profusely for waking her up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What is that smell?” she asked, looking me up and down. I
started to tell her that I’d had a few beers but she shook her head. “Not that,
no, that smell, it’s something like…it’s rotten. Like something’s rotten. Never
mind, did you say it’s your hand?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had been cradling my hand in my coat and gingerly withdrew
it to show her. She leaned in close before taking a step back. “Fuck me,
Robert, what the fuck is that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whatever had been oozing out of my hand hadn’t stopped. It
dripped onto the weathered red carpet and she wasn’t wrong. It smelled vile,
like chicken left at the back of the fridge for too long. The bite marks
weren’t as livid as before but they had shrunk, tightened with the rest of my
skin as my hand seemed to have grown smaller. It seemed as though it, whatever
it was, was consuming the soft parts and pushing them out through the opening the cat’s
teeth had made. The word 'excreting' rang through my head like an alarm bell. “I don’t know!” I stammered. “I…I was bitten by a
cat, I thought it was dead but it bit me, and now…this! Please help me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Marie opened the door to the flat and ushered me in, along
the tinsel-lined corridor to the kitchen. “Sit down,” she said, and cleared wrapping
paper and bottles from the table. “Set it down there.” She leaned over me and
took a closer look at my hand, pushing her glasses up her nose. “It’s
spreading,” she said quietly. The dark purple patch had reached my wrist and
when I rolled up my sleeve I saw raised black lines like branches reaching up
my arm. “Are those…Are those my veins? Is it in my fucking veins?” I jabbered. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fuck this,” she said firmly. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
She ran out and into her room, returning a moment later with her mobile phone
but as she began dialling she stopped and looked at me. “The campus medical
centre is closed, isn’t it?” I nodded furiously. “And the nearest hospital is
fifteen minutes away.” I nodded again. “It’s taken, what, five minutes to get
from your thumb to…Jesus; it’s nearly at your elbow.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What do you suggest then?” I asked, trying not to sound too
impatient. Another convulsion pushed down my arm and a fresh spurt of stinking black
sludge squirted onto the table. “Sorry!” I moaned. “Jesus, that’s disgusting, I’m
so sorry.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She took a seat next to me and looked straight at me. I
tried not to think about the fact that she had never done that before and to
listen to what she was saying. “Robert, I honestly don’t know what this is but
that…gunge that’s coming out of you stinks like death. It’s like some kind of
hyperactive fucking gangrene or something and all I know is that you don’t want that
reaching your chest.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First year medical student she might have been, but she was
making a lot of sense to me. “So what do we do?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She got up, walked over to the sink and pulled a pair of
Marigolds from the drying rack. “We need to cut your arm off.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took surprisingly little convincing. At this point I
didn’t think that the pain could get any worse and I was terrified by what was
happening to my arm getting any further. I could see ripples in my skin as
whatever was in there seemed to be pushing, working its way up and pumping that
sludge back out through the open wound in my hand. I was more worried about the
mess that I was making in her kitchen than how much losing a limb would hurt.
Somehow, beneath all the pain and terror, there was a part of me that was just hugely
embarrassed my all of this.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Marie got the preparations going quickly. She found an
unopened box of wine in one of the cupboards and gave it to me. “Drink as much
of this as you can,” she said. “Sorry, all the whisky and stuff went at the Christmas
party.” I made an unhappy noise and got to work on it while trying to ignore
the rattling sounds as she hunted through drawers. She tied leggings around my
arm just below the shoulder. “It’s moving quickly and I don’t want to do this more
than once,” she explained. “Now finish that wine and close your eyes.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I did as she told me but not before I saw what she was
holding. “What kind of knife is that?” I asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Kitchen knife,” she said. “We used it to carve the turkey.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It turned out that the pain could get worse, and it did. The
sensation of a kitchen knife cutting through your skin, then into the meat of
your arm, is agony, to put it simply. To make it worse, whatever was in my arm
seemed to realise what was going on. The convulsions got more powerful and I
could feel it twisting and worming around, trying to find a way through, trying
to move faster. I screamed. I screamed with my whole body. I said some words
that I was raised not to say in front of a girl, especially one that you like.
As Marie’s kitchen knife hit bone, I vomited. A spray of box wine and Buddha
beer sick hit the kitchen table with a wet smack and I sobbed an apology. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“This is no good,” shouted Marie. “You’re moving around too
much.” As I began trying to get another apology out I saw her lift a frying pan
from the washing up rack. “I’m really sorry,” I ranted. “I’m really sorry about
all of this. I really like you and I meant to tell you before but…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The rest is blackness. She hit me hard on the head with the
frying pan and I don’t know what happened next. I came to briefly when she
cauterised my stump with the same frying pan she’d knocked me out with and I
quickly passed out again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When I woke up it, sunshine was streaming though the
decorations that covered the window. I could still smell cooking meat and vomit,
although the most dominant odour was air freshener. The kitchen had been tidied
and there was no trace of the various fluids I’d left. My shoulder was wrapped in bandages and a couple of tea towels, and there was an incomprehensible space where my left arm should have been. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I got up carefully and
stuck my head under the tap, gulping down cold water for as long as I could
stand to. When I turned around I saw that a note had been left for me on the
table and that a black bin bag sat ominously in the doorway. I realised that
she had gone and that I wouldn’t have to face her like this. The relief was
enormous.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The note told me to go to the hospital as soon as I woke up.
It told me that I had been given a huge quantity of painkillers that she had
found during the night, and it apologised for the fact that she hadn’t found
them sooner. It told me to take the bin bag out and make sure I put some other
bags on top of it to stop any animals getting at it. It told me in no uncertain
terms not to tell anyone that she had been involved. It told me not to worry
about thanking her, and that in fact, she would prefer it if we just pretended
that this had never happened. It made no mention of the awkward revelation about
my feelings, which seemed fair. It ended by telling me not to open the bag, and
finally by wishing me a merry Christmas.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I picked up the bag with my one remaining hand and walked
slowly downstairs, and I heard the door to her flat close and lock as I left.
The bright sunshine made me squint as I stepped out into the cold Christmas
morning. I would put my arm in the bins, I would have a cup of tea, and then I
would find a way to get to the hospital that wouldn’t involve an embarrassing ambulance
ride. I would try to live down the terrible events of the night before. I would
hope that she could somehow forgive the disgusting, revolting things that I had
put her through. I really hoped that we could just move past it. As I lifted
the lid of the non-recycling bin and dropped my withered, rotten arm inside, I
wondered if it would be inappropriate to post a Merry Christmas message on her Facebook page.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hello there. So, this is the first story I've posted in ages. I have been working on something longer that is moving ahead very slowly but when it comes to the short stories, the short version is that it's been a long time since I've written anything I felt happy enough with to finish. An awkward combination of being busy and not being very happy with anything I was writing led to not really writing very much, which led to general frustration and not much productivity,</div>
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I've been feeling better about writing lately, however, and this was fun to get down. It started with the idea of how embarrassing it would be to have to ask someone to cut your arm off and went from there. </div>
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I'm hoping to have more stories up on here in the New Year and the longer thing is moving ahead since I approached it from a different angle, so fingers crossed. Thanks for reading.</div>
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-24037300789283531382013-06-13T19:57:00.000+01:002013-06-13T19:58:03.212+01:00GalileeMy boyfriend works at the brothel called Galilee. You’ve
probably seen it. It looks like a pub from the outside. You might have even
been inside it. It's got beer, dangerously low ceiling beams and a dog that will moult hair all over your coat. But pub it is not. Brothel it is. You won’t see a sign outside but
go on upstairs and ask for it, and you’ll find it. There might be balm in
Gilead but there is spunk in Galilee. And that’s where my boyfriend works.
Well, worked.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It’s a place for a wealthy clientele of a certain
persuasion. Anyone who needs to feel the hand of God when they’re doing
something sinful can find what they’re looking for at Galilee. From what I’ve
been told, most of the scenarios these people conjure up aren’t their own
fantasies at all. Instead, they go in for the recreation of paintings. My
boyfriend told me he’s seen everything from Rembrandt’s Belshazzar’s Feast to
Bosch’s vision of hell being recreated in that place’s upstairs function room. Like
some kind of fine art karaoke. But with fucking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My boyfriend is, as he puts it, a background whore. His name
is Laurence. My name is Ruth. For two years we’ve been together, and for two
years I’ve known what he did for a living. I never judged him for it. At least,
I never judged him in any way that he would notice. It was what he was doing
when I met him. He told me it was a job, but not just a job. I asked him if he
wanted to give it up and he told me that he didn’t. He answered any questions
that I had and he never lied to me. Sometimes I wanted to know and when I
didn’t, I didn’t ask. His life in Galilee was as separate as I wanted it to be.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Then he asked me to join him. Just for one night, he said. I
wouldn’t even have to do anything. All I would have to do was background
movement. Put on a white robe, look like I was having a good time, and then,
when the time came, I had to scream. He told me that I would be paid the same
as him. A last minute replacement got the same amount as a seasoned player. And
I wouldn’t even have to do anything. All I had to be was background colour. He
wanted me to do it. And I would be lying if, even as I told him I wasn’t
sure, I didn’t want to do it as well. Just to see what went on at the top of
the stairs. I was curious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He told me to arrive at seven. I was met at the bar by a
woman in her late forties called Hazel. Her hair was black, her eyes were
green. “Family name?” I asked. She smiled and told me that she was very
grateful for my assistance. The usual woman had contracted a case of gastric
flu and they had very strict policies about what exactly went out and in and in
what fashion at Galilee. I smiled back and told her that it was my pleasure.
She directed me to the stairs and told me that I would be met at the top by
someone who would get me into my clothes.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was helped into a white shift by a slender dark-haired boy
called Joshua and a red-haired girl who told me she was named Ruth. I told her
that was my name too and she scowled at me. “Not tonight. Day players don’t get
a name.” Which settled that problem. I was anxious to see where Laurence was
but he only found me as Ruth hustled me along the corridor to a narrow space
covered in sand behind a huge red curtain. He pressed a leash into my hand and
smiled at me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Don’t worry,” he said. “They do this all the time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The curtain went down. The space was much bigger than I
expected. Impossibly bigger. There was no way that we could be in the same
building. I looked up and saw the night sky through the glass ceiling I had
never known was there. Then the noises started.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I hadn’t seen the clientele. They’d been holding still until
everything was ready. Men and women dressed in robes that looked like they
could be torn off very easily. They wouldn’t even need Velcro. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Once we’d all lined up and got into position, they started
enjoying themselves. I’m not going to say I didn’t look. These people were
entertaining themselves in ways that I hadn’t really considered before, at
least not in any great detail. And there it was in front of me. I just had to
stand there in my toga, holding a leash, while others were putting things into
places and making all kinds of noises. The use I was getting out of my leash
paled in significance to what they would have done with it, I’ll tell you that.
I felt a tug on the leather and glanced down. A sheep looked back up at me,
looking about as useless as I felt. I assumed that it was part of the
background decoration like me. At least, I hoped it was. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know exactly how long I stood there, trying not to
look directly at the various parts of human anatomy on display. It might have
been an hour, it might have been less. I had drifted off and started staring up
at the sky, wondering what a satellite would pick up if it looked down at
Galilee. I was startled when Laurence grabbed my shoulder. “Time to go,” he
said. I nodded, but something in the corner of the room caught my eye. A small
fire had started. I hissed at Laurence but he pushed me towards the door. “It’s
part of the show. Just start moving slowly.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a roar of what I assume was the fire catching,
then the screaming started. And it hit me. Sodom and Gomorrah. Of course. I
should have known. I knew exactly what I had been brought there to be and it
should have broken my heart. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Look, Ruth! Open your eyes!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I did no such thing. I wondered how hurt I should have been
as he pawed at the back of my neck, telling me to turn around, to open my eyes
and look. Instead I tuned him out and listened to the screams of the poor
fornicators who I assumed were well on their way to ash. He told me he loved
his job. This was his job. It wasn’t mine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The heat from the flames was becoming unbearable but it gave
me a good indicator of where I didn’t want to go. When I walked away from it
and felt a hand on my arm I knew where Laurence was. So I turned around, I
grabbed that arm, and I pushed at the body it was attached to.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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The scream let me know that Laurence had gone where I wanted
him to. When it didn’t stop I knew that I could keep walking. I hoped the sheep would keep up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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------------------</div>
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It's been months since the last story. Bloody months. I've been busy but I'm hoping to get some more stuff up here soon. I'm planning a couple of things. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this. Here's some music.</div>
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-90307872598723173692013-02-04T21:01:00.000+00:002013-02-04T21:06:48.090+00:00The Night My Heart Exploded<br />
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It’s not a metaphor. Or a simile, or a fucking allegory, or
whatever the word is. My heart. Exploded. And it wasn't because a pretty girl
walked into the library where I work and told me that she needed my help. She
caused it; she made it happen with malice of bloody forethought. At least she
didn’t kill me. I suppose that’s something to be thankful for.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I’d been left alone to lock up for the night. I was in the middle of returning
the children’s section to something approaching acceptable when she walked in. That’s
always the easiest part of the lock-up. I mean, yes, you have to deal with
whatever disgusting things they’ve left behind, from slobbery pacifiers to
slobbery teddy bears, but the beauty of tidying the children’s section is that
it’s never going to be tidy for more than five minutes after you open. And the
manager never comes in for at least an hour after that, so basically it’s a
non-job.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Anyway, back to that night. I was hurling the SpongeBob cushions
into the corner when this girl walked in. Was she attractive? Yes. Would I have
behaved more cautiously had she not been? I don’t know. It’s a moot point. She
wasn’t and I didn’t. Is that right? Anyway, this girl stood there, dressed
quite smart in a dark blue suit, dark hair done in a ponytail, with these big,
bulky headphones around her neck. She asked me if I could help her with
something. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“We’re closed,” I told her.
If I’d been thinking, I would have wondered how she’d got past the locked
front door. But thinking while working isn’t something I do very often. Since
starting work there, I’d made a real effort to save my mental activity until I
could share it with the people who I felt earned it and so far this girl had
done nothing to prove she was worth anything more than a standard response.
Apart from having a face like she did, I suppose.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“It’s very important,” she told me, like that would change
everything. There was a tone in her voice, though. It wasn’t a tone like, “Oh
god, I’ve been attacked!” It was more like “This is serious, listen to me.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I thought about the possibility that she might be telling
the truth. She did look worried; she looked like she wanted to be moving rather
than standing by the door talking to me. So I walked over to her. I’m not a
heartless person; I wouldn’t abandon someone who was in serious trouble. Oh,
shit. Sorry about that. Pun not intended, but if I do it again, you can assume
it is. Heartless.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“What’s going on?” I asked her. She turned to look at the
front door. I don’t know if you’ve been there and seen the doors to the
library, but they’re these two big, bulky wooden bastards. Substantial. And
they were closed. She must have been satisfied because she turned back to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Listen to this,” she said, and reached into her jacket
pocket. Now, I’m wondering what’s going on. Maybe she’s going to pull a phone
or MP3 player out; maybe she’s got a recording of something, I thought. You
know the scene in <i>Garden State</i>, with
Natalie Portman and The Shins? Maybe a small part of me thought that was
happening. But no, it’s a matchbox. Cook’s Matches. She pops on her headphones
and hands the box to me. “Open it,” she says. I know what you’re thinking. Why
would you open it? But then, why wouldn’t you?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I open it. There’s something inside, I can’t tell what it
is. It takes up most of the matchbox; it looks almost like a grey, moist fortune
cookie from a Chinese restaurant, the way it’s curled up in there. And then it uncurls. I almost drop it but
before I can it starts vibrating and this noise comes out and it fills my head
and everything just goes pink.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As I fell to the floor I felt like I was going in
slow-motion. Which meant I could watch the arcing explosion coming out of my
chest. It actually looked kind of beautiful. I saw some white bits that I
assumed were shards of my ribs, or maybe just globs of fat that have been
sticking around. Lots of blood, obviously. I could see it spattering the young
adult section. And there were these vivid red chunks just flying out that I knew,
that I understood were pieces of my heart which had just exploded.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So I’m on the floor. I’m lying there. My head’s tilted to
the side; I’m looking at a misshapen hunk of my flesh that’s dripping off the
book trolley. And I feel the girl take my hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Get up,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It seemed ridiculous. How could I possibly get up? But she
started pulling, so I thought that maybe it wasn’t so stupid. I tried, and it
took some doing, but I just about got to my feet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“What the hell was that?” I asked, in the kind of tone which
I felt was justified.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“I don’t have time to explain,” she said. “There are some
people coming. I need you to go outside and talk to them.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I looked down at the hole in my chest, which was still
bleeding a lot, by the way. I looked at the way my ribs have been blasted
outwards. I felt like I was examining a crime scene. “I’m not sure I can go
anywhere,” I told her. But to be honest, I felt OK. Had it not been for the
evidence all over the floor, I wouldn’t have known anything had happened. She
grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the front door. I kicked a chunk of
something on the way and saw it skid under one of the history shelves. It would
be a bastard to retrieve that. I don’t know who had to do that, some forensics
guy I suppose.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She turned the lock in the front door and opened it a crack.
“Go outside and tell them that it worked,” she said. When I asked what, she
shook the matchbox. “This. Tell them the matchbox worked.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I had time to register a complaint I was shoved
outside. It was blowing a gale and I could feel little dangly bits around the
edges of my wound flapping. It was…grim. But my eyes were drawn to the three large
bald men in suits standing by a large black van a few feet away from me, who
were all carrying shiny handguns. I assumed that these were the people I needed
to talk to.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Hello,” I said. “She says it works.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The man in the middle took a step towards me. “Where’s the
proof?” he asked. I gestured to my chest. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“I think I’m supposed to be the proof,” I told him. “The
thing in the matchbox did this to me.” He moved closer and bent down to examine
my wound. He used his pistol to move my shirt aside and get a better look. I
thought it best to leave him to it, but looking at the blood dripping onto his weapon
I couldn’t help but wonder how sanitary it was.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Fair enough,” he said. “Is she inside?” I nodded, and he
took a step back, taking his handgun out of me. “Laura? Is he telling the
truth, then?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“He is,” I heard her shout from behind me. She was poking
her head out from behind the door. “I told you it would work, I just needed
more time.” The man nodded. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“We may have been too hasty. What do you say to the idea of
coming back?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I turned and saw Laura take a cautious step towards us. “I
say you spent the last hour trying to kill me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The man held his hands up. “We thought that you didn’t know
what you were doing. We thought you were wasting our time, but clearly we were
wrong. I apologise. I was too hasty and it won’t happen again. Besides, we need
you to figure out why he’s still alive.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Laura grinned. “I’ll expect a pay rise.” The man grinned
back and nodded. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d been standing there, listening to this back and forth
and wondering if I should say anything. I had hoped that I would be left out of
it, but clearly, that wasn’t the case. As I was about to ask how they planned
to find out why I was still alive, the man’s two friends picked me up and
bundled me into the van. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one said a word and I thought it best to keep my mouth
shut. We drove for about twenty minutes, then a bag was put over my head and I
was carried inside a building. I had no idea whether I was above ground or
below but when the bag was removed I was in a cell. Not the worst cell
imaginable, thankfully. It was clean, I had it to myself, there was a toilet.
All things considered, it could have been much worse. My main worry was what to
do about the hole in my chest. I did briefly consider filling it with wadded
toilet paper but I’m sure you can deduce why I didn’t. Mushiness. Sorry,
anyway, I didn’t think I needed to worry about infection. I just sat there and waited.
I was sure someone would come and explain things to me eventually</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which brings me up to now. Two men I didn’t recognise opened
the door and brought me here to talk to you ladies and gentlemen. Can I ask,
have you figured it out yet? Why I’m not dead? Does it have something to do
with the thing in the matchbox? Oh, how’s Laura?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
----------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hope you enjoyed this one. It was fun to do something a bit different. Initially it was going to be another story with Elsie the ghost from She Wore Stripes, but this happened instead. I'd written a couple of quite grim things so it was nice to have a bit of fun with this.<br />
<br />
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-57985391567605471182013-01-30T21:27:00.000+00:002013-01-31T21:09:30.464+00:00Yesterday's Shoes<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Robin nearly tripped over the shoes when she stepped out of the front door. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They hadn’t been there when she got home the night before. A
pair of plain black shoes sat on her doormat, facing inwards. They didn’t look
like the kind of shoes to be abandoned. They looked like they’d been polished
to within an inch of their leather lives. But what were they doing there? Why
would somebody leave a perfectly good…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She didn’t have time to think about it. She was going to be
late and Robin was not a person who would allow herself to be late. She stepped
over the unwelcome shoes and hurried off down the front path to work. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her day was a busy one and she didn’t have a lot of time to
think about what the shoes were doing there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every now and again, however, she
would find herself with a quiet moment to herself and she felt that there was
something oddly familiar about those shoes. Which was ridiculous, of course.
What could be familiar about a pair of plain black shoes?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>How old are you now?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were still there when she got back. Sitting on the
front doorstep. Toes pointed towards the door. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whoever had left them there had
not returned, which Robin thought was rather inconsiderate. Perhaps they were
meant to be a gift. Perhaps one of her neighbours had left them for her. Maybe
they thought she had a boyfriend, they were men’s shoes after all. Maybe she
should ask. That’s what she would do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The neighbours had not left them as a gift. In fact they
seemed to find the notion that they would consider leaving her a gift quite
bizarre in itself. Mrs Gleeson on the left explained a little too forcefully
that she had no idea what Robin was talking about and that she certainly had no
interest in any male visitors that she might have. Mr Kritz on the right
apologised for no reason but hadn’t left the shoes there either and used the
stewhe was cooking as a reason to close the door on her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She didn’t need the shoes. She could take them to a charity
shop, she supposed, but she didn’t have the time, not this week. After some
consideration she moved the shoes down to the end of the path, by the front
gate. Somebody would take them, a good pair of shoes like that. Whoever had
left them might conceivably want them back and she would rather the gift-giver
go no further than the gate. Although she supposed they must have done before. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Robin prepared a small supper for herself which she ate at
the dining room table as she always did. Vegetable soup. She’d stopped buying
meat a few years ago; she found that she’d simply lost the taste for it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she ate, the sound of her slurping accompanied only by
the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, she found her mind wandering back
to the shoes. You heard about people being knocked out of their shoes, didn’t
you? People who were hit by a lorry, although she knew that didn’t make sense.
The man could have been struck by lightning and reduced to a pillar of dust,
swept away by the wind. Maybe it was a Jehovah’s Witness who had been raptured.
She giggled into her spoon and spatter minestrone on the tablecloth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she mopped up the mess she’d made she felt a chill. She
thought she had better check the door. No reason, just to check.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The shoes were there. Toes pointed inwards. She peered out
at the night. No one. She picked up the shoes and marched over the bin. It was
rubbish collection day tomorrow. Let the bin men take the shoes and let whoever
was bothering her stop it, just stop it. Time for bed now, Robin, work in the
morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bed time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mum was different that
morning. She was trying hard to smile but Robin could tell she’d been crying.
There was the smell of bacon frying. Mum never cooked bacon. When Robin came in
she wiped her eyes and put a dirty yellow cloth on the table. A black shoe sat
in her lap.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Morning, sweetheart.
Do you want some breakfast?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Watch that, you’re
getting polish on the tablecloth!” The voice was cold and flat. Quiet, but she
could tell he was angry.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Robin didn’t know who
the man who had just told her mum off was but she knew she didn’t like him. He
was looking at her, like he was trying to guess how much she weighed.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Is this her, then?” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mum nodded and kept
that smile on her face. “That’s her. That’s Robin.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Hello, Robin,” said
the man, and bent down to be face to face. His hair was slicked back over his
skull and his eyes were dark like an animal’s. His breath smelt like old coffee.
<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“How old are you now?”
he asked.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“She’s eleven, Alfie,”
said Mum. She sounded scared. Robin knew why. The man had been here before.
When he’d gone away things had got better. She’d stopped being scared at night.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I don’t like you,”
said Robin. Because it was true. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The man’s hand went
back.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Robin woke up with the alarm. She had sweated profusely in
the night and hurried into the shower. She hadn’t had a dream like that for
years. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She went through her morning routine on autopilot. The
kettle was boiled and she ate…something. She dressed and opened the front door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She choked back a sob as she saw the shoes on her front door
step. She looked out at the street, not sure what she was looking for. She
picked up the shoes and hurled them into the road, ignoring the Mrs Gleeson’s
twitching curtain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The day went slowly. She didn’t speak to anyone in the
office. On her lunch break she called her mum. The receptionist at the home put
her through and Mum sounded surprised to hear from her. Robin tried to explain
what was happening but didn’t know what to say. Finally she just asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mum…he’s dead, isn’t he?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who’s dead, dear?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dad. Dad’s dead, isn’t he?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a pause. Long enough for Robin to think that maybe
her mother was going to tell her no. But instead there was a deep sigh. “Of
course he is, dear. You know he is. What’s this about?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Robin hung up. When five o’clock came she practically ran
out of the office. She stood by the doors on the bus ride home, and jumped off
at her stop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The shoes were there. Same exact spot. Same exact shine. She
picked them up and walked back down the street. She walked all the way to the big
supermarket with the skip round the back and she buried those shoes under the
reeking, bulging black bags. She waited there while it got dark until one of
the shop’s employees came outside and piled more bags on top. Then she left.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She could barely bring herself to walk up the garden path.
She couldn’t take it if they were back. She thought that she would die. She
nearly ran to the front door in the end, casting a look down as she slid the
key into the lock. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing. They were gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course they were. Just get inside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She closed the front door behind her and let her coat drop
to the floor. She shook her shoes off at the bottom of the stairs. She just
needed calm. She just needed to relax. She filled a water glass and turned off
the light. She slid under the duvet fully clothed and closed her eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>There was smoke. And
there was shouting. And that was all she remembered.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She opened her eyes. There was someone else in the room.
Somewhere behind her. She couldn’t bring herself to turn over. She was frozen
on her side by the edge of the bed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then she saw them. Next to her water glass on the floor. Two
black shoes. Polished to within an inch of their leather lives. She gasped as
she felt warm breath on the back of her neck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I…I don’t…I don’t like…I don’t like…I don’t like you…I don’t”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How old are you now?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>-----------------</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Hello there.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>I hope you enjoyed the story, it took me a while to figure out how I wanted it to be. It was going to be more of a ghost story originally but I quite liked the idea of just focusing on Robin becoming increasingly distraught. I didn't want to make it any longer so I kept the explanations very vague, which I hope works. I wanted to imply what had happened rather than just come out and say it. I think it's a bit more grim as a result! Many thanks to @nolanzebra3 for the title. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>I think the next story will be The Night My Heart Exploded (title by @davidhayes4), which will be a return for Elsie the ghost, who I wrote about in <a href="http://hatfullofhorror.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/she-wore-stripes.html">She Wore Stripes</a>. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Thanks for reading.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-47646683267871138542013-01-19T17:04:00.001+00:002013-01-19T17:06:19.045+00:00An Empty Space on the Bookshelf<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why did you kill my cat?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Edward had indeed killed Lucy’s cat. He’d done it with a copy
of Ulysses. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He hadn’t meant to. He’d come home and found his girlfriend
gone. A note had explained that she wasn’t sure how she felt about him but she
wanted him to leave. The note had ended with a hopeful “for now” that implied a chance of reconciliation. Edward didn’t see how that was going to work if he
wasn’t there. And that had made him angry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’d gone to look for the things that were his. The things
he would not allow her to hold on to. He marched over to the bookshelf. He was sure
the good books were his; she didn’t have any good ones. She wasn’t a reader. Scanning
through the paperbacks he’d seen James Joyce’s Ulysses. They had found it in an
Oxfam bookshop and had pooled their change to buy it. Lucy had never read it
and he had only studied it. It had seemed like a good idea but he didn’t
remember either of them picking it up once it was theirs. He picked it
carefully, stroking the weathered spine. The price had been scrawled in pencil
in the inside cover. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’d thrown it across the room. She would see it, splayed open on the carpet,
and see how angry he was. But he hadn’t expected the snap he heard. Their cat,
Isaac, lay on the floor. Splayed. The people at Battersea were right. They
should have really thought very carefully about it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Isaac twitched and gave a painful wheeze. Claws retracted
and extended. As Edward stood, stunned, the poor tabby cat shuddered and
finally froze. Edward stood, frozen by the bookcase, looking at the dead animal
in front of him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What does one do with a dead animal? It was an accident, it
wasn’t murder. Manslaughter, catslaughter. Edward’s mind was racing. Should he
carve it into pieces, dispose of it in different sites? That was ridiculous and
worse than killing it. Could he put it in a black bag with the rest of the
rubbish? That seemed cruel, he had liked that cat. There were times when they
hadn’t got on but Isaac had generally been good company and deserved better
than a cheap bin-liner. Finally, Edward did the only thing he could do. He left the cat on the floor and a note on the table.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Very sorry but the cat is dead. I didn’t mean to.” He paused,
lifting the biro clear from the post-it note to try and think of something good
before writing “Very sorry” a second time. Then he left.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bus ride home seemed to take forever. He worried that he
would bump into Lucy or one of her friends, despite going in the opposite
direction. He needn’t have worried. He got safely into his flat without having
to talk to anyone. As he turned on the lights he thought about how lucky he was
that he had kept onto the flat despite spending most of his time at her place.
Then he remembered that it was Lucy who said it was a good idea to hold onto
it, just in case. Had she planned this? How long had she been planning it for? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As he let his anger build, slowly swallowing the Isaac
guilt, his mobile rang. Lucy. The anger fell away and was replaced by the dead
weight of guilt. He stared at his phone for a moment, at the name on the
screen, and went into the kitchen where the he knew the signal wouldn’t drop.
He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, but Lucy spoke first.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why did you kill my cat?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Edward wanted to explain, to tell her how ridiculous the
whole thing was. He desperately felt that this was something that should not
have happened. It was like knocking a mug of tea over on someone’s book, it was
a simple mistake. Maybe a laptop was a better comparison, more expensive, less
easily replaced. But he knew how it looked. It had taken on significance now. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not just the fact that he done something awful. There was
another concern. Edward wondered if she had taken it as a message. If he said
the wrong thing it could certainly be construed as a message. Dump me and I’ll
kill your cat. You think we should take some time off? I’ll kill your cat. That
was not something that should be put around. Edward would never do anything
like that. He did not deserve that kind of a reputation. It had been an
accident, he was sure of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry,” he said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Edward
fidgeted with the tied end of a pack of bread, tugging at the plastic. Finally
she spoke.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What happened?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He told her the truth. He told her about finding the note,
about going to the bookshelf, and about how Joyce’s magnum opus had snapped the
neck of poor Isaac. He could hear her breathing as he babbled but she didn’t
interject. When he stopped he could hear her clearing her throat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So it was an accident?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course!” he said. It had been a terrible accident but an
accident nevertheless. She needed to know that, to understand it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know, it’s weird,” she said. “I saw the empty space on
the bookshelf first. Then I saw the book. I thought you’d decided to trash the
place and I was getting really angry. I thought about how much of a dick you
could be.” He heard her sniff. Was she crying? “And then I saw Isaac, how he’d
curled up and he just looked all wrong and I thought…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was crying now. Edward felt like he should say something.
Was it appropriate to console her? He was the perpetrator after all. Perpetrators
apologise, they don’t console. But she was crying and old instincts overruled
common sense.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, it’s OK,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing tone.
The crying stopped with a kind of choking sound. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s not OK, you fucking dick. You murdered my cat!” Edward
realised his mistake and tried to backpedal. As he started to apologise again,
Lucy interrupted. “You murdered my fucking cat and you leave a fucking note?
This is exactly the kind of thing that I should expect from you, I don’t know
why it came as such as a surprise. Why should I expect an easy break-up from
you, one where nothing dies?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well I’m sorry I’m not perfect!” shouted Edward. He knew
this was the wrong approach but honestly, how much worse could he make things
for himself. This was evidently a lost cause, why not try and shift as much of
the blame onto her as possible? “Maybe if you were easier to talk to I wouldn’t
have had to leave a note.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What?” screamed Lucy. “What has that got to do with the
fact that you killed my cat?” Edward had a blinding flash of inspiration, the
kind that only comes to those forced into a corner and the only escape is the
illogical one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“In fact, if you hadn’t left a note, I wouldn’t have lost my
temper and Isaac wouldn’t be dead.” He let that final barb sit for a moment and
there was a quiet on the line as Lucy attempted to digest it. Let her take that
on board. All her fault after all. Maybe he wasn’t the one who should have
Isaac’s death on his conscience.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So you murdered my cat because I broke up with you,” she
said flatly. Alarm bells went off in Edward’s head. She’d played the trump
card. She had more friends than he did. Their mutual friends were better
friends with her than they were with him. They’d take her word for it. This
would be the thing he was known for. Cat-killer. Couldn’t take being dumped so
he killed a cat. Everyone would know. He’d never date again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I didn’t…I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry. Look, Lucy, please…I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to. This is all…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Go fuck yourself, Edward.” The line went dead and Edward
stared at his phone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, that was it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’d have to move.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-----------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello, there. Thanks for reading.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something a bit different this week, not a horror thing. The excellent title came from @andylonsdale21 so thank you very much to him. It's quite a serious title and initially this was going to be played completely seriously and the phone conversation was going to be a deep and moving discussion of how their relationship went so wrong. But, when it came down to it, I tried to be funny instead. I think that once I'd written the word "catslaughter" I couldn't take it entirely seriously anymore. Seriously.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It also occurred to me when I finished that it's quite similar to the scene in Re-Animator in which Herbert West puts Dan's cat in the fridge and doesn't leave a note. "What would a note say, Dan? Cat dead, details later?" </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Anyway, hope you enjoyed it. And I would like to reassure everyone that I have never killed a cat, intentionally or otherwise. But you should watch Re-Animator.</div>
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-13952675642510104282013-01-06T16:29:00.000+00:002013-01-06T16:29:48.748+00:00She Wore Stripes<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
She hadn’t been dead long. That’s important. And she hadn’t
made a mess of herself. A bit of blood around the nose, easy enough to wipe
off. Some hot water and a wad of toilet paper would take care of that. And she
was dressed all in stripes, looking a bit like Beetlejuice’s teenage sister,
especially now that she’d snuffed it. I’d been wearing a dress a bit like that
when I went. I got hit by a lorry, though, so those white stripes turned red
very quickly. Ha.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For any ghost attempting possession of a corpse, it’s
important that the body hasn’t been dead for very long. It’s important because
being in a corpse as it goes through rigor mortis is about as much fun as
dying. And once you’ve done either once you don’t really want to do it again. You’ve
only got about three hours before it becomes noticeable. I can tell you that it’s
difficult to explain to the dead person’s friend why your arm isn’t bending any
more. Best to know your limits. And if you do hang around for rigor mortis, the
livor mortis has already begun. Blood pooling in places. Not good. So yeah, unless
you want to tell a barman why you can’t move as you feel yourself becoming a
soggy sausage skin full of…keep an eye on the time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My name’s Elsie and if you’re wondering if I just hang
around waiting to people to die so I can walk around in their bodies, you’re
not far off the truth. I mean, yes, you can possess the living but that takes
weeks, sometimes months, of preparation and frankly it’s very rarely worth the
hassle. The dead don’t fight you; the only thing working against you is the
clock. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I come to The Worker’s Hearth quite often. It’s open late
and you quite often find people stopping off for a last drink at three in the
morning on their stumble home. Every now and then one of them dies and I walk them
home instead. But I’d come along early tonight and I was glad I did. This girl,
the one in stripes, had popped in with her friends for a round of cheap shots
on the way into town and had gone, alone, to the loos for a pee and a snort. After
thirty years as a ghost you start notice when people’s bodies are struggling to
cope and this girl had all the warning signs. So I floated off after her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure enough, as soon as she’d got it up her nose the
bleeding started and her little heart fluttered and gave out. Her face hit the
tiles and I got to work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s not really an art to this. It’s pretty simple. The
person dies. Their spirit leaves the body like a reflex. And in you pop. The best
way to describe it is like climbing into a wetsuit. You’ve got to wiggle your
way all the way down the arms and legs, make sure your fingers and toes are in
properly. If you do it right you’ve got total control of the body in terms of
movement, vocal chords and so forth. You can walk, talk, smile. Sadly, you
don’t have any say over the body’s decomposition. You’ve got about an hour,
maybe two before people start to notice that you look and smell terrible. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A word of advice. Always take the time to clean yourself up.
People tend to notice if there’s a dreadful stink of shit coming from you, or
worse, there might be a wound that you haven’t noticed. Claiming to be drunk
will only get you so far if you haven’t spotted that the back of your head is open
and dripping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I cleaned the blood from her nose and got the arms and
legs moving. No stiffness yet, everything seemed to be working as normal. And
she hadn’t shat herself, which was a relief. Obviously, sometimes you have to
clean up but when you don’t have a lot of time you don’t want to waste it in
the stalls. I gave her face a bit of a touch-up with the make-up kit in her
bag. Her being a bit of a druggie was a relief; her friends would be used to
seeing her pale. The outfit wasn’t too bad. A damp patch from the floor but I
could always blame that on busted taps; in a place like this the girls
downstairs would believe it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went back downstairs, going carefully to get the hang of
her pins. The people at the table looked happy to see me. I was accused of
taking my sweet time, to which I answered that I’d had too much to drink. They
called me Tania, which I made a note of. Then I downed my pint, left the pub,
and got into a taxi with them. On the way there I didn’t say a lot. I tried to
focus on the little things. Feeling fabric against Tania’s skin. The air from
the open window on Tania’s face, rushing through Tania’s hair. The after-taste
of watered-down lager on Tania’s tongue. These things make Elsie happy. Before
I knew it we’d arrived at the club.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t really know the best way to describe trying to dance
with limbs that don’t have blood pumping through them anymore. You know the
Thriller video? It’s fuck all like that. There’s much less coordination. You
just try to move your limbs as much as possible, really. I think maybe it helps
postpone the stiffness but I have no idea. It’s just nice to have the feeling
that the body you’re in is responding to instructions. I’ve tried haunting an
aerobics class but anyone who’s going to snuff it at the gym tends to so fairly
publicly, everyone hovering around them. You want people to go privately. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I noticed a couple of guys checking me out and quickly
discouraged them, sticking to the group of friends this girl had found for
herself. I’m not stupid enough to attempt intercourse while inhabiting a
corpse. That would be horrible and incredibly ill-advised. Well, I tried it
once. Once. After six years of being dead I finally had to give it a try. It
was as disastrous and disgusting as you’d assume, and we’ll say no more about
it. There were…fluids. Jesus, I’m shuddering just thinking about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d kept an eye on the time and it was approaching midnight.
Time to get going, but I still had a couple of minutes to think about it. How did
I want people to find Tania? She had friends with her, most of them seemed
nice. A girl called Sarah seemed to be closest to her, a slightly chubby freckly red-head who
had asked if I was alright and had tried to make me laugh. She’d stayed on the
dance floor with me and shown a similar disregard for people trying to dance
with her. I wondered if they were together. However, I wasn’t going to find
out. I could feel the changes starting to happen and I didn’t want to freak her
out unnecessarily.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, when it comes to getting rid of your body you can go
for the alley-drop but that always struck me as a bit cruel on the survivors. I
didn’t really want Sarah feeling guilty because she’d let her drunk best friend
wander off to expire alone in a dirty alley. So I considered the “I just died
in your arms tonight” approach. She’d always remember that. She could call an
ambulance. That would make her feel better, if she’d been proactive. She could
tell herself that she’d tried to help. I went for it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stuck around in the body long enough to give the illusion
that Tania was dying in Sarah’s panicking arms, a bit of light convulsing, eyelids
fluttering, some shallow breathing . Once people starting yelling I left. You
don’t want to hang around all that. That’s none of your business; it’s nothing to
do with you. Best left alone. So off I went. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You probably think all of this is wrong. Maybe you think
it’s immoral, that I’ll burn in hell for it. Well I’m not there yet. And when
you’ve been stranded in spectral form for thirty years you can talk to me about
it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
------------<br />
<br />
Hello there. I hope you enjoyed this one. I was worried at first that the voice was a little to similar to Eliza in Witch's Bile but I think Elsie's more disaffected than malicious. Anyway, she was a lot of fun to write and I have a plan for a second story with her where something actually happens, as opposed to this, which I think is just her normal Friday night.<br />
<br />
Not sure which story will be next but it will be another week or two. The title from this story came from @merazad and I'm very grateful!<br />
<br />
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<br />Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-7262835122246663282013-01-01T17:28:00.000+00:002013-01-01T17:28:18.571+00:00The Lesser Evil <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Light the candles, Freddie.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freddie took the blue plastic lighter from Caroline and went
around the candles, taking care not to burn his thumb. They’d spent nearly an
hour ensuring that the pentagram was laid out correctly according the book that
Caroline had bought online, which reeked of damp and something else that made
Freddie keen to avoid touching it. Caroline coughed, a lengthy hacking that sounded painful. Freddie wondered how long her cold was going to hang around for. Still, if her dad wouldn't turn the heating on in January, he supposed that was what happened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were in Caroline’s father’s barn, by the woods at the
edge of his property. Freddie worried even though Caroline told him that her
father had passed out in front of A Touch of Frost at about seven and wouldn’t
stir till morning. Freddie couldn’t help but feel like someone might happen by
and wonder what they were doing. Someone might see.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The barn hadn’t been used for years. At least, not for the
purposes for which it was originally built. It was mostly used for storage now.
As Freddie lit the candles he illuminated a series of trunks and old boxes. He’d
never been told but he was pretty sure it was mostly Caroline’s mum’s stuff
that was in here. The candles also cast an appropriately sinister light on
their pentagram. Caroline had read that they could use any kind of blood and so
Freddie had bought a fresh cupful belonging to an unfortunate pig, trying all
the time not to make eye contact with Mr Redmond who sold his mother her weekly
order of pork chops and beef mince.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soon they were all lit. Freddie didn’t know what came next.
Caroline hadn’t told him what the ritual would actually involve. She said that
she didn’t want him to know more than he had to, which was a step up from her
initial decision to keep him out of the thing entirely. It was like she was
trying to protect him. He’d never get anywhere with her if he let her keep that
attitude. He’d tried to let her know he could be useful but he hadn’t been able
to glean a single piece of useful information. All he could do was stand there
and try to be helpful. Freddie knew he’d be doing better if he wasn’t so
scared. What did he have to be scared about? It wasn’t like this was actually
going to work. He hadn't even asked what she was wishing for he was so sure of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While Freddie fretted, Caroline had started to speak. He was
going to ask her to repeat herself before he realised that she wasn’t talking
to him. He saw the candles flutter and shadows flittered across the barn that
made him wish he was at home in bed. He squeezed his eyes shut. Then he opened them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the middle of the room a man stood in the centre of the
pentagram. Short black hair, a light grey suit. He reminded Freddie of the
lawyer in To Kill a Mockingbird. The man looked at them, smiled, and nodded a
greeting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hello there.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man’s voice was clearly not from around here. Not
English, not American, somewhere in between. It was somehow neutral. The man
looked down at his feet and slowly lifted his polished right shoe. When he
looked back up again he seemed genuinely excited. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A pentagram! How nice of you to make the effort. No,
honestly, you know, so much is done online these days it’s nice to be called by
someone who really knows what they’re doing. I had a bloody print-out last
night, if you can believe that. Well done. Both of you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caroline took a step forward. Before Freddie could think of
whether or not he should too, she addressed the new arrival.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you him?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freddie thought that was a bit vague but the man seemed to
know what she was talking about. He shrugged and turned his smile upside down
with theatrical ease.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Me? No, sorry. I’m not the one you’re waiting for. He’s
very busy, as I’m sure you can imagine. No no I’m the on hold music, if you like.
I’m the annoying Abba song that gets stuck in your head. But the big guy will
be along in a minute.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s your name?” asked Caroline. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ah, I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to pronounce it, and I
don’t have the time to teach you.” He cocked his head to one side, taking the
measure of them both. Freddie felt like he was in P.E. waiting to be chosen for
a team. This was not a situation in which he’d ever done very well. But the
man’s smile returned, slowly spreading across his face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s very nice to meet you. Caroline and Freddie. Very nice
to meet you indeed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How do you know our names?” asked Caroline, before Freddie
got the chance to. The man sniffed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry, that’s one of the benefits of this; we know who’s
summoning us just as you know who you’re summoning. At least I hope you do.”
The man’s expression became graver and Freddie realised he was starting to move
behind Caroline. He willed himself to stop. He was here to help. He was here to
be strong. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man continued with a hint of force in his voice telling
them just how serious he was. “You did read the instructions, didn’t you?
Because this is not somebody you want to be fooling around with. Not that you
want to be fooling around with any of us, miss, but this one is particularly
quick to anger. Let me tell you, if you have any uncertainties about what
you’re doing, any questions, concerns, best to get them out in the open now
before he shows up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We know what we’re doing” hissed Caroline. The man held his
hands up, pressing his palms together in penitence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course you do. With this very fine pentagram here it was
foolish of me to even suggest you were…amateurs. Forgive me.” His eyes
flickered between the two of them, back and forth between Freddie and Caroline.
Freddie felt the same unease as he did whenever someone looked at the two of
them. What would a girl like her (tall, lean, blonde and with the kind of face
that would drive the poetry weirdos as well as the sports team idiots to a
frenzy) be doing with him (twitchy, odd, and with a face nothing short of
drastic surgery could rescue). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“May I ask what it is you’re after?” asked the stranger.
“Just what you’re hoping to get out of this little transaction? I mean, I can’t
actually grant anything, not while I’m waiting here, holding the line. This limits
my powers somewhat. But think of me as…a lesser evil in these moments before a
great big arch-demon comes flaming into this…sorry, what is this? Is this a
barn?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caroline stared back at him. She didn’t flinch. Their guest
nodded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Never mind. You don’t have to tell me. I understand, these
things are delicate. Personal. You know,
I admire you two. I do. You’ve got it figured out; you know what you’re doing.
You’re not messing around, it’s good. And he’ll respect that too. You’ve done
well. And don’t worry about the flaming by the way. I mean, he will be on fire
but he’s not going to burn this place down. Unless you ask him very nicely. ”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then he turned back to Freddie and for the first time he
felt the full weight of his attention directly on him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Freddie, you can look at me, you know. There’s no need to
be shy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t you fucking talk to him. You talk to me!” Caroline
took a step forward, shielding Freddie from the stranger. Freddie felt his
failings twist around his stomach like a snake. The man’s face flipped once
more from friendly to apologetic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, of course not, Caroline. I will address only you if you
so desire. I didn’t mean to cause any friction. I was just being friendly.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caroline turned her head slightly towards Freddie. Not all
the way. She didn’t take her eyes off the man in the pentagram.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wait outside, Freddie.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This cut him to the core. This was the final humiliation. In
the face of a man who appeared from nowhere, she would rather he wait outside
to let her face it alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Caroline, I…I can help.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He didn’t even convince himself. She shook her head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wait outside. Please.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was it. He turned and walked out of the barn, shoulders
slumped. In a long list of personal failures this was might be the worst. He
heard the man talking as he left. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, don’t send him away. You don’t have to…Bye, Freddie!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He closed the barn door and leaned against it. Reaching into
his coat he found the half-empty bottle of corner-shop vodka he’d stolen from
his brother’s room. He was planning to use it to console Caroline when the
pentagram idea hadn’t worked, which had seemed like the only outcome at the
time. Faced with the reality of a demon talking to the girl he loved and being
sent outside like a leper, Freddie put the bottle to his lips and drank.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wasn’t long before everything got a bit hazy. Freddie had
never been able to handle his booze and the excitement of the evening seemed to
further quicken its effects. He put his head against the door and listened in
the hope that they were talking about him. And, as chance would have it, they
were. Or at least the man was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s nice the way you look after him. You’re like a big
sister to him, aren’t you? It’s nice, I mean it. Does he know?<o:p></o:p>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freddie slumped. The words ‘big sister’ were the kiss of
death. That made him the little brother and that made the efforts of last few
years of his life spectacularly pointless. He zoned out, began to luxuriate in
self-pity, when he became aware of someone standing next to him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man stood, watching him with a smile on his lips.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hi there, Freddie.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freddie struggled to stand up straight. How had he got out
of the pentagram? What had happened to Caroline? As if reading his mind, the
man held his hands up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not to worry, Freddie, Caroline’s fine. The big guy’s
finally arrived; they’re in there now, hashing out the details. And I’m not
going to hurt you either, in case that’s what’s troubling you. I just want to
talk. You know, Freddie, you impress me. You know why?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freddie didn’t, and shook his head to let him know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re brave. It takes courage to come out to a place like
this and be there for your friend while she does something this dangerous, this
insane. I mean, you appreciate how dangerous what she’s doing is, don’t you? Of
course you do. I mean, she’s literally playing with fire. Hellfire, anyway. And
you’re out here, helping her. It’s courageous.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freddie decided to let the stranger salve his pride a little
bit. He nodded. Why not? He was courageous. He’d come here at least. Even if
Caroline had decided that his services weren’t required.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Does she know, Freddie?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freddie looked up, about to ask the man what he meant, but
knew instantly from the sly grin on his face what he was talking about. He
started to stammer out a question but the man held up his finger.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No point denying it, it’s as plain as anything. You love
her, and you haven’t told her have you? It’s obvious. Maybe you haven’t told
her because you think she knows anyway. Let me tell you something, that girl
isn’t guessing anything. Did you see her in there? A girl like that in a
situation like this, Freddie, it’s all about focus. She’s got one goal in mind.
She’s getting it done in there. She’s got a mission.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But maybe you haven’t told her because you’re afraid she’ll
laugh. People have laughed at you before, haven’t they? You don’t have to
answer me, it’s fine. People can be very cruel. And maybe she’ll laugh too. But
do you know what will be worse, Freddie? If she tells you that she doesn’t see
you that way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh she sees you as a friend, for sure. You’re out here with
her, aren’t you? You’re helping her. But you need to make her see you as more
than just her little brother. You need to show her what I can see to be true.
That you are a strong, courageous person. That you have so much more to offer
her. You need to let her see the strength of your feelings.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With that, the man from the flames paused and turned away. Freddie
leaned back against the door, thrown by the flurry of words. He wasn’t being
told anything he hadn’t already thought to himself. But it was something to
hear someone else expressing his feelings. It somehow made it all feel more
possible. The man turned back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you know what she’s asking for in there?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freddie shook his head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Have you ever met Caroline’s father?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freddie’s heart beat a little faster as he started to
realise what Caroline was doing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caroline’s father was a bastard. There was no other way to
describe him. He knew that her father beat her on a regular basis. Freddie was
used to lending her sweatshirts to help hide the bruises on her arms from their
schoolmates. After the head teacher had finally noticed and paid a home visit
it looked like he might have been easing up on his daughter but over the last
few weeks it had been getting worse again. Yesterday she’d shown up to school
with a black eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that was it. Caroline was finally doing something about
her father.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is she just going to ask him to help her stop him or…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man sneered, and for the first time Freddie caught a
glimpse of something that wasn’t quite benign.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you think she just wants him to stop, Freddie? She wants
him gone. Now listen to me, because I have some experience in this. If it were
me, I’d just do the thing myself. If I were the one with the power to grant
these wishes, I’d just grant the bloody thing. Click my fingers and stop the
bastard’s heart. But him in there, you have to understand, he’s in his position
for a reason. He’s going to twist it so that there’s no easy option for
Caroline. The only way he’ll let her do it is by making sure she doesn’t get
caught.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Get caught doing what?” asked Freddie, understanding his
own stupidity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why, murdering her father. He’s not going to just do it for
her, she’s going to have to take the life and live with the guilt, just not the
prison sentence. But here’s where you come in, Freddie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know something about guilt. It’s hard to live with. And
she will live it with, to be sure, but she won’t be the same Caroline you know
now. You say you’re looking for a way to show your love for her, well what
could be nobler than taking on her burden? If you tell me right now that you
authorise a switch, that you decide to carry that weight, I can make it happen.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freddie reeled. “I thought you said you couldn’t grant
anything!” The man nodded. “But you can…swap? I don’t know, I’m not…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But you are, Freddie!” interjected the stranger. “I know
that you have this within you, the power to do this. And she will never forget
it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I need your decision now, Freddie. She’s in there right
now, it’s been at least five minutes already, and they’ll be closing the deal.
If you want to do this, we have to do it now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freddie turned away, but the man grabbed him by the shoulders
and shook him. He looked into the man’s eyes and saw them glow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Let me show you,” he said, and Freddie felt his feet give
way from under him. He was back inside the barn, watching Caroline reach out
and take the hand of a tall, sneering man with long black hair. The man laughed,
and he could see a tear trickle its way down Caroline’s cheek. There was a
bright flash and the room changed again, and now he was in Caroline’s sitting
room at home. He saw her father asleep in an armchair, and saw Caroline drop a
match into the sleeping man’s lap. He felt the heat on his face, smelt the
stink of flesh cooking and burning hair. He cried out as the flash came again
and saw a woman, older but unmistakeably Caroline, alone in a room he didn’t
recognise and understood that it was a place he didn’t belong. With a final
flash the heat returned, and the fire, and a legion of screams. Freddie knew
where he was, this place both horrifyingly dark and terribly illuminated, before he saw Caroline being bundled, howling over a ledge by a
mob of grotesque figures. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Enough!” he cried. He opened his eyes and found himself
outside the barn, with the stranger now standing about a foot away from him.
“I’ll do it. Tell him I’ll do the swap.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You accept the gift and the price?” asked the stranger.
Freddie nodded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The stranger smiled at him. “You’re a good man, Frederick.
Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise. Why don’t you go on in and give
Caroline the good news? Go ahead. I’ll wait.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Freddie took a deep breath and opened the door to the barn.
He didn’t fully understand what he had taken on but he knew that he done what
he had to. To protect her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caroline was kneeling on the edge of the pentagram, shaking.
When Freddie put his hand on her shoulder she turned sharply.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where did he go?” she asked. “He was right here, we’d
agreed…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t worry,” said Freddie, “I’ve taken care of it. You
don’t have to do anything.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What do you mean? What have you done?” She didn’t sound
relieved. She looked furious. She got to her feet and started towards Freddie.
“What did you do?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He’s taken your deal,” said the stranger, slinking back
into the room. “I let him think you were finally doing something about your
daddy issues and he agreed to take the burden for you. Look on the bright side,
Caroline. You still have your soul.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What are you talking about?” asked Freddie. “If it wasn’t
her father, what I have I…what have taken from her?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, Frederick,” said the stranger, stepping back into the
pentagram, “Caroline’s still got a few months left before her time is up. And
you’ve got…so much longer. Freddie, you should have told Caroline that you love
her. Caroline, you should have told Freddie that you’re dying. Communication is
so very important.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The candles fluttered and went out. “I told you I was the
lesser evil. Tell yourself that it could have been worse if you think it’ll
help.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>---------------------</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Hi there.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br />So, there's been a delay of at least a month since I last posted anything here. Which is bad. Sorry about that. In my defence, things got quite hectic. At the time when I started writing this story I got an interview for a job, and then I had a second interview, and then I was told that I got the job. Which means that I have now relocated to Bournemouth to start as a Staff Writer at SciFiNow, which is hugely exciting and I can't wait to start. Tomorrow!</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But fiction-wise, I'm hoping I can get back to some kind of schedule once I've settled in. I wanted to get this story done. The title comes from @SFXPennyD, and the first thing that came to mind was some kind of basement, torture-type scenario but I didn't really fancy writing that after the last story. So I wrote this instead. I started writing it as a monologue by the demon but I felt like I'd done something similar a little too recently. So there's this, which is possibly a little monologue-y, but if anyone's going to be overly verbose, it's going to be a demon trying to sell you something you shouldn't buy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'll be trying to update the blog more regularly over the next few weeks and months. I know I've said that a lot but I really mean it this time. Definitely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-62585153711551745182012-11-20T07:53:00.000+00:002012-11-20T21:31:38.075+00:00Slide Left<div class="MsoNormal">
“Slide left.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His father’s voice. It didn’t belong here and it didn’t hang
around.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The door to the basement slammed and Michael opened his
eyes. Whatever was down there with him shifted its weight and sighed. Michael
pushed himself across the wet dirt floor back towards the cellar steps. The
door would be locked. He knew it. He'd heard the metal screech of a dead-bolt. He was trapped down here. In the dark, with
this rotten smell and with whatever this thing was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He found a wall and pressed himself against it. Some impulse
told him to set about looking for a weapon but what would be down here? Where
would he find something to protect him from whatever had made his captors cackle as they pushed him down the steps? He tried desperately to make sense
of what had happened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His car had broken down in the rain. That was it. That was
how it had started. The battery had died and he was looking for a phone so he
could get some help because his bloody phone battery was as dead as the one in
his car. He was only looking for help. He should have known. He should have
guessed by the smiles on these people’s faces that they weren’t quite right. The
house had looked normal from the outside. The man and the woman, both tall, she had lots
of blonde hair and he had hardly any. They invited him in. Said they knew the
number for the services. It all looked…normal. He could smell their dinner
cooking in the oven. Heard some crooner on the radio. It had all been fine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then he had seen through to the living room. There was a girl lying on the floor, not moving, a pool of blood circling her head. He’d rushed over to help. He’d been trying
to help. He’d had a hand on her shoulder and was shouting and then he'd heard laughter. And a scream. And everything had gone black.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hello,” said a woman’s voice. “You shouldn’t be down here.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Michael looked up with a start, his heart pounding deafening blood, peering into the darkness. Whoever had
spoken was hidden but the voice didn’t sound unkind. It sounded apologetic. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know,” he said stupidly, “I don’t know what
happened…I think...something hit me on the head and I fell down. There was a girl. What…who are these
people?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sigh again. It was less sinister now, sadder. Michael
leaned forward.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t you know? They’re killers. They take people like you
and me and they put us down here and then they wait.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wait for what?” asked Michael. He knew he didn’t want an
answer but he couldn’t help himself. He didn't have to wait long for it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They wait for us to stop. They wait for us to stop
fighting, to stop trying, to stop hoping. Then we stop breathing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A hammering sound from upstairs. Fists on the door, a
mocking wailing, and finally laughter. Michael closed his eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How long have you been down here?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know. I was seventeen when I first woke up. How old
do I sound?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Michael thought the voice coming from the darkness was that
of a young woman. He inched along the wall towards her. If only he could see
who he was talking to. If they could work together, they could find a way out,
and he told her so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You can’t get out of here. There’s not an out.” The girl was resigned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Michael was not going to listen to this. There was a way
out. There had to be. There was a way in so there was a way out. The two freaks
upstairs couldn’t keep him locked down here for ever. And this girl, the one
down here, she needed his help. No matter how scared he was, he had responsibilities. So he took a deep breath. And he told her about
what his father used to tell him about bad situations.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He used to tell me that when the worst thing in the world
is coming towards you like a fucking lorry, just slide left. That’s all you
need to do. No matter how hopeless, how inevitable it seems, there’s always another way out,
another way around. You don’t need the perfect solution, it doesn’t have to be
a work of genius, but that’s all you need sometimes. To just…slide left. To get
out of the way.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s not always as simple as that,” the voice came back. There was less sorrow, more determination. How long had she been down here? Maybe she really believed there was no way out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It can be. There’s always a way.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then a thought made him stop cold.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wait…you said ‘us’. Have there been others?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course,” returned the voice. “Some have gone. One or two
are still here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Michael stopped cold. If there was a group, why had they not
mounted an escape? Even teenagers like this girl should surely be capable of taking on the two
upstairs. He blinked again and was relieved that his vision was starting to
improve.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who else is here? Why aren’t they talking?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Patrick can’t. Millie’s shy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked around the room, willing his eyes to adjust to the
darkness even faster. Why couldn’t he see further than a few inches?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Tell them not to worry. I’m going to get us out of here.”
He needed to believe it. Because he could do this. He could get out. He could
get them all out, whoever the hell was down here. They’d all get out together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sigh again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We’re not worried. Millie says thank you for trying to
help. She appreciated the gesture but you should never have come. The rest of us feel the same. We don't like you coming down here and talking about a way out. Like it was easy. Like it was something we hadn't thought of. Patrick can’t
talk to you because they took his tongue. There’s a boy called Dominic around
here somewhere but he doesn’t like anyone to see him since they took his skin.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Michael couldn’t breathe. He could barely speak. But he had
to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What did they take from you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Everything. They took everything from me, Michael. And then they took my heart.<o:p></o:p>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A face thrust in front of him, skin a torn mass of white and red, blood
running down from her mouth over shattered teeth, sickly eyes rolled up towards
the ceiling and a guttural voice coming from a bottomless well of agony.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you want to see my way out, Michael? Are you ready to escape, you arrogant piece of shit?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Michael opened his mouth to scream. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
“If only I'd tried sliding left, you stupid fucking moron.”<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
---------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hi there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First of all, sorry about the delay in getting new fiction up. I've ended up being very busy with non-fictional things, some of which have been good, some of which have been bad, all of which have taken time. Anyway. Here's a short story. Kind of a companion piece to This Bitter Family Tree, except I couldn't do it in 500 words so I had to settle for 1000. The title comes from @Daanando and it's not quite what I had in mind for it originally, but I couldn't quite figure out what to do with that story. It was also going to be a lot more mournful but suddenly she was angry and I liked that a lot more.<br />
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-83023699515843264132012-11-04T21:20:00.000+00:002012-11-04T21:34:00.227+00:00This Bitter Family Tree<br />
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Michael Thurlston trudged through the dark woods towards the
house. The howling wind masked the crunching of his boots on the snow. In his
bag he carried only what he needed to survive the journey there. There would be
no journey back. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The house looked out over a small lake. His family had once
owned all the surrounding land but it had been sold off, piece by piece, until
only the house remained. The house was all that was required. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He climbed the frosted wooden steps and took the key from
his bag. The key was an ancient thing but the lock offered no resistance. The moonlight
streaming through the windows made the candles Michael had brought with him
unnecessary. He lit them anyway. He’d been told that ceremony was important.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The walls were lined with dusty portraits. Generations of
Thurlston men stared out at the skinny, bearded 30 year-old who lay his coat
carefully by the door. Michael took a moment to examine his forefathers. The
resemblance was clear, occasionally uncanny. A proud line dating back hundreds
of years. A family with a strict tradition. Not one of them was smiling.
Michael understood. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Several feet above him, close to the ceiling, the long-dead men
in the photographs had gathered to watch the ceremony below them unfold. The
spirits chattered away, safe in the knowledge that they could not be heard. The
tone was one of approval. “It’s time. He’s come of his own accord, as he should.”
Murmurs of agreement echoed in their private realm ten feet in the air.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One spirit stood apart from the others. Matthew Thurlston
watched, weeping, as Michael went to his bag, took out a small package and
began to unwrap it. As his fingers wrapped around the shiny pistol it was all
too much for Matthew. He snapped and howled for Michael to stop.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Below him, Michael looked up. He could have sworn he heard a
man’s voice. One that was strangely familiar. But that was impossible. There
was no one here to distract him from what had to be done.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Matthew was quickly surrounded by angry spirits, Thurlston
men with their dark eyes, Roman noses and widow’s peaks, speaking in unison. “You
cannot interfere. He must take his life. From generation to generation it comes
to pass. We all did it, you did it. Now it is his turn.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Matthew begged, pleaded for his son’s life. Finally he asked
the question each had once asked. “Why can’t we let him go? Why tell him to do
this?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Spite” said the assembled voices. “Inherited bitterness. One
went first. Then the next. Now we go on. Thirty years to start a family, produce
an heir, then his time is done.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Not my boy,” cried Matthew, and raced down through the air.
He hovered next to Michael and screamed a warning in his ear. Just in time for
the bullet to pass through it. Shaking, Matthew dried his eyes and waited to greet
his son.<o:p></o:p></div>
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------------------------</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello there. </div>
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<br />
You may have noticed that this title is not in the list of suggested titles. You may have also noticed that this story is a good 2,500 words shorter than the ones I usually put up on here. Well, the story behind this was that I forgot to write a story for a short story competition. The word count was 500 words, and once I realised that I'd missed the deadline I thought I'd try to write the story in 500 words anyway, and not let myself go over even by 1 word. It was a fun little challenge, actually. Resisting the urge to introduce the patriarch who instigated the tradition who would gravely intone the Thurlston rules, I just had them recited in en masse. Rather than give Michael any character of his own, you just assume he has a son because of the rules. I had two ideas for stories, the other one would hopefully be a lot scarier and I will try and get that written this week too.</div>
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It might not work at all. I wrote it quite quickly but I did a lot of fiddling with it, making sure the wording was just right. I'm glad I wrote it as it was a nice reminder about how important the words are. Which is an obvious point, really, but when you get used to waffling on it's easy to forget. With a story this short there's no room for skimming. It has to be precise, which is a style I went for in my novel (and the in-progress follow-up, which is moving forward slowly). And I like that. I hope you enjoyed it.</div>
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-83146323948160223922012-10-30T07:33:00.004+00:002012-10-30T07:33:43.290+00:00The Hatfull of Horror Halloween Special!Hello there. This year's Halloween special is a sequel to last year's "<a href="http://hatfullofhorror.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/story-let-jack-o-lanterns-light-your.html">Let the Jack-o'-Lanterns Light Your Way Home</a>" While it's not essential to read the previous one, it won't hurt if you'd like to. Just a quick reminder that the voice is supposed to be an English person reading an American story. Right, let's get going...<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">LET THE JACK-O'-LANTERNS LIGHT YOUR WAY BACK</span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Dr Francis Tallow had been treating Bobby Fitch for a year
and the boy’s version of the events of that night hadn’t changed once. One year
ago, on Halloween night, the then-eight year old child had been found wandering
the streets of his neighbourhood with his baby sister. When a concerned family
out trick or treating had asked him where his parents were, he had directed
them to a house that should have been empty. Instead, it contained the bloodied,
mangled remains of Mr and Mrs Fitch. They had been torn to pieces by God knows
what. When he had arrived on the scene Sheriff Abbott had taken one look
inside and told Bobby that he and his sister should go with him to the station.
Bobby had cheerily agreed. Abbott had given him a cup of hot chocolate and
asked if he knew what had happened to his parents, Bobby had said yes. He told
him the monsters did it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the year since the respected, even revered, Dr Tallow had
made no progress in breaking through the wall that Bobby’s psyche had set up to
protect itself. In most respects, Bobby had seemed to be a remarkably balanced
little boy. He’d never shown any of the usual reactions a child displays to
witnessing such horrendous trauma. The only evidence that he even needed
regular psychiatric treatment was in this fiction that Bobby had created for
himself. He claimed that he had come across his parents committing a terrible act,
and that five of his neighbours had arrived to rescue him. The five neighbours had
been two well-dressed British vampires (“Barbara and Peter”) and three witches
(“Rebecca, and the twins Emily and Katharine”), two of whom had naturally been
twins. These five supernatural beings had rescued him and his baby sister from
the monsters that had been his parents.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Elements of the boy’s story had since been substantiated.
The bodies of three murdered children had been found in the house’s basement, and
it didn’t take the police long to prove that Bobby’s parents had indeed been
the culprits. Subsequent investigation that had used the two as suspects had
shown that they were behind many cases of missing children in the area. Bodies
were found in the house they had lived in with their children, while those of
other victims remained undiscovered. There was little doubt that the boy’s
parents had been monsters in the truest sense, some of the worst criminals in
the history of the country, let alone Illinois. However, the houses on Maple
Lane that Bobby claimed had been inhabited by these witches and vampires
had been unoccupied for months and there had been no indication that anybody
had been there since. Precisely what had killed Bobby’s parents had remained a
mystery. The popular theory was that one of their victims had fought back and
disappeared but Tallow didn’t care to hazard a guess.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The child psychologist was impressed at how much they had
managed to keep from Bobby. He claimed to have enjoyed a very happy childhood
and that he had only discovered the truth on that fateful night one year ago. His
teachers had all told him that he was a happy, well-adjusted boy. Then again,
these were the same teachers who told him that Bobby’s parents seemed like a
lovely friendly couple. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But while Bobby had appeared to be remarkably balanced, all
this had changed one week ago with the boy complaining of terrifying nightmares
that he believed were premonitions. Dr Tallow supposed he really should have
seen it coming. The one year anniversary of the terrible incident would of
course bring up some unpleasant memories. But there was a conviction to the
boy’s fears that unsettled him. He told his doctor that his parents were
returning from the grave to claim him and his sister. His foster family, a kind
elderly couple who had looked after Bobby and Baby Lauren for nearly eight
months now, had contacted Tallow seven days ago to say that they couldn’t wait
for the bi-weekly check-up. He’d seen Bobby every day this week and he was only
getting worse.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was the end of a crisp, clear Halloween afternoon. Tallow sat
opposite the nine year old patient. His blonde hair was longer than he’d
sometimes seen it, but he’d never been heavier than skinny. However, Bobby was
clearly suffering from a lack of sleep. His fingers worried at the sleeves of
his bright red jumper, and his eyes kept glancing at the clock on the wall.
Tallow leaned back in his chair.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“How are you feeling today, Bobby?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“OK,” came the non-committal response.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Mr and Mrs Stowe tell me that you didn’t sleep a wink last
night. Is that true?” Bobby nodded without looking at his doctor. “Bobby, I’m
sure you don’t need me to tell you this but lack of sleep is only going to make
these fears of yours worse. Now, these dreams you’ve been having, I know you
know that they’re not real. I understand that they’re frightening but they’re
impossible.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“They’re coming back,” said Bobby. “They’re coming back
tonight, for me and Lauren.” Tallow
sighed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Bobby, listen to me. Your parents are not coming back for
you. I want you to remember everything we’ve talked about in our sessions. I
want you to remember that nothing that happened that night was your fault. Your
parents were bad people but that does not mean you are too. You have people who
care about you, who are worried about you. And they’re worried about the way
that you’re acting.”<o:p></o:p><br />
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Bobby turned away from the window to look at Tallow, the
beginnings of tears forming in his eyes. “I know that Mr and Mrs Stowe care
about me. But it won’t make any difference. Because they’re coming back and
they’re going to take us.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tallow stood up and walked around to place a hand on his
patient’s shoulder. “No they’re not. Because they are dead and there is no
coming back from that. I know it’s Halloween but there are no monsters out
there tonight. It’s all make-believe, Bobby. You must understand that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Bobby shook his head, his blonde hair waving from side to
side. “The people who helped me last year were monsters. They killed my parents
and they saved me and Lauren. If they exist, my parents can too.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tallow fought to keep his temper. A year had passed and he
had not been able to dent the boy’s conviction in the slightest. If he couldn’t
convince Bobby that he hadn’t been rescued by monsters, how could he convince
him that monsters weren’t coming to get him? He was an old man now. He’d seen
his fair share of patients and he knew when he was losing them. He took a deep
breath and restored calm to his voice. “Look, just listen to me. It’s not real,
Bobby. I don’t know who saved you that night but they weren’t monsters. There
is no such thing. And this is why you will be safe tonight. Because the dead
cannot rise from the damn grave.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He walked back round to his side of the table. He hated that
he had nearly lost his temper but he had to get through to this child. Robert
Fitch had been through so much already. He went to the window and watched the
setting sun through the autumn leaves. It was such a lovely time of year and it
was a source of great joy for so many. He hoped that one day Bobby would be
able to enjoy it. “So, Bobby, will you be going trick or treating this
evening?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Before he got an answer the door was opened and a young male
orderly hurried in, out of breath but determined to speak. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Doctor Tallow, there’s a telephone call for you. It’s
urgent.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tallow switched his phone off as a matter of principle during
his sessions. He followed the orderly down the hall to the nurses’ station
where he found a gaggle of grave-looking hospital staff standing around the
telephone. “Yes, alright, everyone, I’m here now,” he told them as he picked up
the receiver. “Doctor Tallow speaking.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Tallow,” came the cracked voice from the other end of the
line. “Finally. This is Sheriff Abbott. For God’s sake, Tallow, I’ve been
trying…I’m over at the Stowe place. It’s a mess over here, Tallow. Is the boy
with you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tallow struggled to keep up with the Sheriff. “Yes, Robert’s
here. Sheriff, what’s going on?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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There was a pause on the end of the line. “Doc, the Stowes
are dead. Listen, we could barely tell it’s them. It’s taken some time to make
sure but Lauren is gone. Whoever did this took the kid with them. Are you sure
you’ve got Robert safe?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tallow stood stunned for a moment. Then he understood that
he was needed. “Hang on; I’ll call you on my cell. I’m going to check on the
boy now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He hung up and ran back as fast as he could. He could have
cried when he saw that Bobby was sitting where he had left him. “Bobby’s, thank
God. Right, we’re going to have to stay here for a little while, is that OK?”
Bobby nodded and Tallow smiled. He turned his cell phone on and dialled the
number for Abbott. “Sheriff, Robert’s fine. What…what are we going to do?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Alright, you stay with him. We’re heading over to the
hospital now. Don’t let him out of your sight. I’ve alerted the security staff there
but for now the most important thing is that we get Bobby someplace safe.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“OK. I understand.” Tallow took a seat next to Bobby and did
his best to keep the fear out of his voice. “Sorry about this, Bobby. The Sheriff
is coming over and he’s going to take you to the police station for Halloween,
he’s got something fun planned for you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Bobby stared up at him. “This is what they said would
happen, in my dream. Mom and Dad told me that they’d get Lauren first, then
they’d come find me. They said the police would try and stop them but it
wouldn’t do any good.” There was no fear, no excitement in his voice. This was
just something that he knew would happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The room suddenly seemed a lot darker to Tallow. The sun had
set and he went over to switch the light on. “No one is coming to find you,
Bobby,” he told him as he crossed the room. “The only person who’s coming for
you is the Sheriff, because he wants to help look after you. We’re all going to
go down the station together. There’s nothing to worry about.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Mr and Mrs Stowe are dead, aren’t they?” asked Bobby and
for a moment Tallow couldn’t think of an answer. He flicked the light switch,
filling the room with a cold fluorescent glow. But only for a moment. The lights
went out. Not just in that room, but the hallway too. Tallow opened the door
and looked down the corridor. Pitch black. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Don’t worry, Bobby, I’m sure this is just a temporary…”
Tallow began, before there was a squawk of the PA system being turned on. Then
the sound of a woman crying came over the intercom. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Bobby…” said the woman’s voice. Tallow recognised it as
Nurse Freemont, the head nurse. She was the toughest member of staff in the
entire hospital, she’d seen more than anyone. But her voice was choked through
her tears. “Bobby, your mom and dad want you to know that they love you very
much. They want you to know that they’re here now. They’ve come to pick you up.
They’ve…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The words stopped with a brief cry and gruesome snapping
sound. Then another voice came on, barely a voice at all. A low gurgle. “Hi,
baby. Mommy and Daddy have been in the waiting area. But now we’re coming to
find you.” There were a few seconds of guttural laughter and another screech of
feedback as the PA cut off. Tallow dialled the Sheriff’s number again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Abbott, where the hell are you?” he hissed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Five minutes away, what’s going on?” barked the Sheriff
over the sound of the sirens.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tallow felt his gut drop. “You’ll be too late.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes, they will,” said a woman’s voice from behind him.
Tallow dropped the phone and span round. A man and woman stood in the doorway,
concealed by the darkness. Tallow backed away towards Bobby. Good god, he
thought, this isn’t possible. He heard the sound of a scraping chair as Bobby
leapt to his feet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Barbara!” he cried and ran over to greet them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hello, sweetheart. It’s time to go.” The couple stepped
into the room and in the moonlight Tallow could see that they were immaculately
dressed in beautiful Halloween costumes. Both had black hair, his combed neatly
back and hers hanging down to near her waist. Tall, skinny, and beautiful, they
could have been models. Models dressed up like…were those fangs? “Who’s this?”
asked the woman, in an accent that Tallow could have sworn was British.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“This is my friend, Dr Tallow,” Bobby replied. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Dr Tallow,” said the man, stepping forward with an
outstretched hand. Stunned, Tallow shook it. The man frowned as he looked
around the room. “My name is Peter, this is my wife Barbara. I assume Bobby has
told you what we are. Now, you have a choice. You can either wait here for
Bobby’s parents to arrive, or you can leave via the window with us.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We’re five stories up,” said Tallow. Peter grinned.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We have our ways. What’s the answer?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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A scream came from the other end of the corridor accompanied
by a wet noise that Tallow didn’t want to think too much about. “Window,” he
answered. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Excellent choice. Come on, everyone.” Barbara swept Bobby
up in her arms and Peter took Tallow into a fierce bear hug. “Trust me,” he
told him, and leapt through the window, taking Tallow with him in a shower of
broken glass. For a moment the doctor felt the cold wind rushing past his face
and then he was simply standing in the hospital car park. Before he could
attempt to fathom it Peter took his arm and dragged him over to a grey van a
few feet away. The van’s side door was opened from the inside and Tallow was
pushed in. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sitting opposite him were three dark-haired women. He would
have guessed that two identical twins were in their early twenties, while the
third was in her late fifties. The eldest grinned at him. Barbara helped Bobby
in beside Tallow as Peter clambered in the front and turned the keys in the
ignition.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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“These are the witches, Dr Tallow,” said Bobby, who could
only smile politely. “Where are we going, Barbara?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Barbara had climbed into the front to ride shotgun by her
husband. She looked up at the rear-view mirror and Tallow felt giddy when he
realised that he couldn’t see her in it. “We have to take you back to the house
Bobby. We need to go back to where it happened, I’m afraid. They’re vulnerable
in that spot. Outside of that house, nothing could kill them. I’m sure the
security staff at the hospital wasted a few bullets figuring that out. But
inside, we’ve got a good chance of sending them back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions, Doctor, but it’s
actually fairly simple,” said the eldest witch flaunting that grin. “We killed
Bobby’s parents a year ago. We thought we’d purged the evil. Well, that
particular evil, anyway. But there’s always a risk when you send away something
bad on Halloween that it’ll come right back again. Lots of closed doors find a
way to open; lots of things that should be chained up find a way to get free. It’s
their night after all.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
“Luckily for Bobby,” said Barbara, turning back with a grin,
“it’s our night too.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tallow glanced at the boy. He looked more relaxed than Tallow
had seen him in the entire year that he had been treating him; indeed, he
looked up with a grin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I told you they were real, Doctor. I told you that the
witches and the vampires saved me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A ripple of laughter went around the van.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You can’t blame the doctor for not believing you, Bobby,”
said Peter as he slowed the van for a traffic light. “You’re a very lucky boy,
you came across us and you’re still alive. There aren’t many people like you,
not in the whole world. We’re not exactly known for being friendly.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why…why did you spare Bobby?” asked Tallow. The twins,
Emily and Katharine, he remembered their names were, looked up at him; their
expressions worryingly close to angry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Because we like him. He’s adorable. It’s not his fault his
parents are monsters.” They spoke in unison, which Tallow found deeply
unnerving but somehow not surprising.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But aren’t you all…?” he asked, not wanting to finish his
sentence and offend them further.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, yes,” said Barbara. “But there are monsters and there
are monsters.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s what you told my parents last year!” said Bobby,
giggling. Tallow decided that perhaps it would be best to just stay quiet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wasn’t long at all before the van was stopped and
everyone piled out into the street. Tallow realised where they were. Maple Lane.
This was where Sheriff Abbott had found Bobby and Baby Lauren, dazed but
miraculously unharmed. Jack-o’-lanterns had lined the street that night and
people in fancy dress had crowded the crime scene, desperate for a glimpse at
what had happened. Now, one year later, and the street was empty. Nobody would
dare to trick or treat here. Tallow watched as his companions took their bags
from the van and walked up to the house. Once inside, the witches immediately
started unpacking while the vampires directed Bobby to the sofa.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s the plan then? Are you going to, what, drink their
blood?” asked Tallow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not an option, I’m afraid,” said Barbara gravely. “We can’t
drink the blood of reanimated corpses and even if we could drain them, it
wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference. They’re driven by something stronger
than blood, hard though that might be to believe. We have two options available
to us and we’re going to try both. The witches will attempt to remove the souls
from the bodies, before sending the souls back to wherever it is that they came
from. My husband and I will be taking a more direct approach: dismemberment.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rebecca, the elder witch looked up from the symbol she was
drawing in chalk on the floor. “Dismembering them won’t achieve anything in the
long run. There’s no guarantee that they won’t come back. Even if you burn the
pieces.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes well, we can think about the long run once we get rid
of them, can’t we?” said Peter, who reached into the cupboard under the stairs
and produced a large axe, which he began to wield decisively. The witches
clucked their tongues and got on with unpacking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can I do anything to help?” asked Tallow. He wasn’t sure if
he wanted to but felt that it was only right to ask.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look after the child,” said the younger witches without
looking up from their work. Tallow sat down on the sofa next to Bobby. It did
look as though the young boy was starting to lose some of the confidence he’d
found. When he looked up at Tallow the doctor could see the fear in his eyes
and sympathised. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you think they’ll bring Lauren with them, when they
come?” he asked quietly. Tallow didn’t have an answer for him but he knew he
had to produce one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know, Bobby. I don’t think they’d hurt Lauren. She’s
still their daughter. I think we just need to wait and let your friends do
their thing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bobby nodded and the two of them sat there, watching the
monsters in front of them prepare themselves. The three witches had created
some kind of pentagram on the floor and huddled over it, muttering words in a
language that Tallow didn’t know. The vampire Peter had found another axe somewhere
and had given it to Barbara, and now the two of them were testing the blades
and practising strokes. After a minute or two everything went quiet It seemed that the monsters were ready.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When silence fell nobody broke it. It was as if everyone
agreed that quiet was important. Tallow wondered if they were scared. It seemed
like an awful lot of trouble to go to if they were confident.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a thud at the front door followed by a squelching
sound. Peter nodded at Barbara and carefully walked around the witches’ symbol
to open the door. “It’s a pumpkin,” he called back to the company. “Oh…and here
they are now.” Peter walked slowly back into the room, lifting the axe in
readiness. Tallow could hear the horrible laughter from outside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Trick or treat, trick or treat, give us something good to
eat.” The voices outside sang in unison, before the man spoke up. “We remember
you. You must remember us. You tore us to bloody chunks; you took us away from
our children. Well, we’ve come back.” There was something so ridiculous about
their words that a part of Tallow’s brain fought to ignore it. It was
impossible. All of this was impossible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Bobby’s in there with you, isn’t he?” The woman’s voice
this time. Bobby shrank against Tallow. “Bobby, sweetie, it’s Mommy and Daddy!
Come on out, that’s a good boy!” Tallow could feel Bobby trembling but he
didn’t move. After a moment of silence from outside a groan was clearly audible.
“Fine. We’ll just have to come in and get you then.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a collective intake of breath from the room as
everyone prepared. Tallow felt his jaw drop as he saw what entered the house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The naked, shredded corpses of Bobby’s parents had been reassembled.
There didn’t seem to be anything holding them together except perhaps whatever
force had brought them back in the first place. Hunks of flesh jostled against
each other and some dangled perilously. Teeth hung from their gums by roots
gone brown. Eyeballs wobbled loosely in their sockets. The stink of rotted
flesh filled the room. These two nightmares looked at Tallow and the boy next
to him, and Tallow stifled the scream that came to his throat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s time to come home, son,” said Bobby’s father, stretching
a ravaged arm out towards his boy. As he did so three voices began to chant.
The ghouls turned to face the source and saw the witches sat on the floor,
holding hands, eyes closed. They started to laugh and move towards the women
before stopping abruptly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What…Is this magic?” asked Bobby’s mother. She pushed hard
against whatever was holding her back. “Won’t last,” she laughed. “We’re magic
too, now. I can feel it in my pieces. Let’s see who’s stronger.” Indeed, it
appeared that the parents were making headway as they struggled. Tallow saw the
elder witch open one eye and a jolt of fear flash across her face. He realised
it would only be a matter of moments before the creatures got through.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Enough, ladies,” said Barbara, and the chanting stopped. As
it did, the two vampires raised their axes and brought them down cleanly. Two
severed heads dropped to the floor, followed by the rest of the bodies. “I told
you our way would be more effective,” she told the witches.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, Jesus, look,” muttered Tallow, pointing at the heads.
The eyes were still moving. Their jaws flapped. Somehow, they were trying to
talk. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Smaller pieces needed, clearly,” said Peter. He raised his
left foot and brought it down on the father’s head. The head collapsed under
the weight, creating a gory mush under his shoe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“For God’s sake, Peter, wait!” cried Barbara. “We need to
know where Bobby’s sister is!” Peter looked up guiltily, muttering apologies
about how he’d got carried away. The remaining head smiled as the jaw moved up
and down like it was trying to laugh. “Don’t worry,” Barbara said to Bobby.
“The head might not be able to talk but our friends here have ways of finding
out what they want to know.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The witches picked up Bobby’s mother’s severed head and took
it into the kitchen, as Barbara and Peter set to work rendering the rest of the
father’s body into a paste which could surely never reconstruct itself. After a
few minutes, the witches returned without the head. “You can start work on the
mother,” said Rebecca. “Lauren is outside in the bushes. They’d planned to grab
Bobby too, then…well, not in front of the boy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We found out just in time,” said Emily and Katharine. “The
head started to liquidise. It was disgusting.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bobby ran outside and Tallow followed. And praise be, there
she was. Under the bushes sat two-year-old Lauren, looking furious that she had
been forgotten. Barbara came out to join them. “I think it’s best if you and
Doctor Tallow leave now, Bobby. We’ll take care of the rest of this. And if you
need our help again, we’ll come back.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tallow looked back up at the house and saw Peter, Rebecca,
Emily and Katharine standing in the doorway looking out at him. “Look after
Robert and Lauren, Doctor,” said Barbara. “We’ll see you soon.” The doctor
nodded as he took Lauren in his arms and put a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “Oh,
and Doctor Tallow? Happy Halloween.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And with that, Tallow, Bobby and Lauren walked down Maple
Lane towards the approaching sirens.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
Hello again, thanks for reading this year's Halloween tale, I really hope you enjoyed it. This one's a bit bigger and madder than last year's but I hope you think it's fun. It kind of gets a bit madcap in the second half but I wanted the monsters to come back and rescue Bobby and the only solemn way I could think to do that would be basically a repeat of last year's ending. And it's a Halloween story, there's room for silliness. Well, I hope you agree. And yeah, Dr Tallow is basically Dr Loomis under a different name. Last year's story was heavily influenced by the film Trick 'r Treat, and this year I put a bit of Halloween in there too.<br />
<br />
The next story on the blog will be....well, I'm not sure yet but there's a strong chance it will be Slide Left, if the idea I have for it works out.<br />
<br />
Happy Halloween!<br />
<br />
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<br />Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-3892780689106815082012-10-26T22:07:00.002+01:002012-10-26T22:19:06.159+01:00Film review pushing: You should really see Excision<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZS_1_9SejsDKDoNKkbBsmYC6AvKCFrRbl1yFAkL6QWXbNVFn9ZpJi_r3LdqgRJpdUKgk3hsnrw473CqbAKxJ57He4ly5Ag06fuQ3ZZAz4_R56uHncUCV-yjJjFo5OiRWIVGVobDxTT3Y/s1600/excision_still_03_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZS_1_9SejsDKDoNKkbBsmYC6AvKCFrRbl1yFAkL6QWXbNVFn9ZpJi_r3LdqgRJpdUKgk3hsnrw473CqbAKxJ57He4ly5Ag06fuQ3ZZAz4_R56uHncUCV-yjJjFo5OiRWIVGVobDxTT3Y/s400/excision_still_03_small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
I know Skyfall's out this weekend but horror fans should really take note of Excision, which is showing at the <a href="http://www.princecharlescinema.com/indexreview.php?display=2131&date=2012:10:28&year=2012&month=10&day=28">Prince Charles Cinema</a> in London from Sunday 28th for about a week before arriving on DVD on the 12th of November. It's the story of a teen outcast (AnnaLynne McCord) with neon sex-and-death fantasies and a passion for surgery. The film boasts a cast of cult icons including Malcolm McDowell, Ray Wise, Traci Lords and the great John Waters and excellent character actors like Roger Bart and Marlee Matlin. It's gruesome and hilarious, touching and mad, and the lead actress is superb.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You can read my full gushing review <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/post/34226535633/review-excision">here</a> at <a href="http://www.cinetalk%2Ctv/">Cinetalk</a> and Londoners looking for a darkly comic treat this Halloween should definitely check it out. I know it's playing at some horror festivals over Halloween, including the FrighFest all nighter on Saturday and Celluloid Screams on Sunday, so do be sure to see it, and catch it when it comes to DVD. As an aside, I know I've gone on about <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/post/30378810139/review-american-mary">American Mary</a> a lot already but these two films really are such a welcome reminder of how important a interesting, complex female lead is. Actually, just an interesting, complex lead. To be honest, it's just great to see funny, daring horror.<br />
<br />
Oh and my <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/post/34101528249/review-skyfall">Skyfall</a> review is up at Cinetalk, if you're interested, as are my London Film Festival reviews of the grubbily gripping <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/post/34226791031/review-simon-killer">Simon Killer</a>, the lovingly trashy <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/post/34228337495/review-kiss-of-the-damned">Kiss of the Damned</a>, the skin-crawling true story <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/post/33889436136/review-compliance">Compliance</a>, the the funny but slightly disappointing <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/post/33987338277/review-seven-psychopaths">Seven Psychopaths</a>, the absolutely hilarious <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/post/33890001640/review-sightseers">Sightseers</a> and actually very good <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/post/33988119837/review-argo">Argo</a> among others. There's a lot more but I'm running out of descriptions so I'll just let you browse Cinetalk for our team's coverage if you're so inclined.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Right, so, back to fiction. The Halloween Special story will be up in a day or two. I'm putting your title suggestions to one side for one story only. Sorry, but I want to write a sequel to last year's Halloween story: <a href="http://hatfullofhorror.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/story-let-jack-o-lanterns-light-your.html">Let the Jack O'Lanterns Light Your Way Home</a>. Because who doesn't love a sequel? What were we talking about? Ah yes, good original horror. Here's the trailer for Excision. Go and see it at the Prince Charles Cinema!</div>
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-50285396300135682972012-10-24T18:09:00.000+01:002012-10-24T18:10:49.860+01:00Samurai Surprise<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello there. The title for this short story comes from @lafemmeflaneuse . I hope you enjoy it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
----------------------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You want to know how he got to be like that, that’s it,
isn’t it? Now, I don’t mind telling you I did it. That’s fine. But I want to
explain how it was that I came to be there, why I did what I did. You don’t
have to believe me. I don’t expect you to. But you are going to sit here and
listen to what I have to tell you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know my record. You know what I was in for; you’ve got
my bloody file there in front of you. You can see I did six years for hitting
that bloke. It wasn’t my fault he died; I didn’t know he had that condition,
whatever it was. I didn’t even know he did die until they caught up with me at
the pub two hours later. And obviously I’m not the first man ever to give up on
boxing and get paid to hit people outside of the ring. But that’s not
important. That time I was away, that’s not important either. The important
thing came when I got out. I needed to find a job. I needed to pay my way, but
I had nothing and nobody would give me the time of day. Not my parents. Not my
old friends. And I couldn’t call Liz; she’d told me to leave her be. She didn’t
want the boy to get confused. So I was alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was living on the few quid I’d saved before I got put away
but it was running out faster than I’d hoped. The day I met him I was sitting
in Gina’s café drinking a cup of shit tea and feeling sorry for myself. Then in
he walked. Sat down opposite me, grinned at me like he knew me. The stink of
his aftershave wafted over the table. White hair slicked back over his scalp,
wrinkles so deep you could hide things in them. Teeth yellow and cracked like
old boiled sweets.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hello, Jimmy,” he said. “How are you doing, son?” I gave
him a nod and told him I was doing alright. I thought he was mental, I thought
maybe he’d just go away. But he leaned over the table with that grin. “I heard
you got out, Jimmy, and I thought I’d pay you a visit. Now, don’t look at me
like that, that won’t do. It’s good news, Jimmy. I want to help you. I want to
give you a job.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, that was the magic word, that was. He might be a
nutter, I thought, but if he’s got some cash to throw my way I can put up with
a nutter for a bit. So I asked him how he knew my name.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, I know all about you. I know about that thing that they
charged you for. I heard all about that. We’ve got friends in common, you and
me. You know Mikey Brinch? Your old mate Mikey? He told me that you got out the
other day and I know what that’s like. I know that it can be difficult to lay
your hands on some money. And as luck would have it, I need someone handy. I’ve
got something that you might be interested in. I’ve got a job and I’ve got a
place for you to stay, rent-free. Now, tell me you’re not interested in that,
eh?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was something about his grin; I just couldn’t keep eye
contact with him. But the way he talked, the sentences running into each other,
I couldn’t interrupt him. I had to wait till he’d finished before I could
answer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know what Mikey told you about me but I’m not
interested in anything…” I let the words tail off but he knew what I meant.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, don’t worry, Jimmy, I’m not going to ask you to rob a
bank or anything. Jesus! Look, I’ve got a shop on Old Fork Road and I’ve had
some trouble recently. Nothing too drastic but I could do with someone around
the place who can handle himself if anyone takes it upon themselves to come
round and start some trouble. And sadly, old bastard that I am, I’m not exactly
up to it myself these days.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Protection. That was what he was asking me for. Looking at
him, I was pretty sure he could handle himself. He might have been old but
there was a look in his eye that told me that he would definitely be capable of
picked up a piece of cutlery and ramming it into my eye if he thought I was
going to nick his wallet. He patted the table and stood up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look, why don’t you just come round and have a look at the
shop with me. I’ll show you the room and I’ll tell you exactly what I need from
you. You can tell me what you think is a fair price for your services and if we
agree, you can move in right away. If not, we’ll go our separate ways? How’s
that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t like him. I didn’t trust him. But I wasn’t in a
situation where I could be choosy about who I liked and trust wasn’t a luxury I’d
had in a long time. So I agreed. He thrust out his hand. “The name’s Ayres.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Old Fork Road was a twenty minute walk from Gina’s. Ayres
prattled on the whole way about this and that. The changing face of London. The
effect that global warming was having on the weather. The fact that his doctor
wouldn’t let him eat bacon any more. All sorts of bollocks. I walked along with
him and nodded at the right moments and was bloody relieved when we finally got
there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He unlocked the front door and took down the “Back in 10
minutes sign”. God knows how long he’d actually been away for. His shop was a newsagent,
basically. You’ve been round there tonight, you’ve seen it. Magazines, fags, sweets,
stationery, key cutting, all that stuff. Whatever you need when you can’t be
arsed to walk to the supermarket. There’s so much stuff there that there’s
barely room to swing a cat. He had one of those “5 children allowed at one time”
signs up in the window, but I don’t think any kids ever came in. They were
probably scared of him and that grin of his. Once he’d given me the tour of the
shop he took me through to the back. On the right was a small stockroom, with
another door which went down the basement (“Where the stuff I can’t shift lives”),
and directly ahead was a flight of scabbily-carpeted stairs which curled sharply
round to the left. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were four rooms upstairs: his bedroom, a living room
which doubled as a kitchen, a windowless bathroom, and a second bedroom. He
opened the door with a grand sweep and laughed. “All this could be yours,” he
told me. It was nothing special. A single bed, a bookcase, a small radiator and
a large window looking out onto the street. I hadn’t expected anything better
and I’d been scared of something worse.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We went through to the sitting room, where he took a seat in
an armchair and directed me towards the sofa.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s this trouble, then?” I asked. He shrugged.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hard to say, really, Jimmy. It’s difficult to know what to
expect. Might be nothing at all, might be something serious. But, like I said,
I hear you can handle yourself, so I’d like you here in case of emergency.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So no one’s made any specific threats?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“No, not specifically. Like I said, there’s been a bit of
trouble recently and I’m scared of a reoccurrence.” He shifted forward in his
armchair. “Look, tell you what. I’ll pay you for a week, right now. During this
week you can leave whenever you want if you don’t like it. I think you’ll see
very quickly whether it’s for you or not, and I won’t judge you if you want to
leave.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was making it very difficult for me to say no to him. He
made it even more difficult when he put a grand in cash in my hands. “For the
week, mind. We can discuss your fees again as and when you decide you want to
continue.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
What choice did I have? I said yes. I went straight over to
my hostel and grabbed my things from the locker. I went round my mum’s and
posted a note through the door with the address of Ayres’ shop, in case she needed
to find me. Then I was back, unpacking the few things I had. Once I’d finished
I went back down into the shop. Ayres was standing behind the counter reading
the paper. He glanced up as I came in and nodded. “You get squared away
alright?” he asked. I told him I had and asked if there was anything I could
do. “You’re doing it, son. Read the papers or magazines if you want, we close
at nine.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The day went slowly. Ayres had about three customers an hour
until six o’clock and I’d guess about twenty people came in. I had no idea how
he was making money. Finally nine o’clock came and he locked the door, flipped
the sign, and we went upstairs. He heated up two of those ready-made chicken
tikkas, the supermarket ones, and then we settled down in front of the telly.
He flicked through the channels until he came across a black and white film
with subtitles. I’ve never had much time for films but when I do I normally go
for comedies. But Ayres got all excited when he saw this film was on. “Have you
seen Seven Samurai before?” he asked. I shook my head. “You’re in for a treat, my
son, watch this.” So I moved a little closer to the edge of my seat so I could
read the subtitles, and I got involved.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It was a long fucking film. But I could see why Ayres was so
excited about it. When it was over he clapped his hands and looked at me, grinning
away. “Bloody masterpiece, that is. I love that film. What did you think?” When
I told him I agreed he clapped me on the shoulder. “Good, good. See, you’re
getting more than money out of this arrangement, Jim. You’re getting an education
in classic cinema. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Let me know if you have any
problems during the night.” I was going to ask him what he meant by problems
but he was gone before I could. I put it down to his general strangeness and
went off to bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I never slept well inside and it’s not a habit I’ve been
able to shake. I wake up every hour or so then drift back to sleep. Any little
noise will wake me up. So when there was the sound of something small falling
to the floor in the shop below, I was out of bed like a shot. This was what I
was being paid for. If someone was downstairs, I was going to get them out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t like violence at all. I never enjoyed hurting
people, but I got paid to do it. It was as simple as that. Ayres’ had hired me
and I was going to deliver. I’m not trying to big myself up but I can handle
myself, and as I went downstairs but I knew that I could handle a confrontation
if there was one. But it wasn’t a simple confrontation I had to deal with.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I peered round the bottom of the stairs to try and see what
was what. Through the racks and shelves I could clearly see a figure by the
door. Someone was inside, trespassing, so there was no need to play it quiet. I
barged in, making as much noise as possible, shouting for whoever it was to get
the fuck out now or I would beat the living shit out of them. The figure turned
and I stopped shouting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Standing in front of me, ready for a fight, was a bloody samurai.
I am not making this up. There could be no doubt about it. Toshiro Mifune, or
Kikuchiyo, I remember he was called, stood by the pick and mix at the counter.
That’s not all. Not only was there a samurai standing there, he was in black and
white and his edges were flickering. Obviously this wasn’t possible. It was a
dream. I rubbed my eyes and this slightly grainy figure was still standing
about six feet from me. A voice inside my head was telling me that there was no
way a black and white samurai was there, but instinct made me duck as this monochrome
fucking fictional character took his sword out from its sheath and ran at me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I rolled behind the counter and reached for the bat that I’d
seen stashed there earlier. The samurai’s sword crashed down above me, smashing
the RSPCA change tin and sending copper change flying. I darted back out and
swung the bat at his legs. I heard his left shin crack and he cried out in
Japanese. As he went stumbling backwards his feet skidded on the coin and he
tipped backwards, dropping his sword with a clatter on the floor. That same
instinct that had saved my neck earlier told me to drop the bat and pick up the
sword. As the samurai regained his balance I drove the point of his sword into
his chest. The samurai staggered and fell without a word. I prodded him with my
bare foot. He was dead.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I stood there staring at him for roughly five minutes. Then I
woke up Ayres and dragged him, muttering, downstairs. I pointed at the samurai
lying dead on his shop floor. He rubbed his eyes.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Toshiro Mifune. That’s a first. Come upstairs, I’ll make us
a drink. Leave him; he’ll be gone in a minute.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Up in the living room, Ayres poured me a large whiskey and sat
me down. My hands were still shaking and I still wasn’t convinced that I was
actually awake.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Right, how best to explain this…This is what I’m paying you
for” he told me. “This…incident is an example of the trouble I was talking
about. You see, Jimmy, I’ve recently discovered I have a remarkable gift.
Everyone wishes their dreams would come true. Well, mine do. They…what’s the
word, they manifest. Physically. But it’s not exactly a blessing. The dreams,
these figures that are made real, they’re violent, they’re murderous. The first
time it happened I woke up and my best friend from school had his hands around
my throat. I assume Toshiro attacked you, rather than the other way around,
right? I can’t explain why this is happening; I only know that it is. Maybe it’s
punishment for something. I’ve done a lot of things in my life that I’m not
proud of. Maybe it’s a freak fucking accident. But I need protection. I can’t
handle them by myself. I need you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I let him talk. I let him explain, as much as he could. It
was obvious that there was a lot he didn’t know. There was one question I had that
was particularly pressing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Am I replacing anyone?” I asked. “I mean, have you had
someone doing this for you before?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Oh, plenty,” he said. “Most left after a week or two, they
couldn’t handle it. And sadly a couple of them have died.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So there was my answer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“You can still walk away, Jim. You can keep the thousand. I’m
not short of cash, I’m sure you’ve realised the shop isn’t my…main source of
income. It’s up to you. If you stay, I’ll knock it up to five.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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So I stayed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He didn’t dream every night. Those quiet nights were the
worst somehow, trying to guess what would come storming out of his imagination
that I would have to beat to death. Like I said, I’m not a violent man, but
there was something about the challenge that a part of me found exciting. And
it was consequence free. These things weren’t real. About half an hour after
their death they would simply vanish into thin air. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I can see by the look on your faces that you don’t believe
me but in all my years in the ring I never had fights like these. I fought a man
twice my size and I won. I fought boxers from the telly and took a beating but
by God I caved their heads in. Mostly they were people I didn’t recognise,
people I assume were from Ayres’ past, but that was none of my business. I beat
them all. We only had one more film star after the samurai. I can say that I
knocked the gun out of John Wayne’s hand before he could use it. And it was all
staged like a fight, the way they would always come in that front door. Part of
me wished that I’d had a crowd to see it. Not the killing, obviously, but the
fight itself. I’ve never fought as well as I did fighting those things,
whatever they were doing there. I had about two months of fighting at the top
of my game.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Yesterday morning I was making a cup of tea in the back and
I heard Ayres’ voice calling me. It didn’t sound urgent so I took my time. When
I came through to the shop carrying my mug I saw Ayres chatting happily away to
my wife and son.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I wasn’t prepared in the slightest. I hadn’t seen Liz since
she’d visited me the first week I was inside when she told me that she wouldn’t
be coming back. And my boy…I’d never met him. Mum had sent me pictures in the
card she sent every year. She wouldn’t talk to me, Mum, but she’d still send me
a card at Christmas. Anyway, I couldn’t speak. Ayres made his excuses and went
upstairs, leaving me with these two people who felt like strangers. Liz smiled
at me, the kind of smile that people make when they actually want to cry.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“How are you, Jimmy?” she asked. I told her I was fine. “I
went round your Mum’s,” she said, “to see how you were doing. She said she hadn’t
seen you but she knew you were working. She said you were staying out of
trouble. Is that true?” What do you say to that? I told her it was, that I was
keeping my nose clean and working hard. She wiped a tear from her eye and put a
hand on the boy’s head. “This is Oscar. I wanted him to see his dad, and I
wanted you to see him too.”</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hello, Oscar.” I said. He hid behind his mum. I didn’t
blame him but it hurt. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Look,” she said. “I’m not promising anything but I wanted
you to know that we’re still here, Jimmy. We haven’t gone anywhere and we’re
not going to. But we need to know that you’re alright, that you can stick to
this. If you can, I think we can maybe give it another go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I don’t remember much of what she said after that. She left about
a minute later and I just remember feeling…happy. Like something good was going
to happen. Something good was finally going to happen to me. I could have a
normal life. I spent the rest of the day on cloud bloody nine. I’m sure things
must have happened but I don’t recall. All I remember is going to sleep with a
smile on my face for the first time in more than six years.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Obviously I wasn’t surprised when I heard a noise from
downstairs. I grabbed the bat from its new home under my bed and went
downstairs. Whatever it was, I hoped it was nothing too fierce. I was in too
good a mood for a nasty scrap. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It wasn’t just one thing standing in the shop waiting for
me. It was two. One was smaller than the other. They were holding hands. And as
they stepped into the light I screamed. I screamed for the first time since I’d
started fighting Ayres’ dreams. I screamed as my wife and son screamed back and
attacked me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When I’d finished I lay their bodies next to each other and
tried to clean them up as best I could. I knew they would disappear soon enough
but I couldn’t bear to see them looking like that. I’d tried to make it as
quick as possible but a bat isn’t a clean weapon. It had taken a lot to make
them stop. They were barely recognisable. This wasn’t just Ayres’ nightmare, it
was mine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Obviously you can’t control what you dream about. But no one
should have to go through what I did. So, while I know you don’t believe me,
this is the reason why I took the baseball bat, went up to Ayres’ bedroom and
caved his head in. He won’t be dreaming any more. And I’m bloody praying that I
won’t be either. <o:p></o:p></div>
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-----------------------</div>
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Hope you enjoyed this one. I'm not quite sure the voice is convincing but hopefully the story's fun. As I said, this title comes from @lafemmeflaneuse and I'm very grateful for it. Oh, I have a list of titles that lovely Twitter folks have provided me with. Here goes:</div>
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....and the wind blew and they stayed like it (@jpwtweet)</div>
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Yesterday's Shoes (@nolanzebra3)</div>
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She Wore Stripes (@Merazad)</div>
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The Mystery of the Pomegranates (@mant_a_tangi)</div>
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An Empty Space on the Bookshelf (@andylonsdale21)</div>
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The Lesser Evil (@SFXPennyD)</div>
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Slide Left (@Daanando)</div>
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The Night My Heart Exploded (@DavidHayes4)</div>
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The Unexpected Samurai (martang66)</div>
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There's some great stuff here, please keep them coming, either on Twitter or in the comments section!</div>
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Thanks again for reading.</div>
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<br />Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-60818156894795708402012-10-23T16:09:00.001+01:002012-10-23T16:10:30.692+01:00The Classic Horror Campaign Double Feature: Carnival of Souls and The Blood on Satan's Claw<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRN61_NBeynzdzn_N9c81uifUnENJMxdySrVsWKsU3EcFU2hYjdwxoyD8XNWJweoA2iC11QqsBHb_yCo0bzjdswdUZdMPMpMZB_UHzY4bybQdRP-C1sbt-uIEe8WlKv51-aeJHRkBPeMA/s1600/aaaoctoberposter1-590x421.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRN61_NBeynzdzn_N9c81uifUnENJMxdySrVsWKsU3EcFU2hYjdwxoyD8XNWJweoA2iC11QqsBHb_yCo0bzjdswdUZdMPMpMZB_UHzY4bybQdRP-C1sbt-uIEe8WlKv51-aeJHRkBPeMA/s400/aaaoctoberposter1-590x421.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Right, a rare film-related post on the Hatfull blog, but given the time of year I thought it might be appropriate. Having been busy with London Film Festival coverage (find it all at <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/">Cinetalk</a>!) over the
past month I haven’t had a lot of time to watch as much horror as is typical
for October, so I was very glad that, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, I was able
to duck into the Roxy Bar and Screen for The Classic Horror Campaign’s double
bill of <i>Carnival of Souls</i> and <i>The Blood on Satan’s Claw</i> hosted by
Richard Gladman (@cyberschizoid) and Dr Karen Oughton (@drkarenoughton). While
I had seen the latter film before, I was very excited to see Carnival of Souls
for the first time. It was a film that I’d heard referred to as a classic so
many times and yet I’d never got around to watching it. It was also my first
time at one of the Classic Horror Campaign’s events but I will certainly return.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>“You’re gonna need me
in the evening, you just don’t know it yet.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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First up was <i>Carnival
of Souls</i>, directed by Herk Harvey and released in 1962. Candace Hillgoss
stars as Mary Henry, the sole survivor of a drag race gone wrong who moves to
Utah to take a job as a church organist. But she hasn’t even arrived at her
destination before she starts being haunted by a ghostly pale figure that
appears out of nowhere in impossible places. Mary does her best to settle into
her new job and her boarding house but the apparition won’t leave her be.
Whether she’s alone or in the middle of a crowd, Mary can’t shake whatever it
is that’s following her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The film is designed to keep as unsure of what's happening as the lead character. The dialogue’s
occasionally clunky and some of the performances are both over-eager and
awkward, but somehow all this contributes to <i>Carnival of Souls</i>’ strange charm. Mary’s landlady (Frances Feist)
seems to be participating in her conversations with her tenant via satellite. There’s
some wonderful editing that pushes Mary from one place to another with
unnatural speed (the man at the gas station points in the direction of the
boarding house, and she’s suddenly there). Mary herself veers between composure
and hysteria as she is only able to comfortably interact with other people for
short periods of time. Her church-bound occupation doesn’t provide any
spiritual comfort as she’s not religious. She’s a woman who’s happiest by
herself for whom a job is just a job, but this self-imposed isolation makes her
an easy target for the spectre and his growing army of pale zombies who leaves
her with no place to hide. A modern girl with no attachments is an easy target for a haunting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mary realises that she needs to be with other people in
order to keep her tormentor at bay, and so agrees to a date with her sleazy, booze-soaked neighbour John Linden (Sidney Berger). But despite Linden's insistent lusting even he backs away when he sees that she’s terrified of something he
doesn’t understand. Interestingly, ghoul aside, Linden is the only predatory figure in <i>Carnival of Souls</i>. Everyone else simply
wants to help Mary but she’s incapable of reaching out until it’s too late. There
are some great scares that obviously had a big influence on John Carpenter
(in particular, <i>In the Mouth of Madness</i>
and <i>Halloween</i>) and the image of the
spirits rising from the water is one that will stick with you for some time.
While it is undeniably clunky at times I can’t help but feel that somehow adds
to the atmosphere, and for the most part it is a highly effective piece of
landmark horror. It’s a chilling, unnerving and wonderfully atmospheric
experience.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>“Art thou ready to
give thy skin tonight?”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<i>Carnival of Souls</i>
was followed by something rather more garish: 1971’s <i>The Blood on Satan’s Claw</i>. Directed by Piers Haggard, it’s the
story of a small English village that falls under the influence of Satanism
after well-meaning but persistently blundering farmer Ralph Gower (Barry
Andrews) accidentally unearths a mysterious skeleton that looks human and yet
has fur.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s certainly of its time but there’s a lot to enjoy in <i>The Blood on Satan’s Claw</i>, which is
probably the best known of Tigon’s productions along with <i>Witchfinder General</i>. While it doesn’t boast any of the more famous
horror stars of the period there’s a full-blooded turn from Patrick Wymark (<i>Repulsion</i>, <i>Witchfinder General</i>) as the sceptical judge who must return to put
a stop to the evil, and Linda Hayden (<i>Taste
the Blood of Dracula</i>) has great fun as the scheming saucy sorceress Angel
Blake. After a good start in which something terrible is waiting under the floorboards
for the local squire’s fiancée, the plot can’t settle on a lead character, making
the whole film feel quite choppy. You’d expect the squire to be the central
figure, but when he disappears he’s never really replaced. Ralph does his best but is generally ineffectual and the judge is far too venal to be heroic. The townsfolk are all too eager to murder and burn to rid the town of its evil, creating a world in which we may as well root for the dark forces as they're much more fun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But while it’s uneven there’s an enjoyable sense of malevolence
about the film as the young people of the village all either fall under Satan’s
spell or knife. Mark Gatiss applauded the film in his BBC documentary
A History of Horror for its unnerving whistled theme, the surprisingly
sexualised attack on young Cathy Vespers, and the wonderfully nasty conceit of
Satan harvesting the skin of children. When the dark lord does finally appear
he's inevitably underwhelming but this remains an entertaining if uneven bit of
period British horror.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/2RQB6ZDNXeM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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The Classic Horror Campaign returns on Sunday 4<sup>th</sup>
of November with a double bill of the Vincent Price House on Haunted Hill and
The Legacy, starring Katharine Ross and Sam Elliott. You can find details <a href="http://www.classichorrorcampaign.com/">here</a>
and you can find them on Twitter @horrorcampaign <o:p></o:p></div>
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Normal fiction service will resume tomorrow. Oh, one last
thing, I discovered the other day that my review of the Soska sisters' superb horror <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/post/30378810139/review-american-mary">American Mary</a> for <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/">Cinetalk</a>
was quoted on a trade ad for the film in The Hollywood Reporter at the TIFF. I
got a little bit excited as it’s my first quote, and you can see the slightly
illegible proof here:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-81108777157961201012012-10-16T07:40:00.000+01:002012-10-16T07:40:38.948+01:00The Widow and the Tree House<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Eddie had
one more signature still to get. One more, then he could go back to the office
and tell Grace to shut her stupid anorexic face because he’d got fifty
signatures pledging to vote to keep Clive Adamson MP in his seat. Grace had got
forty yesterday and had come back to the office at seven minutes to five to
gales of applause from the idiots who thought she was brilliant because she tall,
blonde, and his superiors struggled to look her in the eye. But he knew that it
wasn’t about looks. They’d get you so far, yeah, but it was about character. Image,
appearance wasn’t everything. He could turn on the smile if he had to, but it
wasn’t about that. It was about convincing the voters that their man was the
right man for the job. Because he had something that Grace didn’t have. He
believed in what he was doing. You don’t just believe in the party, you believe
in yourself. Now he just had to get one more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He pulled
over to the side of the road and looked at the house opposite. Looked OK from
the outside. No obvious commitment to any party. Which meant that they were
fair game. He straightened his tie (party colours, obviously), checked his hair
in the rear view mirror, and spat his half-finished polo mint into the ashtray.
Couldn’t be seen to be eating in front of the voters. He checked his jacket
pockets and his clipboard to be sure he had all the correct literature with him
and walked briskly (but not hurriedly) across the road and up to the front
door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He pressed
the doorbell once, holding it for as close to a second as he could make it. You
didn’t want to seem insistent but you didn’t want it to seem like you were just
going to go away either. Which is why he waited for thirty seconds and then
pressed it for a further second. He heard footsteps approaching and readied his
best smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What were they bothering her with
this time? She never had anything to give these people, these people who came
to the door and gave her grief about God or Jesus or bloody make-up. She
supposed she should just let them ring the bell until they got sick of it and
went away but Terence would never have stood for it. Terence would fling wide
the door and tell them to stop bloody bothering them, to leave them alone and
never come back. She didn’t have the nerve to do that. She could tell them that
she wasn’t interested though. Tommy would be wanting his dinner soon and she
hadn’t got anything ready.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She pulled the net curtain open just
a little, which was a mistake as the chap saw her. He knew she was in. Gave a
grin that Terence would have called shit-eating, though she wouldn’t have used
such language, not in front of strangers anyway. Then again, she hadn’t talked
to anyone at all really, not for a few years now. Oh well. Might as well see
what this grinning loon wants. The sooner she did the sooner she’d be rid of
him.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He saw the
net curtain flicker and he flashed his teeth at her. Sure enough, the front
door opened, just like he knew it would. The woman standing before him couldn’t
have had many years past forty but she seemed much older somehow. She was
hunched to the point where her eyes seemed to be nearly level with her
shoulders. Her hand shook on the door. Her greying dark hair was decidedly
unkempt. Eddie suddenly registered all the closed curtains, matched by the
musty smell that wafted out of the house like it was trying to escape. This woman
was clearly a shut-in. Someone who wouldn’t leave the house if it was on fire.
Someone like this wouldn’t get out of the house to vote. There was a moment of
self-doubt, but only a moment. What a story this would make, if he could get
this agoraphobic lunatic to vote. Anyway, even she didn’t get out, he thought,
that’s what the postal ballot is for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hello,
Madam,” he began before she could ask what he wanted, “my name is Edward Clackett
and I’m out here today on behalf of Clive Adamson, your local MP. Can I ask,
have you decided how you’re going to vote in the election next week?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As he
suspected, the woman looked utterly confused. He knew she was going to say no
before her mouth started trying to form a word.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Could I
possibly come in? I have some literature here that might help you decide one
way or the other.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And with a
gentle but forceful push, he was inside. You don’t want to seem threatening
when you’re making your way into someone’s house but you want them to know that
you are going to get into their living room so they might as well put the
kettle on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What was he doing? What was he
talking about? She hadn’t voted in years, not since Terence died. After he
passed there didn’t seem to be any point to it. So what was the oily, grinning man-child
doing forcing his way into her home? She didn’t like this. She didn’t like this
at all.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She looked
skittish, which worried Eddie. It had been easy enough to get inside but if she
started panicking it was game over. And then the story wouldn’t be about how he
convinced a mad shut-in that voting for Clive Adamson MP was the right thing to
do, it would be how he terrified a helpless old (but she wasn’t that old, not
that they’d care) woman who probably wasn’t in full possession of her
faculties. And that would be very bad indeed. So he needed to smooth things
over. He needed to correct the atmosphere, get her sitting down and get her
calm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Is it
alright if I take a seat?” he asked. He didn’t want to presume to do anything now;
he needed permission with someone this jumpy. There was an awkward pause but
finally she gave a tiny tremulous nod and he smiled and took a seat in a white
armchair which gave a quiet moan as he put his weight on it. There was a
further awkward pause during which it looked like she might not sit down and
just stand there staring at him, but finally she sat on the faded green sofa
opposite and stared at him from there. He needed an ice breaker. He looked
around the room for something banal and comforting to comment on. There it was.
A family photo. Her, apparently a hundred years ago, a man slightly older than
she was, and a young boy, about five years old.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Is that
your family?” he asked. Stupid question, but stupid was often the best way to
start with these ones. She shifted in her seat, her top lip started to wobble.
Bollocks, he thought, maybe this wasn’t the best way to start.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes,” she
said. “That’s me and my husband Terence, and our son Thomas. Terence…passed.
Some years back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A grieving
shut-in. He assumed his most contrite expression and leant forward. Just far
enough to make it clear that he wanted to comfort her but not far enough to
make her worried that he was actually going to touch her. She looked like she
didn’t want to be touched. A hand on the knee might draw screams.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m so
sorry,” he told her. “It’s truly tragic to suffer a loss like that.” Truly
tragic. He couldn’t tell if that was good or bad but there was no room for
backtracking. He needed to be confident. Sincere. He paused a moment before
asking what he knew was a risky bloody question. “And your son?” He held his
breath and prayed that Tommy hadn’t been killed in some terrible fire with his
father.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What did he want? What was he asking
about her husband for, about Tommy? Slimy little shit. She needed to get rid of
him before Tommy came in for his dinner. She still had to get it ready, he
wouldn’t be at all happy if he came in to find nothing to eat and this salesman
on the sofa. Asking about voting, indeed. She’d just have to give him what he
wanted and get him out of here.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Tommy’s
living at home now,” she told him. He gave what he hoped was a comforting grin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“That’s
partly what I’m talking about, Mrs…” he left a pause for her to fill in her
last name but she didn’t say a word. That didn’t matter; she could put it on
the form when she signed the bloody thing. For now he would just carry on with
his patter. “The youth of today need to be sent the right message. They need to
know that there is someone who is looking out for them. In these uncertain
economic times a young man’s future can seem awfully desperate, awfully
unclear. Too many young people are simply drifting into a depressing void at
the moment, moving home and wondering what they can possibly do with
themselves. What Mr Adamson stands for is providing our young people with a
strong work ethic and the opportunity to put it to good use.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He inched a
little closer to the edge of his seat, warming to his theme now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Because we
know, our party that is, we know that things haven’t been easy over the last
few years. But we’re determined that we can create a brighter future for the all
of us here in the UK. And that’s what’s really important, isn’t it? A brighter
future for kids like your Thomas. Our party is committed to your children and
giving them the lives they deserve. Tell me, madam. Who did you vote for in the
last election?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He could certainly jabber on, this
strange little man. He’d even started sweating when he really got going. She’d
seen little flecks of spit flying from between his too-white teeth as he’d hit
the word ‘people’ and the ‘s’ in ‘Adamson’. But she didn’t have time for his
rambling. She had things to do, things to get ready. She didn’t have time for
this man at all.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What is it
you want from me?” <i>she asked, hoping that
this would cut right to the point. But he just shook his head and leaned back
in Terence’s armchair.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s not
what we want from you, Madam. It’s what we can give you. Not just a brighter
future for your children but a brighter present for yourself too. Clive Adamson
is working tirelessly to help put an end to this terrible state of affairs
we’re in at the moment and if you would just sign our…” She nearly leapt to her
feet here, hoping for the opportunity to something, anything to get rid of him,
but instead he reached into his jacket and took out some leaflets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I have some
literature here, if you’d care to read it. Just some information and some testimonials
about Mr Adamson if you’d like to…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Give them
here,” she told him. He was surprised to see her so anxious to read them but he
didn’t question it. He handed them over and leaned back in his chair. He
thought about carrying on talking but thought maybe a bit of quiet would be
good, to let the importance of what she was reading really sink in. He turned
his head to his left and looked out of the window. He was too committed now. A
signature wasn’t going to be enough. He wasn’t going to be fobbed off with some
ink on a piece of paper. He wanted this woman convinced. He wanted her to be a
real party member. He wanted a fucking sticker in her window for when the
papers came so everyone could see just what he’d accomplished.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Not that a
sticker would be much use on this back window. The garden was much nicer than
he’d expected given the state of the house. A good-sized patch of grass,
bordered on all sides with well-kept flowerbeds, a small greenhouse, and what
he would have guessed was an oak tree standing tall near the end of the garden.
And there, up in the oak tree, was a good-sized tree house. Eddie had longed
for a tree house growing up and hadn’t seen one in years. He had assumed the
tradition had been lost when pre-teens had started getting iPhones for their
birthdays. But here was one, in the heart of his community, in the home of this
brave widowed woman who was preparing to commit herself to the right honourable
candidate. His candidate. It was perfect. Except…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There was a
glow coming from the oak tree that had nothing to do with the sunset. He could
see a small but definite flow of black smoke coming from the window of the tree
house. He got to his feet and hurried to the window. Yes, there was definitely
smoke. The tree house was on fire. He turned to the woman who was flicking
quickly through the descriptions of where you could find the party on social media.
She hadn’t noticed the fire. If he sorted this out the widow would have no
choice but to give them her vote, on account of his heroics. Perhaps even a
story in the paper. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Mrs… your tree
house, it’s on fire!” he shouted, and ran to the back door, taking off his
jacket and flinging the door open in one fluid movement. He could hear her
shouting, probably telling him not to risk himself, or maybe asking him to
hurry, it didn’t matter. He was going to put this fire out and win her
allegiance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She told him to stop. He didn’t
listen. Going running off to the tree house Terence had built when they’d first
been expecting. She didn’t go up there anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Eddie scaled
the oak tree with an ease that surprised him, given how little he’d been able
to get to the gym recently. He was soon at the tree house door and ducked
inside. Sure enough, a small pile of paper had been set alight. Probably some
neighbourhood kids messing about, using the tree house without permission, kids
that should have been in school. He stamped out the fire; his shoe could take
the hit for the story. When he felt a sharp pain he assumed it was the heat,
and lifted his foot clear. As he did so, he looked down and saw that his heel
had been slashed. His foot stayed where it was, for the most part. Blood gushed
from a savage tear in his navy sock. He screamed and fell backwards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Eddie fell through
the opening to the tree house and down to the ground, about twelve feet, landing
on his back. As he looked up he saw a dark shape emerge from the tree house,
jump, and land on its feet beside him. He wanted to scream but the air had been
knocked out of him by the fall. As it knelt down and brought its face closer to
Eddie’s, he saw who it was. The boy from the photo. A few years older, yes, and
his face blackened by smoke, but definitely him. He grinned. The teeth had been
sharpened into yellow points. Eddie now managed a scream, and the boy grabbed
his hair and dragged him over the grass back towards the house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The back
door was still open. As Eddie was pulled inside his heel caught on the
doorstep, twisting and tearing, sending another jet of pain up his leg. The boy
pulled harder and got him inside, slamming the door behind him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There was Tommy now. And he’d got the
stupid man. She didn’t enjoy what Tommy did and she’d tried explaining that he
shouldn’t do it. But if she was being honest, she wasn’t sorry to hear that man
scream.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He was
starting to lose awareness of what was happening to him. He was in the kitchen;
his head had bounced off a hob and was now resting on a linoleum floor. He
heard the slam of a drawer being yanked open and a clattering of silverware. He
heard the boy laughing. Then he wasn’t aware of anything except the pain in his
stomach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So that was what he was doing for
dinner then. She needn’t have worried.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It took some
effort but Eddie managed to lift his head off the floor too look at what exactly
this boy was doing to him. All he could see was a mess of hair above a widening
patch of red around his belly. As his mouth dropped open, the boy lifted his
head to look back at Eddie. His face was glistening with dark red goo. He
flashed those sharpened teeth again. And between those teeth lay a rope of his
intestines, skewered on the boy’s fangs, which he was working furiously back
and forth. The boy’s grin widened as their eyes met, before he plunged his head
back into the messy soup of Eddie’s stomach. Eddie felt his reason depart as
the slurping started and let his head drop backwards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Such a mess. Getting it everywhere.
What a mess, what a terrible mess.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Eddie’s head
fell to the right. Everything was becoming terribly blurry. But he could still
make out the slippered feet of the widow hurrying over, and see Clive Adamson’s
campaign literature used to move his blood and a few chunks of what he assumed
were his viscera into one neat puddle on the lino by his nose, before he felt a
hand reach up and under his ribcage and everything stopped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 17.77777862548828px;">--------------------------</span></div>
<br />
<br />
Hello there. I hope you enjoyed this story. I hoped to have it up a bit sooner but things have been pretty hectic with the London Film Festival, which I'm covering for <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/">Cinetalk</a> (find our coverage there).<br />
<br />
This short story title comes from @scottywrotem and I really like it, I was buzzing with ideas as soon as he suggested it, so thank you very much to him for that.<br />
<br />
So, I don't really have a lot to say about this story beyond the fact that I didn't want to do another ghost story (at least, not yet), and I wanted to write something that ended messily. I wanted to write something that wasn't subtle at all. So the humour's about as subtle as a sledgehammer, but I enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Oh and I promise I will stop ripping off Jack Ketchum soon. Other stories are under-way but please give me your titles! Thanks for reading.<br />
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<br />Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-65841485795261950152012-10-08T07:52:00.000+01:002012-10-08T18:58:58.711+01:00Blog update: I'd like your titles, please, and we now have film reviewsHello there. No fiction today but I thought it was time for a general blog update. Yes, it still looks the same. Not that kind of update.<br />
<br />
Right, so the <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/p/witchs-bile.html">Witch's Bile</a> series has come to an end. I hope you enjoyed it, I'd be very interested to hear what you thought about it. But those characters won't be coming back for a while, which brings us to the question of what to do with the blog now. I thought that having something with a running story-line would be a good idea but given that life is life, I can't guarantee the constant updates that something like that really deserves. Obviously the sensible thing to do would be write the whole thing and split it into segments, but I have several other longer projects on the go and I just don't have the time at the moment.<br />
<br />
So what I'd like to do is appeal for your short story titles again. I'm sure our regular readers will remember (I believe our numbers may have swollen from seven to ten, hello everyone!) that what I've done in the past is ask for titles, and then I will write the story. I'm very happy to admit to the fact that when it comes to title I am beyond useless, so this experiment worked out very nicely for me last time. Popular stories from the last batch included <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/do-you-still-love-your-girlfriend-now.html">Do You Still Love Your Girlfriend Now That She's Dead Again?</a>, <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/i-was-dead-inside-until-i-met-you.html">I Was Dead Inside Until I Met You</a> (both titles from Iain McGibbon, or @phernalia_i on Twitter), <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/thrilling-warning-to-naughty-ladies.html">A Thrilling Warning To Naughty Ladies</a> (suggested by Nia Childs or @nia_loves_films ), <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/short-story-double-bill-surprisingly.html">Surprisingly Moving With Its Oddness</a> (from Stacey Siddons or @baker_court ), <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/flailing-quizmistress.html">The Flailing Quizmistress</a> (from Helen Cox or @helenography ), <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/story-mermaid-skin.html">Mermaid Skin</a> (from Martin Parsons or @martang66 ) and <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/von-haselnuss-rides-again.html">Von Haselnuss Rides Again</a> (from David Hayes or @DavidHayes4 )<br />
<br />
The first short story I'd written in quite a while came from a title from Thomas Roberts (or @tom_wookiee), called <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/story-mindquack.html">Mindquack</a>. I had so much fun writing that story that I thought it was time for another titles whip-round. So please, if you read this blog, either drop me a line in the comments section or find me on Twitter (@JonathanHatfull) and give me a sentence you think is in some way catchy or fun, or even isn't. Could be anything. I'm open to genre suggestions too but I can't promise to abide by them (most things I write tend to end up horror). Only condition? I already have two titles with 'Samurai' (courtesy of that Parsons boy and @LaFemmeFlaneuse) in them, not sure if I can do three! I'm already at work on the next short story for the blog, The Widow and the Treehouse, the title of which comes from @scottywrotem . I think it should be fun, we'll see though.<br />
<br />
The other part of the blog housekeeping is related to my film reviews. I'm sure those of you who follow me on social media know that I mostly go on about film rather than fiction, and I had resisted merging the two here for a long time. I didn't want to do it. I wanted this to just be a fiction blog. And it still will be. But, it seems silly not to have a place where people can find my reviews if they want to so there is now a section, ingeniously titled <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/p/film-reviews.html">Film Reviews</a>, where they will be collected. So if you want to know I think <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/post/30378810139/review-american-mary">American Mary</a> "shows that the Soska sisters are a force to be reckoned with", why <a href="http://www.filmlandempire.com/2012/09/looper-review.html">Looper</a> is "humane, clever sci-fi", why Maury and Bustillo's <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/post/29080603044/dvd-review-livid-livide">Livide</a> is "bewitching and oddly moving", or why Lucky McKee's <a href="http://fohnhouse.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/woman-2011.html">The Woman</a> "reaches out and grabs you by the throat", there's now a whole section with links to reviews where I talk about these films less clunkily than I'm doing now. You'll also find my coverage of this year's Frightfest there, and my (currently on-going) London Film Festival write-ups for <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/">Cinetalk</a>.<br />
<br />
The ebook is also rumbling slowly towards self-publication. When it is ready, don't worry. I will plug the hell out of it on here. Which just sounds weird. I will promote my ebook (Lovely Creatures! Darkly comic horror!) on this blog. Like a normal person would.<br />
<br />
But enough of the self-promotion. Thank you very much for reading the Witch's Bile series and I hope you keep reading and keep enjoying (if you did enjoy, if not, then start enjoying) the short stories that will going up on the blog soon. Thanks for listening to my rambling, here's Bob.<br />
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<br />Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-87834444019265337762012-10-06T12:51:00.001+01:002012-10-06T12:52:34.495+01:00Witch's Bile Part 10: Bye Now<br />
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Hello and welcome to the last part of this series of Witch's Bile. This serves as an epilogue really, so if you haven't read any of the others please go <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/p/witchs-bile.html">here</a> to give them a look. Please enjoy.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-----------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was you. Of course it was you. How could I not have seen
it was you?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jo wasn’t the punishment, was she? The monster following her
was. An empty vessel with one single purpose but not completely brainless?
Well, technically brainless I suppose. He’d been scooped clean at some point
before he’d developed his obsession with poor Jo. Anyway, that’s some serious
fucking magic and would require someone very bloody-minded to arrange. Well
done, Mum. You made life difficult for me for a little bit, and made life
miserable for Jo for nearly a year. Impressive, even by your standards of
colossal bitchiness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose this might have been a test, rather than a
punishment. Maybe you were seeing if I was capable of dealing with it, rather
than just pissing me off for the hell of it. Maybe you wanted to see if I could
teach somebody something. Maybe Jo’s more important than you let on. But that
thought makes me uneasy because it would imply that you were preparing me for
something. And I’d hate to think what that would be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I know that something’s going on. Even out here in
the fucking sticks I can tell that something is stirring, which makes me more
determined than ever to disappear again. I told the Sheriff what we did the
monster you sent us. Well, I kept most of the magic out of it. I just told him
that we burned it up and that when the fire goes out it’s very important that
they salt the bloody earth. I don’t know if makes any difference, the old
salting the earth trick, but as a symbolic gesture it’s pretty cathartic. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway,
Sheriff Larch nodded, stroked that beard of his and told me he would very much
appreciate it we never darkened his doorway again. Those were his words; I
assume he meant “stay outta town.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told Jo that she could either go back to Paris or stick
with me for a bit. I know. I surprised myself. I don’t know how much longer I’d
want her around for but I feel like somebody owes her something and I can’t
very well blame her for being a bit pissed off with you. Yes, I told her my
theory. She’s fuming. If we hadn’t already set fire to the house I’d have been
worried. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, this is my final tape, at least until you find me again.
I’m off to show Jo a bit of America before something else decides to murder
every man between it and her. Obviously I’m not going to tell you where we’re
going but I want you to know that we’re both fine and we both hate you. Take
care, Émilie. And please feel free to leave me alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your hateful daughter,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eliza Belmont.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-----------------------------</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that's that for Eliza and Jo. I hope you enjoyed this series. They might be back at some point but not for a long while. I enjoyed writing them but I'm not really sure how successful they were. I hope you had fun reading them anyway. Thank you very much for doing so. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next post will be a blog update! Excitement!</div>
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-24953562323729645872012-10-01T20:42:00.000+01:002012-10-01T20:42:00.874+01:00Witch's Bile Part Nine: Open Flames<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello and welcome to the ninth and penultimate instalment of Witch's Bile. Just a quick reminder that parts 1-8 are <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/p/witchs-bile.html">here</a> if you haven't read them yet and you want to understand what's going on. Otherwise, the monster is on his way. Please enjoy</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
------------------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. Well, actually,
scared’s a bit of an exaggeration. Concerned. I was concerned that arranging
for a murderous monster to be directed towards my house might be a bit
reckless. I mean, he might kill Jo, who I was supposed to be looking after, and
more importantly, he might kill me. And Jo wouldn’t have been my problem if you
hadn’t sent her to me, Émilie, so technically anything bad that happens to her
while in this country is your fault. She could have been safe in Paris, or
London. Anywhere, really. But instead she’s in a small town in Illinois, USA,
with me. Because you sent her. And because you sent her, he came too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was aware that my plan had problems. These beasts that
have one single, unalterable goal can seem easy to direct but there are annoying
little variables. Monsters in a trap will always react violently, lashing out
in any bloody direction. Bloodily. And no matter how stupid you think they are
there’s never any guarantee that they won’t suddenly figure out what’s going
on. So yes, I had my concerns. I thought it would work, don’t get me wrong. But
it’s a very stupid idiot who thinks that their plan will go off without a
hitch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jo wasn’t stupid enough to make this mistake but she went
along with it. She took some convincing and grumbled enough, but she went along
with it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If this goes wrong, we’ll die,” she told me after I’d told
her that there was no other way. It was stating the obvious but I can only
assume stating it made her feel better. I nodded and told her that I was sure
that it wouldn’t go wrong. If it went right, we would be free from this un-killable
psychopath within an hour or so. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got the call twenty minutes after Sheriff Larch and his
terrified deputy left. Apparently once I’d told him that there was a fair
chance that the man he’d captured could decide to kill his entire police force,
he was keen to get the monster out of his custody and into mine. I assumed that
the monster couldn’t drive, so assuming Larch had called as soon as he’d freed
him, we’d have our visitor knocking on our door in about forty minutes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got things ready as best I could. You know as well as I do
that you can check and double check that you’ve prepared spells properly but
there’s no guarantee that they’ll go off without a hitch. I got Jo to help me
with the magic. As we sat mixing up the necessaries the books said were
required, she looked up at me with this weird sort of smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is the first time you’ve taught me anything,” she
said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cheeky little bitch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So forty minutes later we stood in the front hall, staring
at the front door, waiting. Jo looked nervously at me. I looked back at her,
only slightly less nervously. We could both sense that he was close. When forty
five minutes had passed I got worried. Then I heard the back door open.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I span around and saw the man standing in my kitchen. Larch
hadn’t been lying. A cracked rib stuck through his black shirt and odd lumps
down his right side hinted at more than that. When he opened his mouth to speak
I saw he’d lost several of his teeth, which will happen if I run you over with
my car. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I heard she had someone here,” he said, speech slightly
slurred. “Where is she?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t thrown by the question. Jo had done exactly as I’d
asked and slipped out of sight. I shook my head and he stepped towards me. I
took a step to my right, towards the basement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t lie to me,” he told me. “I know she’s here. I know
she’s here with someone. Where is she? I need to talk to her.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As he moved closer I saw his scruffy beard was caked with
blood. I assumed it was his own but there was no way to be sure. He reached
down towards his belt and took out a long kitchen knife, which I recognised as
one of mine. He must have taken it when he had been here before leaving
presents for us. His stumbling stopped and he stared at me for a moment as if
trying to tell whether I was lying or not. Obviously he convinced himself that
I was as he moved forward with alarming speed and grabbed me by the throat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where is she, bitch?” he growled. Clearly the last part of that
sentence was really supposed to put the fear of god into me and I thought I had
probably given Jo enough time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The basement,” I gasped, “she’s in the basement. With him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He grunted and transferred his grip to the back of my neck,
pushing me towards the basement door. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Open it,” he said. “No tricks.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clever boy. I opened the door for him and what he saw made
him release his grip on me. It also made him go charging down the basement
steps. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An illusion is simple enough to create but it’s pretty fucking
useless once the person you’re trying to fool tries to get his hands on it. The
monster saw a handsome young man who was moving towards Jo in suggestive
fashion. To put it bluntly, he was naked. But when the fruitcake with the knife
tried to cut him, it would go straight through, which is why Jo was running up
the stairs as soon he finished going down them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Had there been time and a third witch, we could easily have
come with an imaginary Jo as well but as it was we had to make to with the real
one. She wasn’t happy about it but I told her that there was nothing else we
could do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other person who wasn’t happy was the monster in the
basement. As Jo cleared the top step he turned and looked up at us. He’d swung
for the phantom’s gullet and had hit the brick wall in front of him instead. He
was furious. I could feel Jo trembling beside me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You tricked me,” he spat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Burn,” I answered. He laughed and held his arms wide. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That won’t work on this body.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I told him and pointed at the
unfortunate nest of spiders in the corner that were just catching light on top
of the cans of gasoline. Not all animals are receptive to spoken magic but when I'd moved them earlier I'd managed to get on their wavelength. I felt sorry for them but there was no time to dwell
on it as we slammed the door shut.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had cast a spell on the door which took effect as soon as
both of us were on the same side. I thought that this was rather selfless of me
given that I could have simply locked him, her, and the imaginary nude Adonis
down there to burn. Not that I told her that. We went through the living room
and grabbed the bags we’d packed while waiting for the Sheriff to call as the
screams began. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You never really get used to the smell of human flesh
cooking but this wasn’t exactly that. There was a whiff of formaldehyde and, as
the smoke poured out from under the door, another scent that I recognised but
couldn’t quite place. Whoever had done this had left their mark on his body. It
was familiar but I didn’t have time to really savour it. We left before the
fire got out of hand, and then watched from the street as it did.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I hadn’t lived in that house for long but I had liked it. I
wasn’t entirely emotionless watching it all go up in smoke. But Jo was safe for
now. And so was I.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m sorry if this seems a bit underwhelming but it’s
something that I don’t understand when witches tell each other that something
can’t be killed. This thing bled. Its ribs broke. It must have been able to
heal itself over time, given what Jo said about it being run over by a London
bus, but very few things can survive prolonged exposure to fucking fire. There's an argument to be made for lack of subtlety or finesse but, given the
noises it was making, it wasn’t surviving down there. And if it comes back,
then we’ll burn the fucker again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Anyway, I have to make a statement to Sheriff Larch. Well, I
don’t have to. But I want to see the look on his face when I try to explain
what happened. I’ll record another message from the road.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hope you enjoyed this. The final part will be up very shortly and then the blog will focus on other things for a while. There's a general blog housekeeping update in the offing but for now, please enjoy Jarvis singing Leonard Cohen. As always, thank you for reading.</div>
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-18125012684739438112012-09-29T12:55:00.001+01:002012-09-29T13:23:52.804+01:00Witch's Bile Part 8: Empty Chests and Flat Feet<br />
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Welcome to the part 8 of my Witch's Bile series which is building towards the last two instalments, so if you haven't read any yet I'd advise you to head <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/p/witchs-bile.html">here</a> and go back to the beginning! Previously, Eliza and Jo met the monster with the penchant for cutting men's faces off their heads and made the sensible choice of running away as he began work right in front of them.</div>
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I don’t have a lot of dealings with the police, as you can
imagine. Actually, you might be surprised to hear that I get away with what I
do, but I think they’re scared of me. They would never admit it but I’ve packed
up and left countless towns leaving a bloody mess behind me and I’ve not been
pulled over once. But this was different. The teenagers killed last night hadn’t
died by my hand, and there was a witness who had hopefully told the police
that. Because they knew I hadn’t been in a bloodthirsty rage, I had a feeling
that the police would be round sooner or later. I went to bed knowing that I
might be woken up by cautious knocking on the front door.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Instead I woke up of my own accord around ten. Jo was still
in her room so I made coffee and went down to the basement to get my old books
and notes out. I disturbed a few spiders that were starting to build a home on
the box marked “witch shit”, dragged the box up to the living room, and had a
look through my records and the old books to see if anything matched the
description of what I saw last night. It would probably surprise you, Émilie,
to learn that I’ve still got all my things, all my notes, everything a proper
witch should have. But you never know when you might need them. Especially when
you can’t consult with anyone. The only witch I know in the whole country is Jo
and she’s essentially still a student, so useless. I’ve kept away from American
ones. I’m sure they’re fine but I’ve got no interest in being sociable.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Anyway, I didn’t find anything. Not a sausage. There were
plenty of monsters that had some similar attributes. Obviously we’re familiar
with many difficult-to-kill ones, as this fucker had proved to be by being run
over twice, including once with a bus if Jo is to be believed. So that was too
vague to help much. I thought the ritualistic removal of the victim’s face
might prove to be a goer but it turns out that there are three species of
monsters that regularly do that in America alone, not including Canada, and all
those freaks have a full set of internal organs. Which was what stumped me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This psychotic Romeo who’s got his eye on Jo had no heart. I
told you I tried to make it explode, which is normally not that difficult as
long as there is a heart to make explode, and in this case there wasn’t. I
don’t think there was anything. The thing was just an empty shell. He was, or
had been, a man, that was obvious. The basic energy he was giving off was
human. There was none of the frazzled, haywire brainwaves of Patchworks. He
clearly wasn’t a zombie as he was forming coherent sentences and didn’t smell like he was rotting. He was simply hollow. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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While I wasn’t too surprised that I had never come across
this, I was shocked to find that there was nothing in my books about it. Obviously
we witches like to know as much as possible about the monsters of the world so
we can either defend ourselves against them or, preferably, use them to our
advantage. Something like this clearly had value, as anything that’s tough to
kill does. Monsters like that are usually working for somebody. Too useful not
to be. But it’s difficult to imagine who he would have been working for, going
specifically after Jo like that. Or rather, going after people he thinks are
after her, in a romantic way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But as I was working it through I heard the doorbell ring.
There was the sound of Jo stirring upstairs as I got up to answer it. I walked
past the clock on the wall and saw it was nearly two in the afternoon. It had
taken the police all night and more than half the day to get round to seeing
me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Two men in uniform stood on my front porch. They both had
their cold weather police coats on, the ones with the slightly fluffy collars,
and the standard issue cold weather police hats. I’ve always found this get-up
quite adorable, despite feeling somewhat differently about the people inside
it. One was younger and was anxiously alternating his stare between two inches
over my shoulder and the floor in front of him. The other was older and had
greying brown hair tufting out from under his hat to match the greying brown
beard. He was the one with the Sheriff’s badge.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Afternoon, Miss,” he said after a short pause. “I’m
Sheriff Larch, this is Deputy Brigley. Would it be alright if we came in?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“By all means, Sheriff,” I told him, and ushered them
inside. I didn’t want to waste any time. Apparently neither did he. I’d barely
sat them down in the kitchen before he put his hands on the table and looked me
in the eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“So, we know you were there last night, Miss Belmont. And
everyone in town knows what you are. You asked us to leave you alone and I
decided that it was the best course of action. But the problem is that people
in town aren’t just scared of you now. They’re scared of whoever did this. And
we can’t very well leave him alone.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I nodded. I appreciated that he had to make his position
clear. He was doing well, all things considered.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Do you know who did this?” he asked hopefully. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“No,” I told him. “But I can assure you I’m doing my best to
find out.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“This guy…I’ve never seen anything like him. When I tried to
talk to him…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Wait.” I was surprised. “Sorry, you tried to talk to him?
So you…did you have him in custody?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Larch ran his finger around the brim of his hat and looked
at the table. “We found him in the parking lot. He looked like he’d been beat
to hell.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“I ran him over,” I interrupted, but he didn’t seem to hear
me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“He was…he was taking the face of the second boy when we got there. The first
one, he’d already finished him. We told him to stop what he was doing, put his
hands up. He didn’t seem to hear us at first but then he yanked his left hand
up and just tore the skin straight off that boy’s head. Then he turned to look
at us and…Miss, I’m scared of you but there was an emptiness behind that man’s
eyes that just terrified me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He paused. I took this opportunity to look at his deputy,
who was apparently examining the floral pattern of my tablecloth like it might
yield some clue. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“He did what we asked,” Larch continued. “He got in the car.
I told my boys to drive him to the station, take his prints, get him in a cell
while we cleaned up the victims. Now, the rest is only what I’ve been told, I
wasn’t there. But they got him to the station and someone thought they should
have him checked out, apparently they saw one of his ribs was starting to stick
out of his shirt. Anyway, the doc got there and…she couldn’t find a pulse. He
was dead. But…he wasn’t, I don’t know if I’m explaining this well…”</div>
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With this final sentence he looked up at me, like he was
begging for an explanation, or at least some kind of reaction. I nodded. I
mean, of course he didn’t have a pulse. He had no fucking heart. But this was
clearly a big shock to the Sheriff so I let him have his little meltdown.</div>
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<o:p></o:p>“Miss, we’ve got a man sitting in our cell who is clinically
dead. I was hoping…you could tell me just what he is.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I took a deep breath. Jo coughed from the doorway and I
turned to look at her. She’d clearly just woken up and was still in her
pyjamas. I don’t know how long she’d been standing there but she looked as
anxious for my answer as the Sheriff did. To me, the course of action was
clear.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well, Sheriff, the first thing you should do is let him
go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Larch looked as though I’d reached under the table
and grabbed his privates. “Let him go?” he repeated. Before he had the chance
to reel off all the reasons why it was a bad idea I butted in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m not exactly sure why he agreed to come quietly. But I
do think that at some point he’s going to get bored and he’ll wonder what Jo’s
doing and then he will want to leave. And I say this with all due respect but I
don’t think that you’ll be able to stop him. So, in my opinion, what you should
do is save yourself a lot of bloodshed. Let him go, point him in the direction
of this house, and let Jo and myself deal with him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He had let me talk, to his credit. It was more than I
thought he might do. “And you think you’ll be able to deal with him?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Again, with all due respect, we’ll be able to deal with him
a lot better than you could.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Larch took a moment or two to think about it then gave me a
little nod and stood up, followed by his deputy. We agreed that he would
discuss a handsome young man looking after Jo at the house in front of the
monster in the cells, then turn him loose. Obviously, he would call ahead to
let us know exactly when he was being set free.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Once they had left Jo grabbed my arm. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“How exactly are we going to deal with him?” she hissed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Don’t worry,” I told her, “I have a plan. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And that’s what I’m saying to you, Émilie. I have a plan. If
you hear from me again, you’ll know it worked. Here’s hoping, eh?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hello there, I hope you enjoyed this. It's a bit longer than usual but I'm trying to get things set up for the final two parts. I know I said that the blog would be updated more frequently but I'm currently quite busy with London Film Festival press screenings, which I'm covering for <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/">Cinetalk</a>. However, the final two parts should be up soon so keep an eye out for them. Will update soon! Thanks for reading, </div>
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-14070379082128199702012-09-17T19:37:00.001+01:002012-09-17T19:39:36.547+01:00Witch's Bile Part 7: A Night OutWelcome to part 7 of the Witch's Bile series. You can find the previous parts <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/p/witchs-bile.html">here</a>, I recommend that you read them first as there's not really a lot of explanation as to what's been going on otherwise. I hope you enjoy this instalment!<br />
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Well, Émilie, I told you in the last report I sent that Jo was
going to have to make some friends, with the admittedly risky aim of getting
her murderous admirer out in the open. If she’s seen speaking to friends of the
victim, I reasoned, then we might be able to draw him out. Get him jealous, get
him visible. Charlie Kitson had been kind enough to give us the name of the bar
his murdered underage son used to go to, so I made sure Jo had put some nice
clothes on and a bit of slap and we drove over there.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jo was a bit nervous in the car, I could tell. She was
scratching at her nails and tugging at her bangs. I told her that she looked
fine and she glared at me. OK, I thought. We hadn’t talked much before leaving
the house. That was OK too. I assumed she knew what she had to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was the first time I’d been around town at night, really.
I only moved here a few weeks ago and since then I’ve made a point of leaving
the house as little as possible. The last time I’d been out at night was the
town meeting I organised at which I told everyone that I was a witch and that
they should leave me alone. That didn’t really work out. It never does. Anyway,
they all look the same to me, these small towns. There are the nice quiet
streets with the big houses, big cars, big front porches, and the big back
gardens and then you take a left and you’re sharing the road with people with
completely different circumstances. But people are all the same to me. Wherever
you go and wherever they come from. Everyone’s the same no matter how much
money you have or how big your house is. Which is why I want them to leave me
alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I took a right and saw the petrol station Kitson had told me
about and the bar just behind it. We were close to the edge of town here, I
suppose the kids thought the chances of law enforcement or their parents
bothering to come and find them was pretty slim. A fluorescent red sign above
the door told customers where they were: The Alhambra. There didn’t seem to be
anything particularly Spanish from the outside. Still, I wouldn’t see the
inside for myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“So what’s the plan then?” asked Jo, like she didn’t already
know. I turned to face her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You go in, you ask around for the names on that list, and
then you talk to them. Use your English accent to charm them. Well, that and
your face. Offer them a cigarette and get them outside. Then we’ll see if the
mystery man shows up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“How do you know they smoke?” she asked, and I sniffed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“They’re underage. Of course they smoke.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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She took my pack of Gitanes and got out in a huff. I watched
her cross the car park, her heels clattering on the tarmac. I’d nearly
forgotten that she’d only been in America for a couple of days. I hadn’t even
asked about jetlag or anything. Which probably meant she was fine, I mean, if I
hadn’t noticed it. Probably. I found a new pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment
and waited for Jo to make friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was about five minutes before she emerged with three
teenage boys and one girl. Even from across the car park I could tell that
they’d all made an effort to look older than they were. All the boys were
wearing shirts and long coats while the girl’s make up was visible from the
car. Only one of them took a cigarette from her. There you go, I thought. I can
be wrong sometimes. I let them talk for a little while, about ten minutes.
There was still no sign of anyone suspicious. Frankly, I was getting bored.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally I struck on a way to find out if anyone was paying
attention. I got out of the car, slammed the door, and ran over to where Jo was
standing. She looked up as I approached, as did the teens, a little slower,
admittedly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What do you think you’re doing?” I shouted. Jo looked
shocked and unsure of herself. “What do you think you’re doing here? I leave
the house for five minutes and you go straight to a bloody pub and start
drinking! I thought we had agreed that you wouldn’t do this anymore!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jo stared, trying to understand what I was doing. I threw
her a bone, as they say.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I am your mother and you will do what I say! Is one of
these that boy you’ve been seeing?” I practically screamed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Whoa, calm down, lady!” exclaimed one of the boys. His
right eye was covered by a lank fringe of brown hair that he shifted with a
movement that I couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or some sort of twitch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yeah, you don’t need to shout at her like that!” said the
tallest of the boys. He was wearing a blazer that actually fit him and you
could tell he was the confident one of the group because he wasn’t attempting
to hide any part of his face. Instead his black hair was greased back and there
was a single ring in his right ear. The shorter, rounder boy behind him nodded
in agreement but didn’t seem brave enough to say anything. Only the girl, a skinny little redhead in a leather jacket and short black skirt, seemed
frozen stiff. Until she opened her mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I know who you are,” she told me. I stopped huffing and
puffing and turned to face her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Do you now?” I asked, putting as much ice in my voice as
possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You’re the witch. You’re Eliza Belmont.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The boys didn’t know my face but they certainly knew my
name. They all took a small step back and stared a little harder. The tall one
jutted his chin at me. “That true? You a witch?” I nodded at him. He turned to
Jo, who looked like she wasn’t sure where she was supposed to go at this point.
“And, what, she’s your mom?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jo took a step over to me and turned to face them. “She’s
not my mother but you’ll answer any questions she has.” I was impressed and
didn’t bother trying to hide a smile. So she hadn’t asked them anything. Not
exactly according to plan, but at least she got out of the house.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Where did your accent go?” asked the short one before
figuring it out for himself and looking at the floor.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Now,” I said, ignoring the little man’s question. “Last
night, did you see Clyde talk to anyone?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We already told the police that we didn’t,” said the girl. “Clyde
left early last night. He said he needed to go home and study.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well it’s nice to see you’re honouring his memory,” I
prodded. Her face dropped and the tall one spoke up again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We’re honouring his memory,” he said with all the sincerity
he could muster. I grinned. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“So you didn’t see him talking to a guy you didn’t know,
with straggly dark hair, beard, long coat? No?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The short one cleared his throat and pointed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“There’s a guy like that behind you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jo turned first and grabbed my sleeve. I saw a man who fit
the description I’d just given. He stared at us, looking us over one by one.
There was a moment of silence. Even the tall kid couldn’t think of anything to
say.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did you get my present, Josephine?” asked the man finally.
Jo whimpered. “I left it where you could find it. Who are these people?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried something risky at this point. Obviously you’re not
supposed to attack without gauging your enemy. But I thought I could get the
drop on him and I didn’t want to hang around in the open any longer than
necessary. So I tried to make his heart explode. It’s a nice trick if you get
it right, there’s relatively little mess, at least that you can see. So I
focused hard. Tried to find his heartbeat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing. Absolutely nothing happened. He just stared at me,
unblinking. I knew what to do. I grabbed Jo and ran. You don’t get to my age
without learning how to run away from things. Well, not really running, if you
look very closely you can see our feet weren’t touching the ground and we were
going faster than a fifty year old woman and a young lady in high heels really
should have been but we made it to the car and bundled ourselves in. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I turned the key in the ignition the headlights came on.
The man was walking over to us. In his right hand he held the tall boy by his
skinny neck. Behind him I could see the two other boys crumpled on top of each
other in a heap. The girl ran screaming back to the bar and slammed the door
behind her. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man stopped about six feet from us. As I was about to
put my foot down he took out a knife and pointed it at Jo.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know you understand,” he said, and plunged the knife into
the boy’s face, just under the hairline. He twisted the blade and began to move
it downward, peeling the skin from the boy’s head as he went. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put my foot down and drove straight at him. He didn’t try
to move out of the way. He just fell under the car and I felt the bump as we
ran him over. I didn’t bother looking behind us. I knew he wouldn’t stay down.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It won’t have made any difference,” muttered Jo.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It made me feel better,” I said. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We got home without any further incidents. Jo’s up in her
room and the lights are flickering so I can tell she’s upset. I know we’re
going to have a lot to deal with tomorrow when the police realise we were there
and work up the nerve to ask us why, so I’m going to sign off now and get some
sleep. And try to think about what kind of a monster actually doesn’t have a
heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I hope you enjoyed part 7. We're getting towards the end of the Witch's Bile series now and I'm going to try and post the final few parts a bit more frequently than I have been. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the series so far. </div>
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I'm still planning to update the blog with more non-fiction posts so keep your eyes peeled for that. I'm also going to a post asking for title suggestions for short stories as I will be starting that up again soon!</div>
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Thanks for reading.</div>
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<br />Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-30211910527092670842012-09-10T19:50:00.000+01:002012-09-10T19:51:36.120+01:00Witch's Bile Part 6: House CallHello there. So, after last week's short story (<a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/story-mindquack.html">Mindquack</a>) we're back to Eliza the misanthropic witch with part six of the Witch's Bile series. Parts 1-5 are <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/p/witchs-bile.html">here</a> and I do recommend reading them first. Each part is only about 1000 words so it won't take long to get up to speed. So, let's get to it.<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where were we, Émilie? Oh that’s right. I’d just told you to
go fuck yourself. You’ll have to forgive me for that little outburst. But I was
quite upset. Because it seemed like you’d knowingly sent me a protégé who is
being stalked by a murderous psychopath who is apparently very difficult to
kill. Still, at least I now have some idea of who the person who left a dead
boy’s face in my kitchen is. Well, not a name. Or a face. But Jo will recognise
him when she sees him, and it’s my intention to flush this bastard out as soon
as possible. I didn’t move to America to bring serial killers over. There are
plenty of them here already.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gave Jo a bit of time to calm down after she’d told me
about this lunatic and how he seems to target boys she likes, or boys he thinks
she likes. She went up to her room and I thought I heard her crying before a
couple of our light bulbs blew. I may have to get used to these temper tantrums
if she continues living with me for much longer. Stock up on bulbs. Anyway, I
made a cup of tea and had a think and after about an hour or so she was back
downstairs and ready to talk again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“So, what’s the plan?” she asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It was a fair question. “Well,” I said, “given that you
don’t know anything about this person except what he looks like and the fact
that he survived a double decker bus rolling over him, we don’t really have a
lot to go on. So the obvious thing to do is go and talk to the dead boy’s dad.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Is he going to want
to talk to us? When he came to ask for help this morning you weren’t exactly
helpful.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In case you’ve forgotten, the dead boy’s father came round
first thing to ask if I could help him find his son’s killer. You know my rules
about helping people. I don’t. Which is what I told him. He didn’t leave in the
best mood. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled at her. Sometimes I forget what it’s like when
people don’t know who you are, don’t know what you can do. You’re scared of
people finding out, of what would happen if they knew. When you open up to
everybody and you make sure they’re scared of you, then you realise that people
are very easy to deal with indeed. “Trust me.” I said. “He’s going to be dying for
our help.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I was a little bit surprised when, after we wrapped up
and hurried down the street to the Kitson residence, we had the door slammed in
our face shortly after it was opened by the tall, grieving man who had asked
for my assistance only a couple of hours ago. He didn’t say anything. He just
slammed it. But I knew better than to take it personally. Jo and I waited on
their doorstep for a moment or two, listening to raised voices inside, before
his wife opened the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Please, come in.” she stammered. “I’m very sorry about
Charlie, he’s…we’re both very…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I understand perfectly, Mrs Kitson,” I told her. “If we
could just take a few minutes of your time we’d be very grateful.” She ushered
us through her hallway and into her living room. The white carpet was covered
in dirty boot prints, a clear sign that the police had been and gone. Charles
was sat in the armchair and stared at us as we came in. I gave him my best
smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What do you want?” he asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just to talk about your son, Mr Kitson. We want to help.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh yeah?” he sneered. “What’s changed? I came to ask for
your help, I practically begged you, and you told me to go fuck myself.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took a seat in the chair opposite him and was aware of Jo
drifting to stand behind me. She’s got good instincts, that one. I thought
about telling him I didn’t use those words but decided against it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The thing is, Mr Kitson, the thing is that my position
hasn’t changed. We can’t just help everyone who asks. And I believe you and
your wife both attended the town meeting I organised specifically to tell you
all that I must be left alone or you would face the consequences, and I think
you’ll agree that I allowed you to speak your piece, consequence-free.” I could
see this last part upset him; it was probably a mistake to bring it up but too
bad. He was raising his enormous hand to make a point I continued before he
could interrupt me. “But while my position hasn’t changed, the situation has. I
was too hasty in telling you I couldn’t help you. Obviously I can’t give you
your boy back, but I can find whoever killed him and make sure that he is
punished in ways that the police can only have nightmares about.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a sound rather like a small bird clearing its
throat and I looked over to wear Mrs Kitson nervously hovered by the kitchen
door. “How has the situation changed?” she asked. I was impressed. This Mrs
clearly had more backbone than I thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The situation has changed because it affects me. And my
friend here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I thought you said she was your niece,” said Kitson. Ah. Caught
on a lie. Still, a relatively minor one. No real damage. Safe to admit to.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I lied. You know what I am. My friend is one too. What
happened to your boy affects us. We would like him to stop.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Charles Kitson got to his feet. He nearly filled the space
from floor to ceiling and he had the anger of a grieving man. “Are you saying
that whoever did this has an axe to grind with you? Was Clyde some sort of
message?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clearly it was best to lie at this point. So I made
something up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying that
whoever did this will do it again and he has certainly done it before. One of
his previous victims was someone we cared about a great deal.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did he kill a witch?” asked Mrs Kitson. I laughed loudly to
make sure she knew how ridiculous her question was. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, the chances of a witch being killed by someone like
we’re dealing with her are miniscule. No, it was Jo’s…brother. Which is why we
couldn’t talk to you earlier. We had to be sure it was the same person before
we got involved. And now we can.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The last lie seemed like it might have been a stretch to far
but you should never underestimate the gullibility of the grieving. Especially
when they think that someone might be able to castrate the ones responsible.
Charles looked at his wife and they seemed to reach some kind of agreement as
they stared at each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What do you want to know?” he asked. I smiled like a happy
saint.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, it would help if you told me where he…hung out. And,
more importantly, who he hung out with.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twenty minutes later we were back in my kitchen with a list
of names and the address of a local bar that didn’t look at ID’s too closely.
Jo hovered over my shoulder as I went through the list and tried to remember if
I’d seen any of these boys before.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What are we going to do with this?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, clearly he thinks you’re attracted to boys your age,”
I told her. “So you’re going to go and make some friends and we’ll see what
happens.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know if you were with Jo long enough to see this,
Émilie, but there’s this look she gives that’s about half-judgmental and half
trying to understand whether she should be judgmental or not. It’s quite
special. So that’s the plan, Émilie. We’re going to have a nap and then Jo’s
going out to make some friends. And I’ll be there to see if her man shows up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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--------------</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks for reading. I'm interested to hear feedback on the Witch's Bile series. The instalments are intentionally a lot shorter than my short stories but I do worry that they're less fun. Anyway, I'm aiming for about 10 instalments in total for this round. Eliza and Jo will probably be back at some point anyway.</div>
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I hope you enjoyed part 6. I'm trying to update the blog more often so there may well be another non-fiction post of me rambling soon so, you know, get excited for that. Here's Distracted, a song from Sean Spillane's soundtrack to Lucky McKee's excellent The Woman</div>
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-47834190521395339602012-09-06T13:02:00.000+01:002012-09-07T11:21:01.813+01:00Story: MindquackHi there. We're taking a short break from the Witch's Bile series for this short story. I had every intention of continuing with Eliza and Jo until the series was finished but I was talking to my friend Tom who said he had come up with a word but wasn't sure what he wanted it to mean. I suggested an idea, and very soon afterwards I wanted to write that story. So, here is Mindquack. Please bear in mind, what I know about science of any kind could fill a thimble, so please don't judge me too harshly on what is clearly nonsense! Other than that, I hope you enjoy it!<br />
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Wiltshire. 1982.<o:p></o:p></div>
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David was dreaming of breaking glass when the telephone rang.
As he opened his eyes and reached across the bed to answer it he saw the time:
2:12am. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and felt his heart begin to beat a
little faster. This would be the call he had been waiting for.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Case,” he said as he pressed the phone to his ear.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“David, this is Doctor Hill. How soon can you be at Paisley
Fields?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David flicked the light on and looked around the almost-bare
room for where he’d left his car keys. “Twenty minutes, sir,” he guessed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Try to make it sooner,” answered Hill before hanging up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David made the drive in just under fifteen, secure in the
knowledge that if he was stopped he would only have to state his destination to
be waved on. Despite only having been established nine weeks ago, the Paisley
Fields research facility had the kind of reputation that comes from no one
knowing exactly what went on inside. David himself had arrived in the area
three weeks ago as a standby and had yet to step through its doors. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The call meant that Doctor Crossley was no longer able to
perform his duties. Either he’d been taken ill, called away, or something much
worse. This eventuality had been explained to him when he’d arrived. He’d been met
at a cottage that had been arranged for him by a red-haired, skinny man in
plain clothes who’d introduced himself as Sergeant Betcher. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“People in the village will guess why you’re here,” he’d
been told. “Don’t feel the need to disillusion them, but don’t confirm it
either, you understand.” He had answered in the affirmative but wasn’t entirely
sure that he did. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The facility was unremarkable from the outside. A grey three
storey building that looked more like a school than anything else. He was waved
through at the checkpoint and told to drive straight up to the front. Sergeant
Betcher stood waiting for him in full military uniform under a spotlight at the
main entrance, and marched down the front steps to open the car door for him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dr Case, it’s a pleasure to see you again. Please follow
me, we’re rather against the clock, I’m afraid.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David followed Betcher as he led the way inside. Having
passed through the front door, David paused for a moment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This was a school,” he muttered. Betcher turned and nodded
impatiently.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Best we could do in a pinch. We’ve converted what we could
for our requirements; it’s served us well enough over the last month or two.
Please, Case, we do need to get going. Doctor Hill insisted I take you to him
as soon as you arrived.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Betcher led David up two flights of stairs, the sound of his
boots clattering through the empty space. Apart from a woman in a lab coat
walking past with a soldier, he didn’t see another soul. He was not surprised
to be shown into the headmaster’s office and be told that he was looking at his
employer, Dr. Anthony Hill. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“David Case, what a pleasure to finally meet you,” said the
old man, rising from his chair and stretching out his hand. Hill was in his
late 60s and looked like he hadn’t slept in days, but his grip on David’s hand
was strong enough to make him flinch. “You came very highly recommended, I’m so
sorry you’ve been stuck twiddling your thumbs for so long. But there is much to
do tonight, I can assure you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hill gestured for David to take a seat as Betcher wheeled in
a large television on a squeaky trolley. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thank you, Sergeant. Now, David. You are aware that you
were brought here as a standby for Doctor Crossley. I believe he mentioned that
you and he worked together on several projects together.” David nodded.
Crossley had been a mentor and a friend to him for the last ten years, although
a recent disagreement had set them on different paths. “Did Crossley tell you
anything about his work here?”</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“No, sir. I knew I would be his understudy but I haven’t
heard from him since he started last month. In fact, I don’t know anything
about anyone’s work here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hill smiled. “That’s reassuring. We obviously do our best to
keep our business private but we had assumed some information might slip
through our nets. But you must have a theory. You and Crossley both worked on
manipulating the brain’s activity in coma patients. What do you think we’re
doing here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David did have one theory. He had several, in fact, ranging
from the simple to the ridiculous. He shrugged and offered one that he thought
was fairly plausible. “Are you working on a new interrogation technique? Keep
the subject comatose while keeping the brain active, maybe even responsive?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hill’s smile spread into a grin, showing a row of yellow
teeth. “A good guess, David, but no. What I’m going to tell you is totally
unbelievable but we have precious little time, as I believe Betcher has already
made clear. So we’re just going to have to show you.” Hill pushed a button and
the monitor flickered into life. The screen showed a room with a single
occupied bed with an array of wires and tubes leading to the machines that
surrounded it. Every few seconds the screen flickered and the view switched to an
almost identical room. Only the occupants changed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Five weeks ago we had word of nine separate incidents in
this region. We dispatched rapid response teams, contained the subjects, and
brought them here. We induced coma-like states in all nine and started trying
to understand exactly how what had happened had happened.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David glanced from the monitor to Hill’s face. He swore he
could see traces of a smile, like he was enjoying waiting for the obvious
question. He asked it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry, sir, you said ‘incidents’. Incidents of what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Telekinesis,” said Hill. David glanced at Betcher, whose
face betrayed nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Telekinesis? I’m sorry, that’s…that’s not possible.” While David
struggled to express himself, Hill nodded at Betcher, who inserted a cassette
into the machine. The screen flickered to show a single room. A man stood over
the bed with his back turned. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s Dr. Crossley,” said Hill. “And that’s our alpha
patient. Lucas Reid. And I’m very sorry to have to show you this, Thomas, but
we are against the clock and there’s no easy way to explain it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a loud cracking sound and a shape rushed from the
bottom of the screen towards Crossley. He turned and David could just make out
his friend’s face as the object severed his head from his body. David cried
out. Hill hit a button and the view returned to the its previous view.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The observation window behind him was broken into three
pieces,” said Hill. “The biggest piece moved across the room and cut cleanly
through Doctor Crossley’s neck. When it had passed through the other side it
dropped to the floor like a stone. During these five seconds there was a massive
spike in the Reid boy’s brain activity. Crossley had devised a system for
measuring these spikes, he told us they never went above 0.2. Once we had
cleaned up the mess we went back and looked at the readings. This was a 1.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, these spikes have been happening with each of the
subjects semi-regularly since we first put them to bed. In terms of what days,
what time they occur, they’re unpredictable. At first we thought it was completely
random. One of the doctors even called them ‘mindquacks’, an unimportant
fluctuation, and I’m afraid the name stuck. We thought they might have been
dreaming. We’d see some light levitation. Perhaps an object would shift an inch
or two, nothing harmful. Nothing dangerous. But they started getting worse.
They became more frequent. More powerful. Which is why we brought Crossley on
board to try and eliminate them.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And what was Crossley’s suggestion?” asked David. The image
of his friend at the moment of his death was still very much in his mind but he
was aware that Hill was not the sort of man who would repeat himself. It was
essential that he keep up. Hill seemed surprised that he hadn’t guessed the
answer for himself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Remove the dreaming. I was told that you worked with him on
this scenario for children with severe nightmares. Well, he thought he could
apply it here and…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We never perfected it,” interrupted David. “We never found
a safe way to get rid of them. I mean, we could eliminate the dreams but never
without side-effects.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s what he told us,” continued Hill, and stood up. “He
also told us that this was when you went your separate ways. But we didn’t have
a choice, as far as we could see. It took him three weeks to have the treatment
ready.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When did it start?” asked David.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“At five o’clock this evening. Each of our nine subjects was
given the treatment and we waited to see what happened. Just before midnight we
had yet to see a single mindquack, so Crossley went to get a closer look at
Reid and, well, you saw what happened. However, his death is not the reason
we’re so pressed for time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And what is?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They synchronised. Each of the mindquacks happened within
milliseconds of each other, starting with Reid on the stroke of midnight and
spreading throughout the facility. A five-second mindquack that ended as soon
as Crossley’s head hit the floor. They’re not dreaming anymore, Dr Case. We
think they’re communicating. Crossley may have removed the only barrier between
their minds.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hill had walked around the table to join David, who suddenly
realised he should stand up and shakily did so. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Betcher will take you to the team observing Reid. We don’t
know how long we have before the next mindquack, so work quickly.” He held out
his hand, and David took it. “It’s good to have you on board, Dr Case. I’m sure
you’ll do your predecessor proud.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David followed Betcher out of the office, slightly dazed. He
held tightly to the handrail as they walked down the steps. He hoped that the
team would help him understand what on earth he was supposed to do. If those
barriers had been removed, how was he supposed to replace them?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We should just shoot all of them,” muttered Betcher. As
David turned to stare at him, he continued. “Your man Crossley wasn’t the only
fatality. One of my men had a hypodermic needle pushed through his eye all the
way to the back of his skull. A doctor had a feeding tube wrapped so tightly
around her throat her neck snapped. Several of the carers are being treated for
severe cuts from broken glass. Some of them won’t see again. We should just put a bullet in each of these freaks' heads and be done with it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They’re children,” said David. “Children who were taken
from their homes and now they can’t wake up. They’re scared, Sergeant.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, it’s interesting you should say that, Doctor,” said
Betcher, and stopped by a classroom door. “I was just about to tell you not to
be scared. They can sense it. You can see it on the scanner. Crossley was
scared and look what happened to him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He opened the door and ushered David inside. The room
stretched out to his left. At the halfway point a sheet of clear plastic had
been hung from the ceiling. He stepped into a basic observation area, some
broken glass still crunching underfoot, occupied by a man and woman approaching
middle age. The woman was hunched over a monitor but the man turned to greet David
with an outstretched hand. His blonde hair was scruffy and unkempt, and he hadn’t
shaved in days. When he started to speak his breath reeked of old coffee.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dr Case, is it? I’m sorry we have to meet under such
unpleasant circumstances; I’m told that Doctor Crossley was a good friend of
yours. Janet and I were here when it happened, such a shock. Sorry about this
plastic as well, not very professional but apparently it’s difficult to find
soundproof glass at this time of night. My name’s Patrick, by the way, sorry.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Betcher patted Patrick on the shoulder. “Patrick and Janet
will answer any questions you have; I’m off to do my rounds. Remember, Case.
Don’t be scared.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As Betcher left, Patrick nodded enthusiastically. “Yes,
that’s right, sorry, that’s very important. We think Lucas sensed it, you see,
and thought he could get away with what he did. Which is why we have a sheet of
plastic instead of glass, as I mentioned.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David muttered something about keeping his emotions in check
and walked over to where Janet was standing. Through the plastic he could see
the boy lying in his bed. Tubes and wires poured out of him and stretched
across the room to various machines, some of which he recognised. He peered
through. Just a child. Kept in a comatose state for nearly two months. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A klaxon sound made him jump out of his skin, and Janet
wheeled around from her monitor. “.7,” she shouted and grabbed a walkie-talkie
from the desk. “Betcher, did you get that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Affirmative,” came the crackling reply. “.7 throughout.
Tell the good doctor to hurry it up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They’ve synchronised,” said Patrick by way of explanation.
“Very bad news. It started tonight, Lucas started it, they said.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course he did,” muttered Janet. “He’s the only one who
could.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David watched as Patrick walked over to Janet, put a hand on
her shoulder. “I know. So much strength.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David was slightly thrown by their apparent closeness but
decided that their personal life was none of his business.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hill said that Lucas was the alpha. What can you tell me
about him? Have there been any other significant manifestations of his
abilities? Are there any, I don’t know, warning signs before these…mindquacks?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Patrick shrugged, while Janet seemed to ignore his question
entirely. After an awkward pause Patrick started to speak. “We always thought
that Lucas was special. From a very early age it was clear that he wasn’t like
the other boys. But significant manifestations? Well, I think it was only the
one time, wasn’t it, Janet?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry,” asked David, with a creeping sense of horror
growing in his gut, “But who exactly are you? I mean, what do you do here? You’re
not Lucas’…are you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Patrick and Janet looked up at him, surprise. “What are you
talking about?” asked Patrick. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He’s our son.” said Janet. As David stared, feeling his
eyes grow wider, she stared back at him. “You don’t think we’d let them do all
this without proper supervision, do you? We love our boy and we’d never let him
be separated from us, if that’s what you’re implying”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“One moment he was sitting on the sofa, watching television,
the next moment…everything just lifted clear off the ground,” muttered Patrick.
“I saw my mother’s grandfather clock touch the ceiling. Then everything
dropped. And he didn’t move an inch. Just sat there like nothing had happened.
Didn’t look at us. Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door and we were
told we were being taken away.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We were told we could bring Lucas or they could take him,”
said Janet. “What would any rational parent have done?” The klaxon sounded
again and she spun back to the monitor. “0.9. Last time it hit 1, Crossley lost
his head. If you have any bright ideas, Doctor Case, now would be the time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David walked over to the plastic sheet and looked through.
The child in the bed was perfectly still. He could feel Patrick breathing down
the back of his neck and turned to face him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wake him up,” he said. Patrick turned to look at Janet, who
was looking at him like he had lost his mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wake him up? You know what they can do when they’re asleep.
What do you think they’ll be capable of once they’re awake?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David grabbed the walkie-talkie from Janet. “Betcher, do you
hear me? Get Hill down here now. I have your solution.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It didn’t take long for Betcher to march into the room.
“Right, the boss is on his way down, so why don’t you run it by me first?” he
instructed David. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It's very simple. We simply wake them up. We explain what's happened. We tell them that they've been ill, that we're sorry that they've been so scared. We make it better.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” said
Betcher, and waited for David to try to speak before continuing. “These children
are never waking up again. They’re far too dangerous. They’re staying like
this, or we’re putting them down. Those are the only two options they have.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sergeant, have you considered your position?” asked David.
Betcher looked at him quizzically.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry, do you want to tell me what my position is?” he
asked, and began to square up to him. David held his hands up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry, I only mean to say you’re talking about executing a
child when the only thing separating you from him isn’t soundproof glass, it’s
a sheet of clear plastic. And judging from those readings, he doesn’t need to
be awake to hear you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The klaxon sounded. Betcher spun round and barked at Janet
to report. She turned to him, quaking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Two. Lucas is reading two.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
David took a step back as Betcher was lifted screaming into
the air. He started to gurgle as if something was obstructing his breathing
before his spine arched backwards and he was propelled into the wall with a
crack. But instead of dropping him the pressure remained, and Betcher’s head
was pushed crunching into the wall until it became a thick bloody slab. As the
body fell to the floor David pushed through the plastic sheet to where Lucas
lay. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boy was deathly pale and beyond thin. David gazed
helplessly at the tubes and wires emerging from his body, trying desperately to
understand which would be the one to wake him up. Finally he grabbed Lucas by
the shoulders and shook him, shouting his name, only to be pulled backwards. Patrick
and Janet were hauling him away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Leave him alone!” screamed Janet, scratching at his face. Patrick
landed a punch in David’s gut that was hard enough to leave him doubled over
and out of breath.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Stay away from our son, you don’t know what’s best for
him!” the father muttered, staring at the floor. David held out his hand,
trying to grab hold of him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You don’t understand, if you don’t wake him he won’t stop
now, none of them will. They’ve connected…” David gave up trying to convince
them, and snatched at a pair of wires leading back into the observation area,
trying to pull them free. Janet pushed him and he fell to the floor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t understand? What are you talking about? That’s our
boy lying there,” she spat. David looked up and saw her draw closer to her
husband, who put his arm around her. David wanted to tell them how wrong they
were but they weren’t looking at him anymore. Instead they were looking at each
other, pulling each other closer together. Their eyes grew wider and Janet’s
mouth opened, a gasp forcing its way out of her throat. David heard something
crunch. They turned to look at Lucas, they were trying to speak. David heard a
ripping noise, and the plastic sheet flew across the room and wrapped itself
around the parents as their bones cracked and their bodies were forced against
each other. Red spattered against the sheet, and David ran.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As he left the room he became aware of the klaxon sounding
throughout the school. He raced along the linoleum corridors, past the lockers
and trophy cabinets, before finding the stairs. A weeping man in army uniform
clung to the handrail. David did not slow down. As he careered into the front
hall he skidded on something wet and fell hard onto his back. The fluorescent lights
flickered once and exploded. Getting to his feet, he heard a crash from above
him as screaming started and stopped just as suddenly. The front doors slammed
open and he took the hint. He picked himself up and hurried outside. A few feet
from the building, he turned and looked back as the roof exploded outwards. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nine figures dressed in white hovered above the school, holding
hands, illuminated from below by a raging fire. He could just make out Hill hanging
horizontally above them. He was too far away to tell what all the objects
sticking out of him were, but he could see that many of them were moving. Hill
let out one last howl as he hung for a moment before being dropped back into
the fire. The figures turned to look down at David. Their eyes shone brightly,
burning white and there was a moment of searing pain, like the worst migraine
he’d ever had. And he heard nine voices in unison, with one young boy’s voice
loudest of all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are we dreaming now?”<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
---------------------</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As I mentioned, the word Mindquack is entirely the property of Tom Roberts, who can be found on Twitter @Tom_Wookiee or at his excellent blog <a href="http://www.blogger.com/tomjupiter.co.uk">here</a>, and much of the credit should go to him. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Originally I was going to write this as more of Garth Marenghi type thing as it seemed unavoidable with the whole telekinesis thing, but I tend to just end up writing horror anyway. So any Garth-esque moments are mostly a product of my own bad writing, rather than deliberate pastiche, apart from the initial idea, which was always intended to be a bit silly. I really liked the idea of a secret military experiment taking place in a deserted school for some reason. I thought about making the ending longer with David Case running through empty classrooms and the gym and so on, but I think it's already a bit long as it is, and I think the set-up's more fun than the denouement anyway.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There will be a couple more instalments of Witch's Bile on the way as I'm keen to get that finished. I hope you enjoyed the story, please let me know what you think.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh, just a random bit of housekeeping. Things on the fiction front have been a bit slow lately as I've been a bit busy. Part of my business has been covering FrightFest for <a href="http://0.157.123.171/">Cinetalk</a>, and you can find my coverage there, as well as my reviews for films such as V/H/S, American Mary, and Dredd 3D. I'm really hoping to have Lovely Creatures ready to self-publish soon, so please keep an eye out for that and let me know if you're interested. I'm dreading the self-publicising part of it so I will have to try and come up with the best and most fun way to do that. Then I can get back to Lovely Creatures 2, which at the moment has the working title of All The Lovely Creatures. There's also much editing and other ideas flitting around, and trying to think about all of them gets me nowhere, so I need to come up with a plan. Anyway, I am hoping to keep the blog updated more frequently. So, thanks for reading. </div>
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Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-30704084323594021462012-08-22T22:33:00.000+01:002012-08-22T22:33:21.658+01:00Witch's Bile Part Five: An Admirer<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the fifth instalment in my "gory misanthropic witch" series. If you're behind, you can find the links to the previous parts <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/p/witchs-bile.html">here</a>. Otherwise, please enjoy!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
---------------------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Full of surprises, our Jo. I suppose she hasn’t exactly been
lying to me. Given that I’ve barely spoken to her she hasn’t had much
opportunity to. I’m cross with her, though. I’m not going to pretend that I’m
not. I do think there are certain things that are useful to let your landlord
(or housemate, mentor, or whatever the hell I am to her) know as quickly as
possible, just so the air is clear. The details of our mutual friend who likes
to leave dead boys’ faces as gifts would be an example of something I’d like to
have known sooner. But that can’t be helped now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the purposes of this exercise you given me, these reports
you’re making me send, I’ll tell you exactly what Jo told me after we turned
away that grieving father having denied him our help in hunting down whatever
took his boy’s visage. I was angry, I don’t mind telling you, and I had to take
some time to calm down. I don’t like people asking me for things, especially
when they’re grieving. They won’t take no for an answer. But nothing was going
to stop me from finding out exactly what Jo knew and why she had been…well, I’m
sure she was surprised by what we found in our kitchen that night, but she
seemed a lot less perturbed than you’d think. Finally I decided this anger was
good. It would help me confront Jo, really get in her face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went downstairs and found Jo sitting at the table where I’d
left her. She looked up as I entered the kitchen and watched silently as I
poured myself a glass of water. Leaning casually against the kitchen counter, I
took a long sip, staring directly at her. She looked right back at me like she
didn’t give a shit. There wouldn’t be a better time. I’d just come out with it.
Well, sort of.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, do you have something you want to tell me?” I asked. As
she opened her mouth to speak I continued: “About last night? About what I
found in my kitchen? What do you know about it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked up at me, those big eyes of hers narrowing. She
knew. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bollocks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know something,” I told her. “You can deny it now but
what’s the point? You might be a witch but I’ve got a couple of decades of
practice on you and a pure bloodline. You’ve got a nasty temper and book knowledge.
I’ll get it out of you, one way or another.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a moment when I thought she might get up and storm
out of the room. I thought about what would happen if she threw a proper
tantrum. Specifically, what the consequences to my kitchen would be. But it was
not to be.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know who he is,” she said. “But I’m not sure what he is.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She knows how to start a story. I took a seat opposite her
and let her tell her it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He found me at school, in my final year. I was on a six-week
placement in London and staying with a couple of witches in Angel, while seeing
a boy in Hammersmith. His name was Chris. It was nothing serious, but he was
nice and he didn’t ask any questions. I knew it wouldn’t last, it couldn’t, and
I was fine with that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was towards the end of my placement. I was aware of
someone following me one night, and for the next three nights I could sense him
everywhere I went. But whenever I turned to confront him he’d be gone. One
night coming home from Chris’ I missed the tube and had to take a night bus
home. I was the only one on the top level when I got on. I closed my eyes for a
second and when I opened them again he was in the seat across from me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was scared but I knew that I wasn’t without the means to
protect myself. So I gathered my courage and asked him what he wanted. He
turned to look at me. He was younger than I thought he would be, he might have
been handsome at one point. His dark hair was scraggly, as was his beard. He
had these red scratches all over his face, like he’d been in a fight with some
kind of animal. His eyes were bloodshot. When he spoke his breath stank like
something had died and gone rotten in his mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I want to talk to you,’ he said. I waited for him to say
something else and when he didn’t, I asked him what he wanted to talk to me
about. ‘I want to get to know you better.’ I told him was going about it the
wrong way. ‘I know you think you can do better than me,’ he said, ‘and that’s
fine. But I’ve bettered my chances a little.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He took a blue plastic bag from his coat and handed it
across the aisle to me. I didn’t want to take it but I wanted it to be over. I
opened it as he watched me, he didn’t move, he didn’t even flinch when I
started screaming. Inside was a bloody mess, a hunk of skin, but as the flesh
shifted in the bag I could make out what it was. It was a person’s face. It was
the face of my boyfriend. Chris.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not entirely sure what happened next but I felt this…force
come out of me. I could see him hanging above the floor for a split second
before he was pushed out through the front window of the bus. I heard the
screeching of brakes and felt the bump as we drove over him. When the bus
stopped I ran down the steps and away as fast as I could. I didn’t tell anyone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was six months ago. I’d occasionally think that I saw
the man out of the corner of my eye, or I’d get a whiff of that fucking stink
from his mouth, but I could never see him. I couldn’t be sure, so I tried to
put it out of my mind. A month ago I was staying at Émilie Étienne’s house in
Paris preparing for the next level of my training. She called me into her study
one day and handed me a parcel. On crinkly white paper sat the face of one of
her servants who I’d smoked with at the back door of the house. It was a lot
more…professionally done. This time I had no trouble figuring out what it was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told Émilie about everything. She listened and told me to
go away and do some work. The next day she told me that she would send me here,
to you. And if this person followed, that it would be our task to take care of
him together.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And how do you know this boy, the one we found?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He asked me my name,” she said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I let her go to her room. It had clearly tired her out,
talking about this. I’m going to have a think about what it is we’re dealing
with, but for now, I’d like to make it clear exactly how much I appreciate
having a homicidal stalker pointed in my direction. Fuck you, Émilie. This is
going to be unpleasant.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-------------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope you enjoyed this instalment. I know that these have been going up a little less frequently than I'd like but hopefully this will be resolved over the next few weeks. I'm going to be at FrightFest over the weekend and covering it for <a href="http://www.cinetalk.tv/">Cinetalk</a> so watch out for updates! </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The novel is almost ready to be self-published, I'm hoping to get it ready over the next few weeks, then I can get back to focusing on the sequel. Which will be good, I've been looking forward to getting back to work on it. Anyway, check back in about a week or so for part six! Thanks for reading.</div>
Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-854145687163640052012-08-07T20:29:00.001+01:002012-08-07T20:46:22.162+01:00Witch's Bile Part Four: The BereavedHello and welcome to the fourth instalment of Witch's Bile. If you haven't read parts 1-3, you can find them <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/witchs-bile-part-one-eliza-says-hi.html">here</a>, <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/witchs-bile-part-two-getting-to-know-you.html">here</a>, and <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/witchs-bile-part-three-intruder.html">here</a>.<br />
<br />
-----------------------------<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just a quick report this time, Émilie. There are things I
need to discuss with Jo but I’d better give you a quick précis of the morning’s
events. I suppose I should have expected it, but it’s not something you enjoy.
No one wants to have to lie to a grieving parent about the whereabouts of their
dead son’s face. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, as I’m sure you remember, the last report I sent to you
was largely concerned with the fact that somebody broke into my house and left
a teenaged boy’s face on a plate in my kitchen as a little present. You’ll also
remember that I burnt the face. This might have been a little rash, I agree,
but I’m sure that you’ll agree that nobody wants a dead face hanging around
their home, no matter how immaculately removed it may be.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, I woke up early this morning. Well, early for me and
to my surprise I was first one up. I suppose that Jo might not have slept well
after what she saw. I made my bitter sludgy coffee and I waited for my
housemate to come down so I could get on with the business of questioning her. Arguably
the timing was bad but I didn’t want to give her too long to create a
convincing lie. There was just something about the way she reacted, or her lack
of reaction, that had unsettled me, that made me think she knew more than she
was letting on. So I sat and I drank my titanically strong coffee and I thought
about the best way to go about this. I had settled on my old favourite bluntness
when the doorbell rang.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, Émilie, I’m not exaggerating when I say that this was unusual,
to say the bloody least. People keep away from me. I make sure of it. I tell
them what I am so they’ll walk on the other side of the road. So when the
doorbell rang the morning after our little home invasion I was somewhat
perturbed, which is not a state I enjoy. I pulled my dressing gown around me to
make sure that none of my bits were showing, stomped over to the front door and
flung it open.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Standing on my front porch was a straight-backed,
well-dressed man with closely-cropped dark hair, just on the wrong side of
middle age, and about two feet taller than me. So bloody tall that I was forced
to crane my neck to properly glare at him. As our eyes met I felt my desire to
ruin his morning dissipate. It was obvious that he hadn’t just had his morning
ruined. I knew who this was. As he cleared his throat I looked past him to the
street and saw an only-slightly shorter blonde woman waiting by a black people
carrier, clutching a handkerchief and trying not to look back at me. I turned
my attention back to my visitor as he began to speak.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know that you’re...I know what you say you are.” He
paused and broke eye contact, his head turning on his giant’s shoulders to look
past me. I realised that Jo had repeated her trick from last night and appeared
behind me without my noticing. It’s impressive but it’s irritating. “I’m sorry,”
he said, “I didn’t realise you had…” He broke off again, evidently unsure of
exactly who Jo was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is Jo, my niece,” I lied through a neighbourly smile. “Don’t
worry about her, she knows. What can I do for you?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He nodded at Jo and turned back to face me. Whatever he knew,
he didn’t seem very scared of me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry, Ms Belmont, but I need to know. I need to know
if you had anything to do with what happened.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, yes, this was an obvious opening but I wasn’t about to
admit to anything straight away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry, what are we talking about?” I asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He kept that eye contact, staring straight at me and there
wasn’t just sadness in those eyes. There was anger too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My son,” he said, confirming what I already knew. “I need
to know what happened to him. Did you have anything to do with it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a choice at this point. I could have told him the
truth. I could have told him that, while I didn’t have anything to do with it,
I was slightly aware of the situation and I had disposed of some important
evidence. That there was a plate in my dishwasher that was waiting to be rinsed
clean of his son’s DNA. So, obviously, I lied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No…” I said, and left it at that. He clasped his hands
together and held them a few inches away from my chest as he started to sob.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They took…when they found him, his face…” Listen, I’m not
completely fucking heartless, of course I wanted to jump in and tell him that I
knew, and that I was sorry. But I’d made my bed and he had to finish his
thought on his own. And to the man’s credit, he clearly had the guts to go with
that freakishly huge body. He straightened up, got his weeping under control
and started to speak slowly but clearly. “My boy had no face when they found
him. It had been…removed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jo gave a little “sympathy” sound that I tried to replicate.
I think mine sounded more like disgust but, in fairness, both were appropriate.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry to come around like this but you told us what you
were and I just thought…I know it’s none of your business, but if you had any
idea who could have done this, or if you could…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He tailed off again and started looking hopeful. I knew that
I had to make something clear to him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Jo, go inside.” There was a moment’s pause as I could feel
her eyes burning into the back of my head before I heard her stomp off indoors.
“Excuse me, Mr…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man held out a long arm. “Charles Kitson. That’s my wife
Anna down by the car. My boy’s name is…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry; Mr Kitson, but I can’t help you. I understand
what you’re asking of me and why you’re asking it, but I can’t.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked at me with those big blue eyes sticking out of his
big head and it was obvious that he didn’t understand. “I don’t understand,” he
said. “You come here, you tell us you’re a…you said you were a goddam witch, Ms
Belmont. We’ve all left you alone, just like you asked. Are we just supposed to
let you keep living here while this sort of thing happens? You say you’ve had nothing
to do with it, why should I believe you when you won’t lift a finger to help
me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I let him get all this out of his system. It’s very
important to allow people to vent. When he looked like he was coming to the end
of his rant I raised my hands. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t expect you to understand, Mr Kitson. I can only tell
you that there is a balance and I cannot interfere at this time. Now please,
take your wife and go home. Please don’t make me make you leave.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With that, I stepped back inside and closed my front door. I
waited until I heard him leave and the car pull away. When I got back to the
kitchen, Jo was waiting for me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He asked you to help, didn’t he?” she asked. I nodded. “And
you said no?” I picked up my mug of coffee and went back to bed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s later now and I’m going to have to explain myself to
her. But why? Didn’t you tell her about the way we do things? We don’t involve
people. We don’t work for anybody. She’s going to accuse me of being heartless
but it’s not that at all. It’s just the way we do things. I’ll talk to her. But
I’ve got the strangest feeling it’s only going to make things worse.<o:p></o:p></div>
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---------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope you're enjoying this series, please let me know what you think. I enjoy writing Eliza and I'm looking forward to writing the next few instalments. Go on, have a song.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/MQvWVPkV5Sw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<br /></div>Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3111489733537436151.post-9784039406168121292012-07-30T18:52:00.000+01:002012-08-07T20:49:19.580+01:00Witch's Bile Part Three: An IntruderThis is the third instalment of my Witch's Bile series. If you need to catch up, here's <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/witchs-bile-part-one-eliza-says-hi.html">part one</a> and <a href="http://jonathanwriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/witchs-bile-part-two-getting-to-know-you.html">part two</a>. Eliza the misanthropic witch has been given a live-in protégé by the witch queen Émilie Étienne. She's not happy about it. Please enjoy<br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
-----------------------------</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Are you in some sort of trouble, Émilie? Would you tell me
if you were? Something seems to have scared your girl. We’ve had an incident
and it seems to have set Jo rather on edge. If I didn’t know any better, I’d
say that it’s almost like something’s followed her here. But you would have
told me if that was the case, wouldn’t you? Course you fucking would. And I don’t
know any better, do I?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can’t be more specific than “something” at the moment, I’m
afraid. Just, you should know that there’s been an incident. And while I’m fairly
confident that I can take on anything, as I’m sure you are too, there’s
something about the way it put the wind up Jo that’s put the wind up me as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Things had been fairly quiet. It had taken a few days for Jo
to come out of her sulk after that comment I made about her killing her parents
not being particularly special. When I got up the next morning she was already
dressed and making coffee. She turned to look at me, glorious hung-over mess
that I was, and said: “I killed my parents when they said they were divorcing.
I didn’t want them to split up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And they didn’t have to, thanks to you,” I said and made a
bee-line for the coffee.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could hear her making a little repulsed noise behind
me. They’re great, those noises, I don’t know if she would have dared to make
them in your presence, Madame Étienne. They’re sort of halfway between a cluck
and a cough, there’s something going on with the tongue. Brilliant. Anyway,
given that she didn’t have a full-fledged tantrum at my quip I guessed that
she’d heard it before.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew that she was definitely waiting for me to show her
something. Some aspect of witchcraft that she hadn’t seen before. After I spent
the morning reading my book I got up to take a piss and saw her watching me
leave the room. I swept my dressing gown around me ceremoniously and asked her
what she’d learned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m learning that you don’t do anything,” she replied. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was disappointed. She was still far too diplomatic. I
wanted her to lose her temper, call me a fat layabout, swear or something. But
no. I made the curtains open with a twitch of my finger just to spite her. She
gave me a tiny little sneer that disappeared before I could point it out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell you this because I’m trying to paint a picture of the
sort of domestic situation that we’ve been sharing. This one example is typical
of the things that have happened over the past few days. I’ve seen her writing
things in what looks like a diary so I know she’s taking something down. Maybe
it’s just a list of the things I’ve done to upset her. Or maybe it’s something
to send to you. Is she in contact with you as well? I’ll ask her. I wonder if
she’d tell me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, the incident. So last night I woke up at about three
in the morning. I heard a rattle, the noise that I’ve come to know as coming
from a lock being convinced to open. As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m very
familiar with people trying to break into my house to prove that they’re not
scared of witches, and then having to kill them horribly to teach the neighbourhood
a lesson. Naturally, I assumed that tonight was no different, and got up with
the intention of removing the skeleton of whomever the intruder through their
mouth piece by piece. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But as I left my room and made my way downstairs it became
clear that nobody was there. I couldn’t hear the terrified whispers of young
people going outside their comfort zone, nor could I smell that unmistakable
scent of young fear. Whoever had broken into my house had made their way back
out again. They had also left the back door open. I tried hard to get a read on
whoever it was but there was nobody in the vicinity. Whoever it was hadn’t just
left, they’d left quickly. Quicker than a gang of children could have.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A gasp from the kitchen doorway alerted me to the fact that
Jo was in the room with me. While her reaction time might have been slower than
mine, I was quite impressed that she’d manage to hear the sound of somebody
breaking in from the attic. That hearing might come in handy at some point. She
was standing in her fluffy blue dressing gown and bare feet, staring open-mouthed
at the open door. I could see that she was pretty shaken up so I decided to do
the decent thing and not make her more scared.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s just kids. I always tell people
I’m a witch when I first move in and someone always has to prove that they’re
not scared of me. It normally means that I have a mess to clear up. But whoever
it has run off. So don’t worry about it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But she didn’t look at all comforted. She barely looked as
though she’d heard me at all. She walked over to me and pointed to the kitchen
counter. I turned to where she was looking and saw…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And this is the bit that spooked me a little bit, Émilie. I’ve
seen a lot. But there’s nothing that really prepares you for the sight of a
teenaged boy’s face on a side-plate on your kitchen counter at 3am. There was
no blood. Just a neatly peeled face sitting there on the plate. The boy was
clearly in his teens from the acne and the attempt at a goatee. It was all very
cleanly done; the cuts around the eyes and hairline were exceptional. I picked
it up, wrapped it in a dirty tea towel and threw it into the living room
fireplace. It didn’t take long to burn up. Jo watched me do this without saying
a word. When it was gone she went back upstairs. Her light didn’t go off all
night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve had a bit of a think and I realised that there was something
strange about this, you know, beyond the face. Jo didn’t say anything. She didn’t
say “What the fuck is that?” She didn’t say “Why is there a boy’s face in our
kitchen?” She just pointed it out to me. So I think she knows something about
this. When she comes out of her room we’re going to have a good little talk
about it but for now I just wanted to let you know. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So if you do decide that there’s something I need to know, I’d
be grateful if you could tell me exactly what. Before whatever it is decides to
bring us any more pubescent body parts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div>
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<div>
I hope that you enjoyed this, and are enjoying this series so far. Please let me know what you think and keep your eyes open for part four!</div>
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</div>Jonathan Hatfullhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09635458166495481340noreply@blogger.com0