The Lesser Evil

“Light the candles, Freddie.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“Hello there.”

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.

“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.”

Caroline took a step forward. Before Freddie could think of whether or not he should too, she addressed the new arrival.

“Are you him?”

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.

“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.”

“What’s your name?” asked Caroline.

“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.

“It’s very nice to meet you. Caroline and Freddie. Very nice to meet you indeed.”

“How do you know our names?” asked Caroline, before Freddie got the chance to. The man sniffed.

“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.

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.”

“We know what we’re doing” hissed Caroline. The man held his hands up, pressing his palms together in penitence.

“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).

“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?”

Caroline stared back at him. She didn’t flinch. Their guest nodded.

“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. ”

Then he turned back to Freddie and for the first time he felt the full weight of his attention directly on him.

“Freddie, you can look at me, you know. There’s no need to be shy.”

“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.

“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.”

Caroline turned her head slightly towards Freddie. Not all the way. She didn’t take her eyes off the man in the pentagram.

“Wait outside, Freddie.”

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.

“Caroline, I…I can help.”

He didn’t even convince himself. She shook her head.

“Wait outside. Please.”

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.  

“Oh, don’t send him away. You don’t have to…Bye, Freddie!”

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.

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.

“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?”

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.

The man stood, watching him with a smile on his lips.

“Hi there, Freddie.”

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.

“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?”

Freddie didn’t, and shook his head to let him know.

“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.”

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.

“Does she know, Freddie?”

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.

“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.

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.

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.”

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.

“Do you know what she’s asking for in there?”

Freddie shook his head.

“Have you ever met Caroline’s father?”

Freddie’s heart beat a little faster as he started to realise what Caroline was doing.

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.

So that was it. Caroline was finally doing something about her father.

“Is she just going to ask him to help her stop him or…”

The man sneered, and for the first time Freddie caught a glimpse of something that wasn’t quite benign.

“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.”

“Get caught doing what?” asked Freddie, understanding his own stupidity.

“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.

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.”

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…”

“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.

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.”

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.

“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.

“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.”

“You accept the gift and the price?” asked the stranger. Freddie nodded.

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.”

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.

Caroline was kneeling on the edge of the pentagram, shaking. When Freddie put his hand on her shoulder she turned sharply.

“Where did he go?” she asked. “He was right here, we’d agreed…”

“Don’t worry,” said Freddie, “I’ve taken care of it. You don’t have to do anything.”

“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?”

“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.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Freddie. “If it wasn’t her father, what I have I…what have taken from her?”

“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.”

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.”

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Hi there.

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!

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.

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.

Witch's Bile Part Nine: Open Flames

Hello and welcome to the ninth and penultimate instalment of Witch's Bile. Just a quick reminder that parts 1-8 are here 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

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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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

“This is the first time you’ve taught me anything,” she said.

Cheeky little bitch.

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.

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.

“I heard she had someone here,” he said, speech slightly slurred. “Where is she?”

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.

“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.”

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.

“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.

“The basement,” I gasped, “she’s in the basement. With him.”

He grunted and transferred his grip to the back of my neck, pushing me towards the basement door.

“Open it,” he said. “No tricks.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

“You tricked me,” he spat.

“Burn,” I answered. He laughed and held his arms wide.

“That won’t work on this body.”

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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.

A Short Story Double Bill! "Surprisingly Moving With Its Oddness"

So, today we have two short stories with the same title! "Surprisingly Moving With Its Oddness" #1 is a romantic tale for Valentine's Day (kind of) and "Surprisingly Moving With Its Oddness" #2 is somewhat darker. Shall we?

SURPRISINGLY MOVING WITH ITS ODDNESS #1

The night had gone well. Better than Nancy could have hoped for. Her expectations had not been high. Birthday parties had traditionally involved heated arguments in front of everyone and cooling vomit somewhere so hidden that she wondered how it could possibly have got there. So she’d taken care with this, her thirtieth. She’d made sure to organise it herself. She'd invited the nine people she wanted to invite and she had given them strict instructions not to invite anyone else. There would be no unwanted exes, no unpleasant surprises.

And there hadn’t been. She’d made the food with the help of her sisters Tara (whose thirtieth birthday party had been two years ago and was still not spoken of) and Lisa (who was twenty two and had made sure that there were as many objects with the numbers 3 and 0 on scattered around the house). People had shown up on time. They all knew each other. They shared similar interests and the ones who held radically different opinions had agreed to disagree, at least for the evening. And Paul had been there. Lovely Paul.

Nancy had seriously considered not inviting Paul. They had only been together for a month. She had been determined to avoid any awkwardness and worried that he might feel pressured or that her friends and family might put him on the spot. But a week before the party she had told him that she would be thirty soon, and gave him the particulars. He had smiled and told her that he would love to come.

She had told everyone that she didn’t want presents. The guests had been allowed to bring nice booze, nice nibbles, and other things of that nature. Fancy puddings were explicitly encouraged. Anything gift-wrapped would not be allowed into the house. To her surprise, everyone did as she had asked. She could be very authoritative when she wanted to be. But after the main course had been cleared away, Paul had leaned over and whispered in her ear that he had a surprise for her. He’d got her something special that would have to wait until everyone else had gone home. She had lost count of the number of glasses of what had been declared “Present Wine” she had drunk by then, and was touched by the gesture and not a little excited.

It was after midnight by the time everyone had left. Tara had been the last to go, staggering from the front door to the taxi that had been patiently waiting for her to say a long and emotional goodbye to Nancy. When Nancy had closed the front door she took Paul into the living room, both carrying refreshed glasses of Present Wine, and sat down on the sofa. Paul gave her a long kiss and gave her his present.

Nancy looked down at what she was holding. At first glance she thought it was a child’s scrapbook. It had faded red card for a cover, with NANCY SO FAR written on it in black marker pen. She looked up at Paul, who sat there next to her, grinning. She opened it.

It may not have been a child’s, but it was definitely a scrapbook. Each page had a photograph stuck onto a piece of white card, with a brief description above and below written in different coloured felt tip.

Page one had a picture of Nancy as a baby, open-mouthed and beaming at the camera. She turned the pages slowly. Nancy showing off her missing front tooth at her fifth birthday party. Nancy age seven, clutching a green ribbon awarded to her for coming third in the hundred metre dash. Nancy age nine, dressed as a sheep for the school’s nativity play. Nancy age thirteen, wearing a slightly-too-long blue dress for the school dance.

She became aware that Paul had put her arm around her.

“Where did you get these pictures?”

“Your parents, of course,” he said. “Go on, keep going.”

The photos glued onto the card pages were no longer ones that her parents would have taken.

Nancy celebrating getting into a bar under-age, clasping a cigarette and a tequila sunrise. Nancy with her hands held up on the dance floor with a man who might have been called Rob or Jason wrapping his arms around her. Nancy in her room in university halls surrounded by books and empty packets of Malboro Lights. Nancy and Tara celebrating her graduation with a fancy meal that Tara had treated her to. Nancy looking something of a stressed mess moving into her first flat in London. Nancy holding up her shelter cat Beast up to the camera. Nancy, Tara, and Lisa celebrating Tara’s 30^th birthday with Tara looking like she might cry.

And Nancy felt that she might cry too. She was drunk, and these were good memories. But as she stared at the scrapbook in her hands she wasn’t sure that she liked it very much.

“You found all of these in a week?” she asked. It was the only thing she could think to ask.

Paul smiled and nodded but the smile wasn’t quite as sure of itself as it had been a few minutes ago. Nancy wondered what sort of reaction he had been hoping for.

“Do you like it?” he asked. “I was trying to think of something that no one else would get you, and it wasn’t gift-wrapped or anything. I mean, most of the pictures were on Facebook anyway. I thought it would be nice.”

“Yeah, it is...nice. But it’s just...I don’t know Paul, I just wasn’t expecting it.”

She sat still for a couple of minutes, not knowing what to do with the scrapbook. Should she put it on the table, give it back, or hold onto it? She held onto it. It seemed simplest. After the silence had grown unbearable, Paul stood up.

“It’s getting late, I should probably get going.”

He paused, waiting for her to say that he could stay the night. She didn’t. He leant down and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then grabbed his coat off the banister and left, pulling the front door closed quietly behind him.

Nancy sat on the sofa. She finished her glass of Gift Wine, and opened the scrapbook at the beginning.

INTERMISSION

SURPRISINGLY MOVING WITH ITS ODDNESS #2

Owen was waiting for the house to go quiet before entering. Having arrived at the appointed time, he stood at the bottom of the garden, as per his instructions, and waited for all the lights to go out. While he waited he cast an eye around at the toys that had been left outside at the end of the long summer’s day. A football that had rolled under a holly bush. A doll’s house that sat with the front door wide open.

It was the parents’ bedroom that looked out on to the garden. Owen was not worried about being seen. He was not seen unless he wanted to be. Standing perfectly still came naturally to him. A spider fell from its dangling thread onto his shoulder and paused, wondering which direction to go. Owen pinched it between the nails of his thumb and index finger and, without really thinking about it too much, pushed it between his lips and ate it.

The light in the parents’ bedroom went out. Owen had his instructions. He waited for another fifteen minutes and stepped out. He was in no hurry as he walked the length of the garden. The back door did not present much of a challenge. He simply pushed and it opened, as he had been told it would. It had never occurred to Owen that it wouldn’t. He closed it quietly behind him.

The house was quiet. He was not concerned about waking any of the inhabitants. He walked softly by nature regardless of what he was wearing. He didn’t even know what this body’s footsteps sounded like.

Naturally, the grand-parents were first. Their room was at the very top of the stairs and the door creaked a little as he opened it. The old woman frowned in her sleep but did not wake. The old man showed no sign of noticing anything at all. He walked over to the bed and took out his knife. The task was completed quickly, every instruction followed to the letter. They hadn’t even noticed it happening.

The parents were next. He had been told that they were restless sleepers and he was not too surprised when the mother woke halfway through and screamed, forcing Owen to make things rather messier than he had wished. The father managed to get out of bed while Owen was distracted and was moving towards the door by the time Owen turned to finish him. Now there was only the child left to deal with. Owen walked along the corridor to the small room at the front of the house and opened the door.

The child’s bed was empty. The bright green duvet had been flung almost halfway across the room but the door had been closed when he had entered. The child was still inside. Owen moved in a spiral around the room, drawing ever closer to the bed at the centre. He looked at the stars on the ceiling and realised they came from the nightlight plugged in at the wall. He knew a lot of children under five were scared of the dark. But he could not be distracted. There could be no room for error. There was a sound from outside the room. He paused by the wardrobe and listened.

A cat was yowling. Owen realised that the sound was coming from the grandparents’ bedroom and he wondered how he could possibly have missed it. He left the child’s bedroom. He was confident that she would not leave her hiding place. The instinct for self-preservation was too strong.

A fat tabby cat stood at the foot of the bed mewing at the stationary, bloodied figures above. As Owen entered the room the cat turned and hissed, arching its back. Owen understood it to be hostile and grabbed the animal by the scruff of the neck. The cat screeched and scratched wildly at him with its claws. Owen lifted the knife with his free hand.

“No!”

He turned. The child stood in the doorway. He had been wrong. She had abandoned her hiding place. She had abandoned safety for the life of the cat. He did not understand.

“Don’t hurt him!”

He looked again at the cat, who had not grown tired, still swinging its claws at him. He put it down and looked at the child. The cat ran past the child and down the stairs. It didn’t care that she had saved it. That didn’t seem to matter to her. She stared at him, tears streaking her face. He was confused. And he was troubled.

He walked past the girl, down the stairs, and left the house by the back door. As he walked back down the garden he tried to understand what had happened.

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Well I hope you enjoyed these short stories. The title comes from Stacey Siddons (her blog here) I had two ideas, you see, and I couldn't decide which to write, so I wrote both. #1 is sort of a cross over between a Michael Haneke movie and Crazy Joe Davola's shrine to Elaine Benes in Seinfeld. I don't think there are many short stories written for blogs by a someone who's a quarter Finnish that has Haneke and Seinfeld as its chief influences (covering my bases here) so I hope you enjoy. There's a bit of manic-pixie-dream-girl/boy poking going on too, not that it needs it.

#2 was conceived as something quite different and a lot more explicitly violent that I may write at some point but it didn't feel quite right for the title. You can make up your own mind about who or what Owen is. I have an idea but I'd be interested to hear what you think. It was also going to be longer at one point but I wanted to keep it short and simple. I think if it was any longer Owen's perspective wouldn't work. I toyed with the idea of having more family members but I think there's just enough of a Bucket family from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory thing going on that I'm happy. I wasn't sure about the spider at first but I like it now. (These insights are fascinating, aren't they! God!)

There will be another blog post possibly tomorrow explaining my plans for The Novel That Nobody Wanted. I have a vague sort of almost plan for it. Hopefully it will be something positive and will allow me to stop thinking about it and move on with the rest of my life.

I'm still looking for titles! Remaining, we have: Time To Don The Vanilla Suits!, Mermaid Skin, A Thrilling Warning to Naughty Ladies, and I Was Dead Inside Until I Met You.

Thanks for reading. OK, here's a song. It's really good. I'm not just posting it because it's Charlotte Gainsbourg.

Story: Winding

Hi there. This week's story is a non-horror instalment of the further adventures of Gina and Francis. Yes, Gina was called Sophie last time, but that's changed. She's Gina now. The explanation is two-fold...and I'll explain after the story. If you read the last two stories featuring them (here and here) you'll know what happened previously, and what Gina's feeling guilty about. If not, well, it's not essential. Or is it? Is there a twist? Probably not. But enough of my rambling. Enjoy the story.

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Gina’s skin was itching. Behind her ears, on her hair-line, on her wrists. It happened when she was irritated. She was always somehow hurt by the fact that for most people the idea of someone getting under your skin was just an expression, but for Gina it was a very real symptom of being incredibly pissed off. She’d thought about seeing a doctor about it in her teens but had since dismissed that idea as probably a bit excessive. He’d have only told her to calm down. And she didn’t want to calm down.

It didn’t help that she knew that she didn’t really have a very good reason for being pissed off, or at least for being pissed off with Francis. Francis drove in silence. He knew she was upset. He wasn’t stupid. He was also not stupid enough to give her an opening to yell at him. He didn’t want to have their first big argument; especially not while trying to navigate the ridiculously narrow country lanes that were the only way from her irritating parents’ house back to the motorway and back to London. If he could just get through this drive in silence then maybe he could postpone dealing with whatever was upsetting her to a later date. Any later date.

And she knew that he was pissed off with her as well, though he wasn’t saying anything. He hadn’t said anything, and probably wouldn’t unless she prodded him. And yes, she had killed his gerbil. She hadn’t meant to snap that little rodent’s spine like a fucking toothpick but if it hadn’t bitten her in a fit of absurd psychotic terror she wouldn’t have brought it crashing down on the kitchen surface and ended its sad little life. He had accepted her apology but she knew, she could tell that he was still angry.

But she knew it was ridiculous to be angry at him for trying to be nice. She wasn’t angry at him for repressing his feelings and telling her that it was OK; because she knew that he wanted it to be OK that she’d murdered his pet. She knew it was ridiculous to resent him for trying to smooth things over. But her parents had sensed that something was wrong, they must have done, otherwise they wouldn’t have acted the way that they did.

Francis had a couple of ideas why her parents had behaved the way that they had. They had seen him shuffle in, tired after a long drive and not much sleep. But he wasn’t hungover. He’d resented the fact that Gina’s dad had winked at him and muttered “rough night?” like he was in on some imaginary secret that involved shots of sambuca and music that Francis had no interest in. Gina’s mum had taken one look at him and smiled politely, and had remained very polite for the whole day. Any questions that had been directed at him had been so impossibly bland that Francis had only really established that his name was Francis, he lived and worked in London, he had parents, and had two brothers and a sister somewhere else in London.

Gina had noticed that Francis hadn’t opened up. And she knew that it wasn’t really his fault. He was nervous; of course he’d been nervous. But he could have made more of an effort. But why had her mum been so...quiet? Dad had at least made an effort to be friendly but it had been in that painful way where he was so clearly trying to be matey. He’d completely ignored Mum as well. Hadn’t said word one to her, hadn’t helped in the kitchen at all.

Francis hadn’t wanted to visit Gina’s parents, especially when he had found out that she was an only child. He knew that he would walk in as the person who was doing terrible sweaty things with the light of their life, their reason for getting up in the morning, their precious little child. But of course he had to go, he knew that. It was only fair. To their credit, they hadn’t said anything. But they hadn’t quite made him feel at home, either.

They had invited them up for a visit. They’d rung Gina the Sunday before and told her to bring her boyfriend up for a visit. They’d said that they liked the way she talked about him. They had said that they thought that they should meet him. So why had they been like that? Mum had been so quiet and Dad had seemed determined to talk about everything apart from how things were going at home. She felt her skin itching again and felt the urge to say something, anything or she’d start scratching the window glass.

“You’re still pissed off that I killed your gerbil.”

“I’m not. I told you.”

Too quickly. They both knew he’d answered too quickly.

“Then why were you so...why were you like that today? Why were you so rude to my parents?”

Now that was going to have consequences. She’d opened herself up there, that was untrue and he could prove it.

“Sorry, in what way was I rude?”

She turned her head and looked out of the window. He stared straight ahead. He didn’t want to argue but it had been a shitty day and she clearly wanted to get into it. But they were supposed to have gone to see his parents first, before she’d got the jump on him. He’d been in the room when she’d got the phone call. He’d seen the expression on her face, that expression she made where she was clearly trying to decide whether something was a good idea or not. But that was what had happened.

“You didn’t say anything to my mum.”

“And she said fuck-all to me.”

“You could have made an effort.”

“I did make an effort, actually. But your dad was too busy trying to get me to go for a pint for me to actually get a word in with her.”

She giggled. She didn’t mean to but she did. He didn’t hear it. It sounded like she was coughing in that way she did when she found something both surprising and irritating. So he pressed on.

“And thanks for inviting me to such a delightfully awkward family Sunday dinner. If it's any consolation it doesn't seem like there'll be too many more.”

He stopped. He’d gone too far. He'd had more to say, worse, but that was horrible enough. Too horrible. He knew it, and regretted it. She was looking at him and he could see that he’d struck a nerve. He had to smooth this over; he hadn’t wanted to do that. She hadn’t wanted to do that either, but she didn't want to argue anymore. She could only think of all the other places she would rather be than here.

“Gina, I'm sorry. Are your parents OK?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. I’m sorry too. Can we both just...shut the fuck up for a bit?”

So they sat in silence as Francis drove and tried to decide how long it would be before she would be alright with him telling her that he was lost.

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Hello there. So, hope you enjoyed the story. I'd planned to write another Gina and Francis story but I was thinking about putting something else up. But I wanted to write an argument and they were due for one. I liked the idea of a couple having an argument despite not wanting to, the argument really needing to happen. I also wanted to show them both being childish and impetuous. I was just in the mood for writing a childish, nasty argument. However, because it's characters I want to continue with, I couldn't write it so nastily that they couldn't recover so it made sense for the argument to be covering something else. There'll be another short story with stand-alone characters who take their argument to the worst possible conclusion coming at some point I'm sure.

Right, the name change. Well, if it was a novel, I'd have hung onto it, but while I'm still getting to grips with characters, the names change quite frequently until they become properly fixed in my mind. Francis and Gina are still sort of in flux, less so than they were a few weeks ago, but there are a lot of details that I haven't pinned down yet. Basically, I plucked two names I liked out of the air. Then a few days passed and I started to worry that I plucked the name Sophie out of the air because of similar characters. So out goes Sophie, and Gina came in. Gina fits a bit better, I think. The name-change actually helped.

The project I'm working on with Ben Sheppard is going well, though there's still quite some ways to go before the next stage, which will be finding people to help us with it. I think it could be really good, but it requires a lot of attention, effort and a hell of a lot of hard work. Which is only right, really, if you think about it. But we're still near the start of the process. Exciting times.

Oh, I did actually have a question for the people who read this blog. I'm thinking of putting up a few excerpts from my longer writing. I was going to put a bit from the sequel to (although I think in current terminology it would be a "sidequel") The Novel that Nobody Wanted. It would be stuff that I think would make sense out of context, but I was wondering whether that would interest you, or if you just want short stories. I may put one or two up anyway, just to see what kind of reaction they get.

Anyway, see you next week with some writing about writing. Hope you liked the story.

Story: Let the Jack-O'-Lanterns Light Your Way Home

Hello and welcome to The Jonathan Hatfull Halloween Special! Sorry about that. Best to just get it out of the way. Ahem. So, without further ado, please enjoy the following story...

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Bobby was hungry. Starving, in fact. He knew that Baby Lauren was hungry too. She’d been crying for the last forty five minutes. He’d been going in to check on her and had noticed with alarm how her face was growing more and more alarming shades of red as her shrieking increased in volume. His own stomach was also rumbling.

Bobby was an upbeat little eight-year-old, with a lanky frame that belied his appetite, but despite his sunny disposition he was worried. His parents had said that they wouldn’t be long. They had said that they were only going down the street to get more candy for the trick or treaters. They had said that they would be back before Bobby knew it. They had said all this quite a long time ago. Too long. The costume-shop-bought fake blood that his dad had helped to smear around his mouth had long since dried and cracked, and the too-tightly-fitting vampire fangs had been removed and left on the arm of the couch. Baby Lauren’s crying worried him. She cried a lot, and he understood that this was because she was a baby, but his mom would always do something to make it better. Bobby understood that Baby Lauren needed something that only his mother could offer her.

Bobby knew what he had to do. He walked over to the crib and picked up Baby Lauren. He was careful to get his hands in the right places; he knew that support was very important. He also knew that it was very important to keep her head warm. He picked up the little witch’s hat that his mom had spent so long creating and pulled it down tight over his little sister’s ears. It would have to be enough. He grabbed the emergency house keys from the kitchen table. Then he stepped out of the front door.

The sun had gone down about two hours ago. The wide street was lined with parked cars, illuminated by infrequent electric lamps and more frequent jack-o’-lanterns, and covered with crisp autumn leaves that crunched underfoot as Bobby walked down the front steps and out into the night. As they took the first few steps away from the house Baby Lauren stopped crying. He appreciated the confidence shown in him but he had to admit that he didn’t know where he was going. The house next door was empty. Bobby knew this to be true as he had stood at his bedroom window and watched the neighbours pile their belongings into their station wagon and drive away without a look back that very morning. But the next house had their lights on.

Bobby looked down to inspect the jack-o’-lantern that sat by a withered pot plant by the front door. At first glance it didn’t appear to be anything special but closer inspection showed the careful craftsmanship that had gone into creating the perfect edges of the pumpkin’s toothy grin. He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. It hadn’t even stopped sounding when the door was opened by a man and a woman about Bobby’s parents’ age dressed in matching costumes. Their black hair was immaculately neat. Their dark clothes were beautifully presented, with ornate jewellery that didn’t look like anything that Bobby had seen in any costume store. The blood on their mouths looked fresh. Bobby thought about asking how they managed to keep it from flaking, but he didn’t want to waste a question.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I’m looking for my parents.”

The woman looked down at him and smiled.

“Love your costume, honey. Excellent choice. But I’m sorry, where are my manners? Why don’t you come in here for a few minutes and we’ll talk about it?”

The way she spoke sounded like something out of a movie to Bobby. Somehow he didn’t think people talked like that, it felt like she was putting it on. Something about her accent didn’t quite seem right either. But before he could worry about it too much the man coughed and the woman looked at him.

“Really, Barbara, that’s inappropriate. Look at this young man; he’s being responsible, looking out for his sister. We shouldn’t delay him. Tell me, son, what do your parents look like?”

Bobby described his parents as best he could. He told them that his father was tall, skinny, with thick-rimmed glasses, and wiry black hair and that his mother was shorter than his father and had long blonde hair and was wearing a black dress.

“She said she was going for Blondie dressed as Elvira, or the other way around,” said Bobby. Barbara smiled.

“Well isn’t that just a picture. Give me a moment, please.”

She gave Bobby a little bow and disappeared into the dark house. Bobby could have sworn that it looked like there were more lights on from outside.

“I like your jack-o’-lantern,” said Bobby. The man nodded and cracked his knuckles. “How do you get your blood like that?” he asked, gesturing to the peeling brown mess around his own mouth. The man shrugged.

“Make sure it’s good and keep it fresh,” he said. Bobby thought that made sense. "But are you sure you want to keep looking?" Bobby nodded. Barbara reappeared and smiled apologetically.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, “I did look. But there’s no one of that description here.”

Bobby thanked them for their time and turned to go. He shifted Baby Lauren’s weight a bit and patted her back. She smiled at him, and he remembered that he was doing the right thing even though it was scary.

“If you can’t find your parents, do come back here,” said Barbara. “My husband and I always welcome strangers.”

Bobby turned and saw that both of them were smiling at him. They looked so pale, the two of them standing there, but Bobby felt like they were the warmest smiles he had ever seen. It took a lot for him to turn and leave. But he needed to find his parents.

He moved a little way away and stood still for a moment, looking around for another house to try. The night was cold and he regretted leaving the house wearing just a cape instead of a coat. There was a house across the street that had the downstairs lights on. Bobby could see shadows moving behind the curtains. He set out across the street. As he approached he could hear singing. It looked like a party. Maybe that was where his parents had got to. Maybe they’d lost track of time. By this house’s mailbox there were three pumpkins: one grinning, one frowning, and one scared. The craftsmanship was nothing special, but three pumpkins were three pumpkins, and he admired the commitment to the season. He climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a woman with shoulder-length curly brown hair, older than his mom, and two skeletal-thin red-headed younger women who Bobby saw were identical twins stood behind her.

“Can I help you?” asked the woman in a tone of voice that suggested she hoped the answer was no. Bobby realised that he was unwelcome, and from the smell he’d arrived just as dinner was about to hit the table, but he knew he had to press on.

“I’m looking for my parents...” he began, but he was interrupted when the young woman on the left saw Baby Lauren.

“Oh, look at her! She’s adorable! Emily, look!” she cried, nudging her sister, who nodded and patted her sister’s hand but looked like she was waiting for her elder’s reaction before she committed to a reply. The elder did seem to soften a little as she looked Bobby up and down.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Bobby. He meant to go on and repeat himself, but the woman waved her hand and Bobby found himself quite unwilling to say anything.

“You are interrupting,” she said. “But don’t worry too much. I understand. You’re being responsible. You’re a good brother, aren’t you? You are, there’s no need to answer me. And I can tell you that we have not seen your parents. But, if you want, I can tell you who might know. I can point you in the right direction. But you need to be sure that it’s what you want.”

The two younger women’s mouths dropped open and each clasped at the older woman’s shoulders.

“You can’t send him over there!”

“He’s just a child!”

“You can’t send him to...”

The woman held up her hands and her companions stopped. She looked back down at Bobby.

“You can see what Emily and Katharine think. They think I shouldn’t tell you. It’s certainly dangerous. Now, do you want to know?”

Bobby was scared. But he knew what he had to do.

“I do,” he said. “I need to find them.”

The woman nodded, and her two friends looked down at the floor.

“Very well,” she said, “Turn left and go three doors down the street. The house on the right won’t have its lights on but someone will be home. Ring the doorbell, someone will answer. Tell them, and this is very important, that Rebecca is waiting for you.”

Bobby nodded. He may have been only eight years old, but he was savvy enough to know that this woman’s instructions needed to be followed. He thanked her and turned to go.

“You’re welcome to come back here,” he heard the woman say.

“Or you can leave her here,” said Katharine, followed by shushing.

Bobby felt his nerve start to waver as he walked further down the street. There were no more carved pumpkins. The leaves seemed to no longer be crisp, instead they were damp clusters. He gripped Baby Lauren a little tighter and tried to keep his pace brisk. He was aware that he and his sister were being watched as he walked, but he didn’t dare look. He could have almost sworn he heard voices, their words incomprehensible but urgent. But Bobby didn’t listen. All he did was keep count of the houses as he went. One. Two. Three.

The woman had been right. The lights weren’t on. The house looked as though nobody had lived there for years. The screen door stood slightly ajar. The glass of the downstairs windows was cracked in the corners. An old pumpkin sat by the junk-filled mailbox, the candle long since burnt out. Bobby stood for a moment at the foot of the steps. It was so quiet, the only thing that he could hear was the wind. He thought of leaving, of going home and waiting. But something in him propelled him up to the front porch, and brought his hand to the doorbell.

The sound of the doorbell was loud and harsh. There was a moment’s silence before Bobby heard footsteps approaching. The door opened.

A strange man stood looking down at him. That was what Bobby thought. A strange man with straggly hair, dirty hair, staring eyes. There was a stink of sweat and something that Bobby didn’t quite recognise.

“Rebecca is waiting for me,” he said, almost without thinking. The man took a step backwards and a woman appeared from behind the door. She looked familiar. He recognised the costume but just couldn’t place it.

“Hello, honey, what are you doing here?” she asked. She sounded like she knew him, but Bobby was sure that he’d never seen her in his life.

“I’m looking for my parents,” he said.

“Of course you are, baby,” she nodded, “Why don’t you come in?”

Bobby shook his head. She smiled, and patted the man on the shoulder.

“Do you think we can tell him? I mean, he found his way here, didn’t he?” she asked. Bobby felt his stomach sink. They were here, then. Rebecca had been right. But what were they doing here? Then the man grinned and Bobby knew who he was looking at.

“Sure we can. Hi, sport. So glad you’re here,” said Bobby’s father.

“What’s going on?” asked Bobby. The woman put her hands on Bobby’s shoulders and her black hair fell away, revealing the matted blonde hair underneath

“We tried so hard to be good,” said Bobby’s mom. “We tried to run away. But this is where we belong, Bobby. This is where you belong. Baby Lauren too.”

Bobby could feel Baby Lauren’s stomach gurgling, but when looked at her she was smiling happily. Mom gave her a little wave.

“Do you want to see what Mommy and Daddy do to feel better?” she asked. Bobby didn’t. But he felt a firm hand on his back and he found himself in the kitchen. There were two bodies lying on the linoleum floor by the table. One, a man, was face down, dressed in the red-and-white striped uniform of the nearest diner. The other, a teenage girl, was face up, her eyes wide open. It was impossible to tell where her open mouth ended and the red mess that was now her throat began. She had been dressed as a fairy godmother.

“This is who we are, you see?” said Mom. Bobby felt faint.

“Rebecca knows where I am,” he said. His parents looked hurt.

“But you’re safe. You’re where you’re supposed to be,” said his Dad. He sounded like he meant it, and Bobby almost believed it. But he saw the blood on the floor and knew that he’d never find that in any costume store.

The rusty screen door screeched, followed by a knock. Mom looked at Dad, who shrugged. After they turned off the light in the kitchen they went to answer it together. Bobby stood frozen to the spot.

“We saw your adorable little boy and that sweetheart of a baby a little while ago. We told him to come here” Bobby recognised Barbara’s unconvincing twang carrying through the house

“Thank you for putting him on his way,” said Mom. Suddenly the kitchen light went on again and he saw Barbara and her husband stood with the three ladies from the party all gathered around his parents. Here, under better lighting, Bobby realised he couldn’t see a join between the plastic vampire teeth and the couple’s gums. The twins weren’t smiling any more, while Rebecca wore an unpleasant grin.

“If there’s anything we can offer you...” began Dad, but Rebecca held up her hand and Bobby saw his father’s mouth swing shut.

“We’ve discussed it. We thought you’d fit in,” she said.

“But the way you do things, it’s really not appropriate,” said Barbara.

“There are monsters and there are monsters,” the twins said in unison.

“There are ways to do things properly,” said the man with the fangs. “And we’ve decided that we’ll take it from here.”

Barbara grinned and put an arm around her man's shoulders. Rebecca held her hands out to her side, and Emily and Katharine took them.

"Trick or treat, trick or treat. Give us something good to eat."

And at that moment, because he was a young boy who tended to do the right thing, Bobby took Baby Lauren out of the room and out of the back door. He took a seat on the steps leading down to the yard as the screaming started. A couple of minutes passed before the grown-ups joined him on the porch and invited him and Baby Lauren to join their Halloween celebration. He would never be alone on a front porch again.

Trick or treat.

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Hello,

Hope you enjoyed this. I'm actually rather pleased with it. I hope the narrating voice works, I was aiming for an English voice telling an American story, which is what I am, and what I was doing. Hopefully it's not too distracting, but I wanted to tell an American Halloween story.

This went through a few different endings. One had Bobby realising that his family were werewolves and finding out that he'd inherited the trait as the story ended. I also toyed with the idea of Bobby finding his parents had been murdered by werewolves who were wearing their skins but I was wary of ripping off Angela Carter too much. I say this, I probably will rip off Angela Carter in a future story. I'm also a very big fan of the idea that Halloween is when the real-world monsters suddenly find themselves sharing the same space as the stuff of fiction and nightmares. I should mention that this story is quite heavily influenced by Michael Dougherty's splendidly nostalgic and nasty Halloween anthology horror film Trick 'r Treat, in which several unpleasant people find out what happens on the 31st.

I was unsure of whether or not to include the "Trick or treat, trick or treat. Give us something good to eat" line, but if you're not going to go over the top on Halloween, when will you? It's very me, this story. I didn't really want to try anything different or anything experimental. I just wanted to write a story for Halloween.

Well the project continues apace. I'm getting quite excited about it again, which is nice. It's still very early days but I've got a good feeling about where we're headed. And on that note, I'll leave you alone.

Hope you enjoyed the story.

Story: She Knows What She Did.

A brief preface: This is following on from an earlier story called Crisp Afternoon. It's not essential to read that story first but it might be fun.

It's also had one line changed since it went up on Tuesday night following a suggestion in the comments section. OK. Here we go.

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They sat staring into the enormous, mutually-decided-upon pudding that sat on the table in front of them. As far as they could tell it had all the forms of chocolate involved at some point in its construction. If there had been a birthday it might have had candles. Maybe even sparklers. But maybe sparklers only happened in America. Neither of them was sure if they really wanted sparklers. They probably would have been inappropriate.

The pudding had seemed like a really good idea to her at the time. It had been spontaneous and silly when the waitress had asked if they wanted anything else. It had been something to get his mind off what she’d done.

It scarcely seemed plausible. Looking back, she still wasn’t quite sure of the mechanics of what had happened. It was the kind of thing that shouldn’t happen. Ridiculous, really. She’d gone round to meet him before they went out. He’d shown her into the kitchen and she’d noticed the cage on the small table in the corner. He’d explained that it housed an elderly gerbil that had survived a good few years longer than expected. She’d asked if she could pick it up, he’d said yes. She’d opened the flap at the top of the cage, had reached inside, and picked up the little furry animal. It had seemed willing enough. It just twitched a little bit, but all those small animals did that.

He’d turned his back to get some mugs for the tea when the gerbil had lunged forward, contorting its tiny face to bare its fangs, and had bitten her sharply on the finger. She’d cried out as the small sharp teeth embedded themselves in the flesh around her nail. As she moved her hand sharply downwards in a (perfectly natural) reflex action, trying to shake the thing loose, the gerbil had connected with the top of the microwave and its spine had broken with a sharp, horribly audible crack.

He’d turned around and seen her holding her hand up to her face, with the gerbil hanging off it at an angle that could only be described as unnatural. It hadn’t let go.

“You should eat some of this,” she told him. “It’ll cheer you up. Chocolate does that, I think. Right? Anyway, look at all that!”

He smiled agreeably, picked up his spoon, and took a bite.

“There’s my man!” She paused. “Sorry. Not about that. You are my man, and, y’know, there you are. But about the gerbil. I didn’t mean to. Kill it.”

“I think you’re the first girlfriend I’ve had who’s murdered one of my pets,” he said through a mouthful of ice cream and chocolate chunks. There was a cheeky little grin though, framing the mess between his teeth. She felt better. It hadn’t been her fault. She knew that. But it was important to her that he knew it too.

“Murder?” she cried, loud enough for the waitress to drop her notebook and look over. She leaned across the table. “Murder?” she whispered theatrically. “How dare you? I never murdered anything in my life.”

“You murdered that animal in cold blood. I saw it. And a jury of twelve will see that you hang for it.”

She arched her eyebrows and played with her watch. “I’ll have you know that the animal you’re talking about was psychotic. I don’t like to cast aspersions on character, or to talk ill of the dead, but that gerbil was crazy. How are you going to prove it didn’t just off itself? Take the easy way out?”

There was a moment when she thought that she might have overstepped the mark. He looked at her and it was clear that he was making up his mind about what to say next. He straightened his back and dusted crumbs off his jacket.

“That gerbil had everything to live for. He had a wife waiting for him at home, not to mention three little gerb-lets who are going to have to grow up without a father. He had a job. A mortgage. You’re telling me that he threw all that away?”

She grinned and he couldn’t help grinning back.

"It doesn't matter anyway. Even if they try to pin that trumped-up charge on me, they'll have to catch me first. I've got a flight booked to Morocco that leaves in twenty-five minutes"

He snorted and looked down at the pudding. The ice cream was melting and the whole thing was starting to look unappealing.

“I really am sorry, you know.”

“I know. Thank you.”

He reached a hand across the table. She took it and gave it a squeeze.

“You know you still have to come to dinner with my parents,” he told her. She grimaced.

“Are you going to tell them that I murdered your gerbil?”

“I am going to tell them that you murdered my gerbil.”

“They’re going to love me so much.”

“So much.”

--------

Hello,

Right, so. Hope you enjoyed it. This is actually a follow-up story. Yep, a sequel. I believe back when I wrote a story that was entirely dedicated to being disgusting that I promised a nice, pleasant story would soon follow. Well, here it is, dead gerbil and all. The two characters are in fact the two characters from my previous attempt at a nice pleasant story, Crisp Afternoon. It wasn't my plan initially, but as I came up with the idea for a couple dealing with a murdered pet I thought why not bring them back. It was going to be a story about a couple staying together through it, because I wanted to write something nice and vaguely romantic (And I do think it's a little romantic). It's not as if they really did very much apart from meet in the earlier story. So my plan at the moment is to come back to them periodically. I like the idea of giving them these situations that they have to deal with. They will get more difficult. But I wanted to write something funny so I settled for this awkward but not insurmountable issue. I'm planning on switching between their perspectives as well, so the next one, whenever it may be, will be from his point of view. They're called Francis and Sophie, by the way. I'll probably drop their names in the next one.

Initially my idea was for Sophie to have killed a bigger animal, like a dog or a cat. She was going to either let it out, or run it over, but it was going to be nasty. Thoroughly unpleasant. But I wanted to keep this fairly light, so that would have been trickier. And I think you'd judge him for letting that go as quickly as he does here. I certainly would. I think a gerbil is forgivable. Sad, but forgivable. He's more upset about it than he's letting on, but he is upset.

As for their film noir riffing, I became aware as I was writing it that it was essentially a not-as-funny version of a series of scenes in the brilliant American sitcom Parks and Recreation. If you've not seen it, do so and see that I'm so much less funny than they are. Seriously.

The next story will be Halloween based. I'll aim for something fun and spooky. Until then, hope you enjoyed this.

Story: Splatter

Just a quick note: I've called this short story SPLATTER because it is gory. It's a gory little horror story. If you're thinking "I'd rather not, thanks" then feel free to skip it and come back next week. No worries. They won't all be like this. Promise.

SPLATTER

Eve was tired. She was tired and the flat was a mess. She appreciated that her brother was doing her a massive favour by giving her a place to stay for a week. She was even earning a bit of cash. All she had to do was be on call. If any of the tenants had a problem, her phone would ring and she would do her best to fix the problem. Jeff had assured her that the phone rang about once a day and that if there were any serious problems, she could call a plumber or an electrician.

But after a day spent running up and down the seven flights of stairs and dealing with tenants who were apparently set on being as difficult as possible, Eve was wondering whether this had been worth it. She could have stayed on Lucy’s sofa for another week. Lucy had even offered. But the chance for a flat to herself had been impossible to resist. And she was here now. There was no one to worry about. She cleared last week’s Sunday paper off the sofa and settled in to watch the telly.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But the heavy thud from downstairs made her open her eyes, and she realised how quiet it was. No music, no one out having a fag, nothing. It was late. Then she wondered about that thud. As she desperately tried to rationalise, her heart did a little turn as she realised that the noise came from downstairs. Nobody should be downstairs. Jeff had shown her the basement; it was a storage space that no one used because of the terrible damp. She told herself to relax, that it was just an animal that had found its way in. A cat. Maybe a fox.

But there it was again. A thump. But this time it was followed by a woman’s voice, raised in alarm. She stood up and looked around for something she could take down there with her. She grabbed a torch that looked like it meant business. But what else? She looked around for something sturdy to defend herself with. She didn’t want to take a knife. She’d read that more people hurt themselves than other people when they take a knife. She had a sudden brainwave and walked over to Jeff’s drinks cabinet (the one he’d inherited from their aunt Barbara) and took a shelf out. Not exactly the most effective weapon, but she could at least brain someone with it.

She stepped out into the hallway and was relieved that no one was there to see her, still startled at being woken up and brandishing a varnished piece of wood. She found the right key on Jeff’s absurdly overcrowded key-ring and opened the door to the basement, took a deep breath, and turned on the light. She heard the sound of cheap strip lighting sparking into life through the different sections of the basement, that slightly muffled ping. Then she unmistakeably heard someone say “Shhhh!”

“Hello?”

There was no answer. She went down the almost-even stone steps. The basement was divided into three sections, the first visible from the stairs. The other two were further in. She knew that was where whoever had made that noise was waiting.

“If you don’t leave right now, I’ll call the police.”

No answer. The first room was empty, nothing but a few ancient boxes belonging to a deceased tenant that no one had figure out what to do with yet.

“I know there’s someone there. I’ve got my phone out now, I’m dialling.”

She wondered if she should have said that. Would it be better to make them think that she’d already called the police? Then a man’s voice rang through the basement.

“Shit!”

Eve didn’t think. She ran towards the sound. As she entered the next room a smell like sour meat made her gag. Two people had a tenant she recognised, Mr. Blamire, pushed up against the wall. He was a polite man in his late fifties with pomaded hair and a slightly-too-long moustache. As he saw Eve enter he opened his mouth. She thought he was going to scream. Then two things happened quite suddenly.

The first figure turned around to face her. It was a man, slightly heavy-set, in his forties. The second figure, which Eve could see was a woman, raised a small axe and cut Mr. Blamire’s head off. The severed head tumbled over the woman’s arm and thudded to the floor as the two figures stepped back and let go of his body. Blood sprayed from the stump. The tenant fell to the ground and Eve opened her mouth to scream.

“Please don’t,” said the woman. She held up her hands and Eve saw she was roughly the same age as the man. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Eve didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

“Not what...not what it looks like?” she asked. She realised that she had dropped the shelf from the cabinet. She wasn’t sure when that had happened.

“It’s...Look, it’s complicated,” began the man but the woman interrupted him.

“Michael, his eyes are moving,” she said. The man span around.

“Julia, get the knives out,” he said. Julia nodded and grabbed a green cloth bag from a backpack on the floor.

“I’m going to call the police,” said Eve. It was the only thing to do. That, at least, made sense. It got their attention.

“Don’t do that,” said Michael. “It’s really not what it looks like, I promise.”

But Eve wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at the head of Mr. Blamire. She thought it had landed further away from his body. Those eyes were roving, scanning the room. They saw her. She thought she saw a smile. Then the eyes rolled back. She looked over to where his body lay. The dark red stump of his neck began to pulsate. Before she could open her mouth to say anything, three crimson tendrils shot across the gap between the torso and the head. They somehow fixed, they found a hold, and they flexed. Eve watched as the head inched along the floor, pulled back towards the body.

“Julia, for fuck’s sake, separate him!” shouted Michael. Julia picked up the axe and hacked at the tendrils. They severed easily but they flailed wildly in the air, spraying thick black fluid. The smell of rotten meat somehow redoubled as the fluid spread across the dusty floor. Mr. Blamire’s mouth opened and closed. “I’ll make a start on him, check the back room, see if there’s any still breathing.” Julia nodded and moved off quickly. Eve watched as the man opened the cloth bag and took out a beautiful, ornate silver knife. Somehow she couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Michael...” Julia came back into the room, and the man looked up. Julia’s face was white. Eve didn’t know why she did, but she found herself walking over to where the woman stood and looking past her into the third section.

The harsh overhead lighting showed a red, wet pile of pieces, chunks, in the corner. There were bits that Eve could identify as belonging to a person, a hand, a jaw, but the dripping slabs of flesh and shards of startlingly white bone had been piled into a heap. They looked fresh. There was no skin on any of it. Eve gagged and felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Could you help us over here, please?” Julia asked, and ushered her over to where Mr. Blamire lay on the ground. His torso was shivering. Michael ripped open his white shirt. Something beneath the man’s skin was moving, pushing up against the surface like a hundred needle points. The chest was slick with a clear fluid. Eve hoped it was sweat.

“He knows what’s coming,” said Michael.

“Heart first,” said Julia. Michael raised the knife and plunged it down. Eve had taken a step back, expecting another explosion of gore, but instead Mr. Blamire’s chest seemed to try to swallow the knife. Michael worked hard to cut through the flesh as it moved and gripped its way around the blade, but finally he sunk his hand into the cavity and pulled out the heart. He raised it up and Julia leant in, hacking away at the veins until it was free.

They both took a step back as more tendrils emerged from the open wound, writhing, searching for Mr. Blamire’s lost heart. Two small hooks were visible on the end of each appendage. As Julia put it on the ground Eve saw that the heart was still beating, and smaller versions of the tendrils were slowly emerging from what Eve guessed was the aorta. Jack leaned down and drove the knife into its side. The effect was instantaneous. Mr. Blamire’s heart exploded like a broken water balloon, spraying black, rancid fluid out of every opening. The torso, about a foot away, stopped moving.

“You, what’s your name?” asked Michael. Before Eve could answer, Michael pointed to the head. “Pick that up and face it up. Julia, empty the torso.”

She turned the head so that its eyes faced the ceiling and tried not to listen to the wet sound of Julia pulling out ropes of intestines. She gritted her teeth as Michael pushed the knife into the stump of the neck. The mouth opened, filled with broken teeth. The eyes that had been rolling so wildly quivered for a moment before bursting, oozing viscous white and red fluid over the ears and Eve’s hands. Finally the skull caved inwards as a soggy mass fell out over Michael’s knife and onto the floor. Eve dropped the head and it landed with a splat.

“Thank you,” said Julia. Eve turned to look at her and saw her making small piles of innards. She finally lost control of her stomach and vomited onto the gory mess at her feet. As she wiped her mouth she felt compelled to apologise. “Oh that’s no problem,” smiled Julia. “We’ve got to tidy that up anyway. Michael, have you got the bin bags?”

-------

Hello,

So yes. A gory story. Actually you can blame my good friend Max Dorey for this. He posed a question on Twitter asking what the best, most disgusting movie monster we could think of was. And there's only really one right answer to that. John Carpenter's The Thing. Though I did also mention Brundelfly from David Cronenberg's The Fly. Now, Max is not a fan of horror but recently watched The Thing and came out of it very impressed. And revolted. If you've seen The Thing, you've probably realised that I stole a lot.

If you're wondering why I wrote this, it's because I wanted to see if I could. Surprisingly, given that I mostly write unpleasant stories, I don't write a lot of gore. Generally I find that my approach is less is more. I just get a bit uncomfortable if the blood and guts gets too elaborate and I worry that I'm going down the Garth Marenghi route. (If you don't get that reference, get yourself to 4od now and thank me later). So, thinking about disgusting monsters, I thought I'd try to write something disgusting. Not disturbing, just gory. No plot, no memorable characters, just internal organs and bodily fluids. And if I'm honest, I still don't think that this is that gory. I've failed in my task to create something truly disgusting. I don't think I'm good at lingering on the disgusting. I remember a distinguished visiting tutor on my MA telling me not to worry about going over the top and remembering to put details about things like the smell into The Novel That Nobody Wanted, which I just about managed to do. But this is my gore experiment, for better or worse.

It takes quite a lot for gore to get to me, but Clive Barker is one of those people that can put me off my food. I remember working in a DVD rental place and someone asked me what I thought of Hellraiser. I described it as a "wet" film, and I didn't mean that it was sappy. It's just that everything is dripping, everything is oozing, things are slippery and sharp at the same time. I've not read enough of his fiction but his Books of Blood are well worth a read, and Weaveworld is great.

So next week there'll be some more writing about writing. And the week after that will feature (if all goes according to plan) a non-experimental story with no bursting eyeballs. Sorry if this week's story wasn''t your cup of tea. It's also a little inspired by the amazing web comic Achewood, in which a lying robot tells an adorable young otter a horrifying bed time story and ends it with "No moral! The end!"

Finally, if I ever get to the stage where I have writing published, or have professional people read my writing out loud, I hope to at some stage repeat this one line: "Julia, empty the torso."