Halloween

In our family home, my bedroom is on the ground floor. Not a great spot, but it’s pretty big so that kind of makes up for it. Despite the fact that we live in a kind of dodgy area, nothing bad had happened. Nothing until one night a few months ago.

            My sister can be a bit of a douche sometimes, no need to sugar-coat it. She’ll tell me the endings of books before I've read them, put salt on my cereal, that kind of thing. This incident was last Halloween; I was fifteen at the time.

            It was about 7 p.m. and I was sat at my computer in the corner of my room, like always. As we nerdy types sometimes do, I had lost track of time and hadn't realised it was dark, the only light coming from the glow of the screen. I was waiting for a video to load and as the screen went black I jumped up and screamed like a little girl. Next to the reflection of my face was another face: a huge, smiling, white face surrounded by matted hair.

I freaked out and turned around to find my sister taking off a Halloween mask and laughing. Needless to say I was pretty annoyed. I yelled at her and threw her out my room, slamming the door behind her.

Later that night I went to bed. It was early for me, like 1 a.m. My bed is in the very corner of my room, and so I was surrounded by vast darkness. I was just drifting off to sleep when I heard something, like the creak of a floorboard. I opened my eyes to the sound and saw something shift in the dark. It was rustling and grunting quietly. I was too scared to speak.

Slowly, the thing began to come closer. A figure was approaching my bed from the darkness. It was wearing the same mask as the one my sister had worn. A smiling white face in the blackness.

Naturally I screamed the place down. The figure had clearly thought I was asleep and when it realised I wasn't it ran from the room. For a while I just sat in my bed, tears rolling down my face. Rationality began to set in and with it came anger. My fucking sister. I ran upstairs to yell at her. I banged on her door and shouted her name really loud, so that my Mom came out and asked me what I was doing.

‘Jane keeps scaring me and it’s not funny,’ I yelled. ‘She was just in my room wearing this fucking freaky mask!’ I didn't even care that I’d just sworn in front of my mother for the first time. I was furious.

My Mom looked at me confused and said, ‘Jane’s not here, sweetheart. She’s sleeping at Katie’s tonight.’

I was terrified then. I ran downstairs, for some reason thinking I would find my sister and it would all be an elaborate joke. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw that the front door was open.

Jane came back the next morning, complaining about how she’d had a lousy night. She’d wanted to go trick-or-treating with her friends, but realised when she got to Kate’s house that she’d forgotten her mask. She said she swore she’d put it in her bag.

I don’t know who was in my room that night. My Mom filed a police report but they never caught the figure in the dark. The only thing they found was a pair of discarded binoculars across the street from our house. He was watching me.

I always check the front door is locked before going to bed now. And next Halloween I’ll make sure I’m staying at a friend’s. I don’t know what the figure in the dark would've done to me if I hadn't been awake, but I don’t think I would've been here to write the story today.

Love of my Life

I remember it so well, honestly it's like it happened yesterday. We were sat on that bench in the park. It was pretty fucking cold, like. I had my coat pulled up to my ears. And we were laughing. Like proper laughing. Big fat belly laughs. People kept looking at us as if we'd just swore at the bloody Queen or something, but we were just kids having fun I guess.

            And then she looked at me and said it. Her eyes were like cold stone and she just went, ‘You’re the love of my life, Dean.’

            I wanted to up and leg it then, like. Steady fucking on! We were fucking fifteen at the time. Of course I was the fucking love of her life, she’d had no life! It’s like showing a ten year old The Godfather and them saying, man that’s the best film I’ve ever seen. Course it fucking is, you’re ten.

            Not that I’m saying I’m a Godfather by any means. More of a slapstick comedy: enjoyable at the time but nothing to write home about. Still that way today, right little gawker.

            Anyway, back to the story. She said it and I just kind of looked at her. I wanted to cry I swear. Honest to God I nearly screamed in her face. You fucking what?! But I just kind of laughed. Most forced fucking laugh of my life, I’ll tell you that. ‘Ha ha, thanks.’

            Boy, she was not happy. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say, thanks?’

            ‘Just a bit of a surprise.’

            ‘A nice one, I hope.’

            I laughed again. Not a good move.

            She was proper angry then. Wow. But she didn’t shout or anything, she just left and said she’d talk to me tomorrow. Got off pretty lightly, like. I put my hands behind my head and smiled like a right cheeky chappy.

            And then I was a dickhead. Ignored all the calls, texts, all of it. She wasn’t pushy or anything. She got the hint, I reckon. But she was sad. The last text was just, ‘I’ll miss you.’ Not I miss you or Missing you loads, she WILL miss me. She knew it was over.

            And now I’m a fucking forty-odd skinny bastard working in an office. Not awful but not fun. No one to come home to. And I saw her the other week, spoke to her for the first time in more than twenty years. She was with two little’uns, both dead sweet. And she was perfectly sweet and nice to me who had been such a fucking twat to her. And she looked fucking beautiful. All because she said something slightly overdramatic when she was fifteen.

            And I realised that she had been the love of my life.

Ruby Wine

When you get together with the family,
And the wine flows like a remedy,
When the laughter gets deep and the eyes get teary,
And you're all singing together,
Then promise me,
You'll have a drink on me.

When we're miles apart,
And I can't be by your side,
Feel my warmth in your heart,
And take it in your stride,
And when you're dancing together,
Send a message via your mind,
And take a sip of that ruby wine.

Nora (Part 4)

Fear ran through her slowly like ice down her spine. Nora watched through the bars. The door shut behind him, plunging the room back into almost pure darkness. He did his usual routine; hung up his keys, took off his tie and put down his briefcase. As he did so, the case flipped open and the contents spilled across the grey carpet. Wigs, glasses, lumps of flesh coloured mould. His lifted up a strip of rubbery skin. It was the bridge of a nose, slightly raised.

            ‘Your daddy has a lovely face,’ he said. He did not look at her as he spoke, but she knew the words were directed towards her. They were alone as usual. ‘I really fooled you with that one, didn't I?’ His voice was high and smug.

            Nora did not answer. She stayed curled into a ball, her knees held tightly to her chin. Tears stained her cheeks, though she had lost the strength to cry days ago.

            She winced. Now the process had started. He turned to the window and made a cross symbol in the air with his hands. She knew without looking that he was smiling.

            ‘Save me with your greatness, for I shall do your bidding.’ He let out a little laugh. It was like a snake shedding its skin. A rebirth, that’s what he called it. First he removed his trousers and underwear, leaving his torso fully dressed. He then slowly removed his blazer and began unbuttoning his shirt. It was at this point that he always turned to her, still smiling. She pushed herself back against the end of the cage.

            It was demonic. He stood, naked and white in the middle of the blackness. He removed his glasses and pulled off his moustache. Then the hair. He let out a sigh of pleasure as he lifted the wig, still attached to his smooth scalp by trails of thick glue. They snapped one by one. He was like a huge, hairless child. The only things which did not shine were his yellow teeth.

            ‘And I am reborn from my chrysalis,’ he said. He raised his arms. ‘Into the realm of the Lord. And he shall love me like no other, for only I can hear his will.’

*

He was sat on the sofa beside the cage, legs crossed and raised on the table. He glugged down gallons of coke noisily. Nora wasn't too sure how God felt about coca-cola, but the man’s teeth definitely didn't appreciate it.

            ‘It was always you, Nora. I could sense it from the beginning. We are the chosen ones.’ He stared at the wall in front of him as he spoke.

            ‘Shut it,’ said Nora. It had taken her days to find courage to speak, but as soon as she did her speech evolved immediately into shouts. ‘I want to go home!’

            He laughed. ‘Patience. We will be going home soon. Together. Into the kingdom.’ He sighed, re-crossing his legs. ‘I felt a connection to you, Nora. I watched you. Watched you for so long. You are the one, the other messiah. You made me...’ he paused, searching for the word. When he found it, he widened his shining eyes towards her. ‘Excited.’

            ‘Weirdo,’ she said. She began banging on the bars, singing the word violently. ‘Weirdo, weirdo, weirdo!’

            This made him anxious. His mouth contracted into a single line. He rushed over to the tiny table and picked up his red pen. He drew line after line across his body and began to shout. ‘Shut up!’

            Nora did so. She had never seen him so crazed. A mixture of terror and pleasure bubbled inside her.

            As the hours passed the tiny room was plunged even further into darkness, lit only with a misty red glow from the setting sun. He had been pacing around for what seemed like an age, muttering incomprehensibly to himself. Nora had not spoken in hours. In fact, she was beginning to dose off.

            She was shocked back to reality by the sound of his voice. He barked as he turned towards her. ‘But enough chit-chat.’ His smile was back. It was huge, splitting his face in two. ‘It is time.’

            Nora screamed as his shadow engulfed her.

*

After Dave Buckard’s arrest, seven days after Nora’s body was found, a familiar man was discovered by D.I. Dresdon hanging from a ceiling fan in one of the station offices. Words were scrawled across his forehead in red pen.

            In the name of the Lord          

            It was not until D.I. Whittin’s autopsy that a surprising discovery was made about his hair.

Nora (Part 3)

The phone rang so loudly that the walls vibrated. Muriel had been sat by it for hours, days, an eternity. Waiting for news. She had been sitting, tying up her shoulder-length hair, greasy from days of not showering, and then letting it fall again lankly. The man’s blurred face was smudged across her mind. She couldn't wipe it away.

            The ringing broke the image momentarily. She sat up quickly and grabbed the receiver. Despite her longing for information, she paused before pressing ‘Accept’. What if the news wasn't what she wanted to hear? She sighed sharply and stabbed the green button.

            ‘Hello?’

*

The field was miles from where the parade had been. She ran through the knee-high grass, clutching at her chest. Police officers were gathered around like a cult. Dave was behind them, his face white with horror. D.I. Whittin nodded to her as she ran, looking up from his notebook which was covered in red scribbles. His hair was different from their last meeting, his hairline more prominent. As Muriel approached, the small lump became visible.

            But it wasn't Nora. It wasn't. It wasn't Nora. She caught a glimpse before a wall of policemen pushed her back. They were making a mistake. Nora had glasses. Her hair was light, not mousy and dirty like this poor girl’s. This girl was thinner, taller. She looked older, less innocent. Yes, maybe there were facial similarities. Large eyes and the round cheeks. Yes, the lips were just the same. A perfect bow. Ears that slightly stuck out. But no, she was definitely a different girl. A poor, less fortunate girl. A girl she would hear about later, on the news, and say what a shame it was. Say that she couldn't imagine it being her daughter, not her girl. It wasn't Nora. She fell to the ground. It couldn't be Nora. Fat waves of tears fell from her face, dripping down her chin and neck. She wouldn't let it be Nora.

            Grief exploded from her as the realization sunk in. The sound was unrecognizable, a scream of horror. Something from a film. It broke the sky, the earth. The world was all wrong. She dug her nails into the thick wet soil. Her Nora.

*

The clock ticked dully through the solid silence. But Muriel’s mind was not quiet. She was numb, but full of questions. She wanted to know why, how, every detail. And yet she was terrified. Questions and fear fought within her. One week without a child. Could she even call herself a parent anymore? Had she failed at the job, been stripped of her title?

            The knock on the door was harsh and loud. It didn't wait for a response. Before Muriel had chance to stand D.I. Dresdon and D.I. Whittin were in the room with them, surrounded by their army. All faces were turned towards Dave, who sat meekly on the sofa, leaning back and clutching the arm of the chair tightly for support.

            ‘David Buckard,’ said D.I. Whittin, ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of Nora Buckard. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court.' He was grabbing Dave from behind, clamping his arms with metal.

            Muriel was screaming. Figures moved through the room like dancers, clowns. It made no sense. Suddenly D.I. Dresdon was in front of her. ‘Muriel, we retrieved new anonymous evidence from a camera phone of the day Nora was taken. Is this your husband?’

            The image was blurry, made up of large squares. But it was Dave. The dirty blonde hair, the curve of his slightly large nose. It was all there. He was looking around nervously, clutching the hand of her daughter. She screamed louder now. Beside the photo, in the same plastic wallet, was the note she had been sent.

            ‘The writing matches that of your husband, from the sample we took on the day Nora went missing,’ said someone. D.I. Dresdon? Whoever it was, they were right. How could she have not seen it? The letters curled and spiked like a spider’s web.

            They were dragging Dave from the room. He was screaming his innocence, his eyes wide with shock and fury. ‘Please, Muriel, love. You know, it wasn't me! Why would I do this?’

            Muriel looked at him, his limbs contorted as he struggled. Her voice was flat. ‘Why didn't you cry?’

            His eyes widened more. ‘What?’

            ‘Why didn't you cry?’ The words were a shriek now.

            His reply echoed around the walls as he was dragged from the house. ‘For you! I wanted to be strong for you.’ 

Some words of (not so much) wisdom

Hi! I just wanted to take a break from submitting to say hello and to share some really helpful information I've been given over the years about creative writing. Hopefully you might hear something useful or interesting, if not then my sincerest apologies.

I'll be submitting parts 3 and 4 to the Nora series over the next few days so look out for them.

Thank you so much for watching!

Nora (Part 2)

She repeated the cycle again: cracking her knuckles, rubbing her hands together and running her fingers through her hair. All the while she stared out into the room before her, that moment still playing on repeat in her mind. The blurred silhouette, the car, her daughter. She had begun to make up details now as the scene sunk further out of memory. The man’s malicious grin. The look of desperation on Nora’s face. What little sleep Muriel had managed to get last night was plagued by her daughter calling out for her.

            Who was that man?

            Dave entered the room. He sat beside her on the dusty sofa and wrapped a thick arm around her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, love. The police’ll find her. They know what they’re doing.’

            Muriel didn’t look up as she replied. ‘It’s been twenty-five hours now. Twenty-five. You know, they say you can be anywhere in the world in twenty-four.’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘She’s only eleven years old! Just my baby.’

            ‘I know, I know.’

            The whole incident had shifted Muriel. She should have been relieved to have such a strong, caring husband by her side. He had yet to cry. He spent his whole time reassuring her that all would be fine. And yet she couldn’t shift the anger she felt towards him. Towards herself. She shuddered. And that man.

            She darted round to face Dave. ‘Where were you yesterday? I phoned the office. They said you left for an hour.’

            Dave looked genuinely shocked. His mouth opened and closed several times. ‘Yeah, for lunch. A man’s got to eat, love.’ His brow fell and his eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t go accusing me of things, now. We’re a unit. We need to stick together.’

            She sighed. ‘Okay, okay. I just keep thinking about the questioning yesterday. Do you think I told the police enough?’

            ‘You told them everything you know, pet.’

*

Two hours. Two hours without knowing where her daughter was. Muriel greeted the officers, leading them to the dining room table.

            ‘Sorry about the mess,’ she said bleakly.

            ‘That’s no worry,’ said the woman. She was smiling sympathetically. Her face was round and doughy with two grey eyes protruding out like marbles. Her voice was thin but deep, stuck at a sombre pitch. ‘Where’s your husband?’

            ‘On his way. Traffic.’ She wiped under her nose. ‘Cuppa tea?’

            ‘No thanks,’ said the man. His voice was gruff. He clasped his large, hairy hands and placed them on the table. ‘We’ll get right to it, if that’s alright.’

            Muriel nodded slightly and pulled out a chair.

            ‘Mrs. Buckard,’ began the female. ‘I’m D.I. Dresdon and this is D.I. Whittin.’ She opened a small notebook to a clean page. ‘Please tell us everything that happened this afternoon.’

            Muriel began hesitantly, justifying her forcing Nora to see the torch. However, once she began she couldn’t stop. She described everyone that was there, the floats, the weather. The bad mood Nora was in due to Muriel’s own unfair and selfish wish to watch the parade. She described the car and the man in as much detail as she could, wary not to add anything she wasn’t sure of.

            D.I. Whittin smiled slightly, displaying yellowing teeth. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Buckard. Now, please can you show me the note?’

            It had been there when Muriel had eventually arrived home, sitting in the porch like a bomb waiting to explode. Scrawled across the front of the envelope in red pen were the words, To the unfortunate Mrs. Buckard.

            ‘I see,’ said the officer, folding up the paper and putting it into his inside blazer pocket. ‘So it seems to me that this is a crime committed by someone Nora knew.’

            D.I. Dresdon leaned over the table. ‘Can you think of anyone that might want to distress you or your daughter, Mrs. Buckard?’

            Muriel stared at her for a moment. She hadn’t said harm, no one was harming her daughter. Not yet. Not for certain. She sighed. ‘No, not really.’ The male officer looked slightly disappointed, even annoyed. Muriel cleared her throat. ‘Her uncle, erm- Dave’s brother. John. Me and him have never really gotten on.’

Muriel regretted her words as soon as she said them. Dave would be surprisingly calm about this betrayal later on. D.I. Dresdon began scribbling hurriedly. Muriel continued. ‘Our neighbour: Paul. He’s a bit of an odd one. Nora calls him Beardy Weirdy.’

            D.I. Dresdon looked up and gave a little laugh. Whittin looked stern. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Buckard.’

*

D.I. Whittin opened up the scrap of paper again as the officers exited the house. The whiteness of it shone under the sun’s intensity.

            Nora is safe, for now. Lovely little Nora. Clock’s ticking Muriel.

Nora (Part 1)

The crowds thickened around her, drowning her. Hot bodies stuck together in a sea of enthusiastic sweat. The sun beat down on all the chanting faces as they towered above her. Nora couldn't even see the bloody street.

            ‘Here you go, sweetie,’ said Mum. She dug her fingers into Nora's sides and lifted her into the air. Nora got a brief glimpse of the parade going past, huge floats and people singing into megaphones, before she was plonked back on the ground.

            Mum wiped a stream of sweat from her brow. ‘Phew, someone’s getting heavy.’

            This only served to thicken the stew of Nora's bad mood. She folded her arms across her chest and buried her head as far into her shoulders as it could go. ‘I couldn't give a toss about the Olympics. Why did we have to come?’

            Mum grabbed her shoulder and spun her around to face her. Her face was inches from Nora’s own, the eyes narrowed by irritation. ‘Young lady, this is a very special event. How often in your life are you going to be able to see the Olympic torch?’

            ‘But I can’t see it! Everyone’s too tall.’

‘Or maybe you’re too short,’ said Mum with a smarmy smile. When she saw that Nora wasn't going to return it, she sighed and stood upright. ‘Look, it’ll be over soon. Just try and enjoy yourself. It’s a beautiful day to be out.’

‘I could've stayed home. I’m old enough to stay home for an afternoon by myself.’

‘That’s for me to decide, love. Not you.’

‘Amy’s mum let’s her stay at home.’

‘Amy’s mum isn't your mum though, is she? Besides, she’s always been a funny one.’

‘I’ll tell her you said that.’

‘You will bloody not,’ said Mum, crouching down to meet her gaze once again. She sniffed loudly as she straightened up. ‘Besides, they’re coming for tea on Friday and it’d just make things awkward.’

'Dad didn't have to come.'

'Dad is at work, Nora. He isn't spending the day watching the telly.'

Nora sighed and turned to face the cage of crowd around her. She was confronted with an enormous bottom. It shook in front of her as the owner leapt up and down in excitement. This was pointless. To her left, a pair of eyes met hers.

*

Muriel watched the floats pass by, each one more colourful than the last. She couldn't take her eyes off them. A voice from the top of a huge coca-cola can shouted, ‘Are you excited for the torch?’

            He was met with an almighty roar from the crowd. Muriel laughed, bending down to talk to Nora without taking her eyes off the parade. ‘See, love? It’s fun!’

            She was met with silence. At last, she looked down. Her daughter wasn't there.

            Muriel spun around, darting her eyes across the sea of people which engulfed her. ‘Nora? Nora! Nora, where are you?’

            She pierced through the wall of people, swimming to get to an end. When at last she made it, she jumped onto the nearest bench and blocked the sun from her eyes with a hand, all the while still screaming her daughter’s name.

            In the distance she saw her standing by a car. Muriel began to run. Her blood ran cold as she watched.

            Nora wasn't alone. A man in a black coat held her hand. Muriel could make him out, nothing but a shifting silhouette. He guided Nora into the passenger seat.

Chemotherapy

Four hundred and four. Four hundred and five.

            The beep from down the hall echoed off the white walls. The tubes in my hands stiffened as my fingers contracted around the arms of the chair. The leather steadied me, warm from the sun through the broken blinds.

            ‘Great, she’s alive. But will someone stop that bloody beeping, for Christ’s sake,’ said Bill from the next room. I could almost hear spit flying from his mouth. ‘You’d think they’d close a bloody door.’

I scratched my head. Tiny flakes of skin fluttered down through the sunlight.

            ‘Oh, leave it, Bill.’ Fran’s voice rang through the corridor, forcing sympathy into her frustration. ‘If you stop thinking about it, you won’t even notice it.’

            ‘Bollocks.’

            ‘Bill!’

            Bill shut up at his wife’s command. In the room to my right, Harry snored. Kate, old enough to be my mum and still the youngest apart from me, sobbed quietly.

            The hospital hummed. A building more alive than its residents. I caught my ghostly reflection in the window. Wide eyes; two blue plates on a white tablecloth, not a stain of hair in sight. I breathed in and my stomach retreated, ribs fighting for freedom.

            I tried to sleep.

            Five hundred and ninety eight. Five hundred and ninety nine.  

I am the Moon

‘I am the moon,’ it said,
The light engulfed my eyes,
The words engulfed my head,
‘The moon does not tell lies.’

‘If you’re the moon,’ said I,
‘Where is your rounded face?
Up in the bright, black sky,
Why aren't you in your place?’

It said, ‘You question I?
I've never heard such cheek,
Post-haste, I shall reply,
If you shall let me speak:

I have not been disgraced,
I am where I should be,
The one in the wrong place,
Perhaps is you; not me.’

Emotion then struck me,
Quietly did I cry,
‘If the moon can be free,
Maybe then, so can I.’

Our Spot

I had a beautiful singing voice, you know. Have I not told you that before? Ee, I can’t believe that. Yes, I know, you’re right! You’d never know it listening to me talking, would ya? But yes, it were lovely. I used to always sing when I was a little girl. Used to drive me mother mental. Course, I smoked it all away with fags but, once upon a time I had what me dad called a voice an angel would be jealous of.

            Strange how time passes, isn’t it? So quickly, like. Feels like just yesterday I was a little girl, getting washed in front of the fire. Mam used to hang my nightdress over the mantelpiece so it was toasty warm. Feels like just yesterday.

            Do you remember how we first met? I knew it, course you don’t, do ya? Cheeky sod. It was Martin’s birthday, remember, Martin from university. His twenty-first I think. You told me I lit up the room. And I fell for it! Oh, you were such a charmer. Do you remember swinging from that bottle of champagne you stole from the tray? Oh, you’re right, probably too far gone by then! You told me you loved me. Can you believe it? I’d known you for all of three hours. But you said it was real love. Those were your words: real, honest love.

            But I suppose things just come to an end eventually, don’t they? What’s her name, you say? Suzanne. Well, I hope she knows what she’s getting herself into, eh? Oh, I’m kidding.

            No, no, I’m fine, pet. Don’t dirty a clean hanky. Just a bit out of the blue really, isn’t it? Forty-one years we’ve been married. But as I say, things have to end sometime. Oh, go on then. I’ll take the hanky. Look at me, blubbering away.

            Bit nippy out here, isn’t it? Suppose it’s too late for it to be that warm. I always loved the view from this bench. It was always our spot, wasn’t it? Just us watching the sunrise. The golden years, I suppose. No, love. You keep yer jacket, I’ll manage.

            Sorry for the way I reacted before. I didn’t mean it. You’re not happy so... and I want you to be happy. I really do. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, because, you know, no, no, let me finish. You really have been the love of my life.

            Oh, please don’t leave me, love. Please. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. I need you, love. I’ll be better, I will. I promise. We can get through this. Please just don’t leave me alone.

            Oh, I’m sorry, love. I’m just, just trying to process it that’s all. Oh, god. There goes me mascara down me face. Panda eyes. I’m sorry for what I did. I really am.

            I wanted to be a jazz singer, you know. I can’t believe I never told you this. I wanted to be a singer in one of those fancy jazz bars. You know, with the microphone in the stand and the spotlight and the red curtain all sultry, like. I had this image of meself singing and then everyone would stand up and clap for me. Silly thoughts, really. You make all these plans, don’t ya, and then time just slips away.

            Don’t go love, eh. Not yet. Just stay with me ‘til the sun goes down.  

The Man

Nobody except you sees the man enter. You never miss a trick. The man stands in the kitchen, opening cupboards. Your friends keep talking, debating over films. The man opens the cutlery drawer and removes a butter knife. He holds it up to the window, admiring his reflection in it. The moonlight shines off it. You don’t say anything, you just watch him from across the room.

            Your friend, the one you like more, asks you what’s wrong.

            Nothing, you say.

            The sound of voices attracts the man’s attention. The knife is pointed upwards in his pale hand. He glances through the open doorway and meets your eye. Again, you say nothing. He simply smiles. A wide, toothy grin. He walks out of the back door and leaves it open. His movements remind you of that dance you saw on the television that one time. They are silent and graceful as he glides across the tiles. No sound accompanies his departure. His smile stays with you.

            The other friend, the one you quite like but annoys you in ways which you only vocalize when extremely drunk, watches your face. They follow your gaze and turn to look into the empty room. They make a comment about the open door. How strange, they say in that kind of voice you hate.

            You offer to shut the door as an excuse to explore further. Your legs are shaking as you walk through to the kitchen. There’s a chill in the room which exceeds that created by the wind outside. You stand in the doorway and look down either side of the path. Left. Nothing. The friend you don’t like as much says something about being too cold and leaves the room. Your favourite friend asks if you are alright. Yes, you say. Okay, they say. They leave. Just you now. A mixture of relief and fear. You need to know more about the man, but you remember the smile and shudder. You look to the right.

He stands there, facing you. He is quite still. The rest of the lane is deserted. His black suit stands out against the snow on the ground. Your eyes meet and his smile returns. A tear forms in your eye but you don’t want to let him know that you’re scared. You smile back.

            He doesn’t turn around, but begins to walk away backwards. The mist almost erases him from view. You sigh with relief. And yet, something else. A longing. You need to know more. What if he returns? Something bubbles inside you, anger maybe. You shout, louder than you’ve ever shouted before. Don’t come back.

            The man stops. The mist clears and you can make out every feature of his pointed face. His smile falls. He slowly begins the walk back to your door. His feet meet the snow but make no sound. He leaves no footprints behind. You want to run, but your legs refuse. All you can do is shut your eyes. You stand in the open doorway, tears slowly falling. Breath on your neck. When you open your eyes, he is there. Mere inches from your face. His thin mouth is surrounded by lines. His eyes are deep and narrow, framed by the thick spectacles. He has one of those things on his face which make you feel queasy. You wait for the inevitable attack. Eyes locked together, yours are wide with fear. The man sighs heavily and clutches his briefcase to his chest. You’re sure he didn’t have a briefcase before.

            Looking down, he opens the case just a crack and removes a sliver of black paper. He lifts his head and looks at you, handing you the card. Slowly, you reach up and take it. You never release his gaze. He does not need to say the words; you can read them in his eyes. So clear are these words that it’s as if he’s shouting them, carving them into your senses. Burnt into your eyes and ears. I always come back.

            Once he releases the card into your grasp, he smiles. He lifts up his hand to the side of his face and wiggles his fingers in a departing wave. He turns, and begins the descent down the path. The mist covers him almost instantly. When it clears there is nothing. You stare down the path. Finally, you close the door. It cuts out the sound of the howling wind. The silence engulfs you. You lean against the wall, sweat pouring. You turn over the blank card and see tiny letters emblazoned in gold. Tick, tock.

            The night is suddenly colder. You crumple the card and throw it in the bin. You go to your room and shut the door. You change into your pyjamas, your favourite ones, with the pattern on the trousers. All the while, the smile plagues your mind. You climb into bed and pull the duvet over your head. An irrational subconscious thinks this will protect you.

            After half an hour you come to the conclusion that sleep is not an option. All you can see when you close your eyes is the smile. The eyes. The movement. The words, tick, tock. You lift off the duvet and walk through the corridors, resting in the living room and turning on the television. It’s still on the channel from that show you watched over lunch. The comedy about the group of twenty-something acquaintances. You flick to the news. You don’t normally pay attention, but something about it grabs you. You stand in the centre of the room, eyes fixed. A woman has died, south of where you live. She had two children. The death was not mysterious, but was sudden. An accident, the news reporter says. A neighbour is being interviewed. She has that kind of hair you hate. She says that the day before, the deceased woman had been seen with a man.

A brief introduction...

Hi!

Some brief introductory information: my name is Nick and I'm twenty-one years young. My life ambition is to be an author.

On this blog I will be posting some short stories, extracts and random creative tidbits. If anybody out there actually reads this then I hope you enjoy them.

Watch this space....