All about horror, and horror's what it's all about.

Or, what works in horror and what doesn't. Because a lot of horror really doesn't work. We should all know this now that Halloween is done and we've gorged on scary movies and spooky books. Who am I, then, to talk about this?

I write horror novels, mostly. The primary target audience is not adult. I'm aiming for the 12-15 year olds (although if the rest of the world wants to hop on board I'm convinced they'll enjoy the ride). This has thrown up a key question: How much horror is the right amount of horror? This is followed by a further question: Am I getting it right? One final question: How much of my writing time can I waste by writing a blog about these pertinent questions?

All my keys say this.

My first go at YA horror was called Macadamian Pliers and it's about a particularly sinister man with an unpleasant plan. We've got haunted houses, growlings in attics, vigorous ghosts, draggings into dark wardrobes, a mausoleum, and a fairly hectic final sequence. I tipped a couple of bags of horror in and gave it all a good stir. I told myself while writing it not to hold back, not to self-censor, just get the story done. I didn't want to dilute the inherent badness of a man like Pliers. As it turns out, Mac was the first of my stories I actually enjoyed upon reading it back (after letting it settle for a couple of months - it's vital to step away and leave the first draft alone when finished). There's a sense of foreboding to the piece, and Mac himself is creepy as hell. It's about the scares, not the grue.

And it's not exactly the stuff I thought I'd write.

When I was younger (late teens - like I was ever there) I envisioned myself as becoming a writer with Stephen King's enviable ability to spin a tale and James Herbert's ability to shock (all those chewing rats - yuk), but my heart wasn't quite in it. There was little joy in blood and guts for the sake of it. All the gruesome stuff... it's horrible, yes, but is it really horror? As a fan who's seen far too many films and read plenty of books, I'll tell you here and now that the answer is very, very close to no. Your Saws and Final Destinations and Shaun Hutson books and all the rest can be found at the lowest level, where the horror genre is at its least effective. No point in arguing with me, because it's true. Ring and Spiral (both in book and film form) are exponentially more effective at scaring, at horrifying, at lingering long after they are over. There's a couple of bits in Mama (which I watched recently - decent film, terrible ending as usual) which actually caused my toes to curl. Scares driven by suggestion. The Conjuring films and the second Annabelle are equally effective. The first Annabelle movie is not (and do not ever speak to me of the abysmal The Nun).
The blood is the after-effect of the event. It is the result. It should not be the whole story.

That cover still gives me the heeby-jeebies.

So I'm not that into blood and grue. My writing should be alright for younger readers, then? Nothing wrong with a few scares.
But there's those who will automatically shake their head and demand such books be burned. Ghosts and ghouls and bad men at the bottom of the garden? Horror is for grown-up sickos, not kids. No spooky stuff, no ghosts, no wizards even. Look at all the hullabaloo about Harry Potter in the US of A (funny bunch, you Americans). Maybe there's a good point to be made - a young person's imagination is electric and lively, and is arguably far better than an adult's at making these spooks and demons real.
Yes, I don't bother with the extremely icky stuff. It's all about the power of suggestion people! And that power can be strong. The threat is all you need. Any idiot can write in detail about cuts and splashes and gouts and sprays and loppings and choppings. Can you make the reader fear those horrors without ever painting them clearly? If so, the reader is yours to manipulate - and therein lies my concern.

Conscience, then, can be the writer's only guide. Conscience and confidence, the assurance that you know how far is far enough.

I've said before that horror is a constant let-down. And it's running out of ideas, right? So why am I bothering? Well, for the reasons I've discussed. There are other ways to go with horror, other stories to tell. There are plenty of characters waiting for someone to forget all the old cliches and to concentrate on story instead.

But I've got a cheek. Even I, who dares to spout off like he knows anything, am guilty of stealing well-worn tropes and settings.
The graveyard is one such classic setting. It comes with spookiness built-in. The second novel was called A Graveyard Visible. And yes, I am aware that I'm wide open to accusations of laziness. Ooo. A graveyard. And spookiness. Well done, Steve. However did you come up with that? Do something new, you might yell in my general direction. You think you're so clever? Try doing horror somewhere totally new, like a haunted microwave, make that scary! Well, shut your face. I've given the haunted house a twist, (a twist in the grim shape of a man called Macadamian) and I did something new down at the graveyard as well.
(God, I get so defensive when I make up arguments in my head.)

Anyway, I'm done for now. I'll probably have more to say about this...

Laters.

Halloween movie night - recommended viewing

Right. I'm going to sort your Halloween night out for you.

Some Halloweens we're not interested in going out or hosting a party. Sometimes it's cool to have a night of horror flicks, get three or four films queued up and ready to go.
This, then, is my suggestion for a great Halloween horror movie night.

I've had a good think about this list, and the order to watch them in. To clarify, this is NOT a list of the best horror films of all time, or even my personal favourites. This is a carefully chosen billing of films that I think fit in with what Halloween is about for me. Yes, it should be scary, but also fun. It has to fit in with the theme somehow. No Hostels or Saws or crap like that. Proper movies. Good movies. This is not a selection of possible viewing options. This is a definitive list, in a particular order. Do as you're told.

I chose not to stick anything on the track listing that has the word 'Halloween' in the title. That would be way, way too easy and obvious. Rather, it should feel Halloween. It should be the kind of stories you might tell as a storm lashes the windows, the power goes out, and all you've got left is a single wavering candle, while you wonder... could any of these creatures be lurking just beyond this small circle of light? Are they watching us from the dark, creeping nearer, nearer...

I reckon you can stick this one on around about seven in the evening, give any younger members of the family a chance to be involved in the fun. Don't worry, it won't scar 'em too much. It's got that adventure movie vibe of stuff like Goonies and Gremlins in the '80s that you just don't get in films anymore. And look at who's in it, perfect for Halloween, all the classics, all the greats! Dracula, Frankenstein, Wolfman, the Mummy, Creature from the Black Lagoon, a full cast of great Halloween costumes all in one place. Get the trick or treating out the way, then start this up while you scoff those sweets. The make-up is amazing across the board, and the practical effects are fantastic - one seen in particular involving the Wolfman will make your eyes pop out, I guarantee it.
In fact, there's no CGI in any of these films I've chosen. Just the good stuff.

Cranking up the tension a bit, here's a classic that has lingered in my mind ever since I saw this at the age of about 11 or 12. This is ideal for Halloween - it even starts with the story being told around a campfire by a seriously dicey-looking Captain Birdseye. Lurid old horror tales told by a flickering light are surely what this time of year is all about?
This is one of the all-time greats from when Carpenter was at the absolute height of his career. The bit where the fog approaches the house with the little kid and his grandmother inside...
Like all Carpenters films from this time, the atmosphere is incredible, so creepy, such a feeling of impending doom. And what better than to be sitting in your own home while watching this, wondering what might be coming for you in the night.

Into the rough stuff now. The faint of heart, the easily disturbed, they best bugger off to bed, because Candyman, based on a short story by the legendary Clive Barker, takes no prisoners. Depending on the length of your snack stops, it will be around 11PM by now, and this will take you right through the witching hour. Why this? The urban legend aspect is ideal Halloween fodder. It's like Bloody Mary cranked all the way up. Say his name in the mirror five times, and he's coming for you. Be warned, this one does get very gory, but it's got an ending I love.

Bonus Movie:

This one's for the last ghouls standing.
It'll be very late by now, and Candyman's a bit heavy to end the night on. Let's get back to the fun we were speaking of earlier, and perhaps the greatest horror-comedy ever made: Evil Dead 2. This is truly Sam Raimi at the peak of his gleeful inventiveness. It's just so much fun. Great monster designs, brilliant special effects, and a career-defining performance from Bruce Campbell. This is one of my all-time faves, and a definite go-to for Halloween. A cabin out in the woods, the demonic writings of the Necronomicon, incantations on old tape recorders, the terrible creature down in the basement... Brilliant.

That line-up, I promise you, will give you the perfect Halloween movie night in. All killer, no filler.

Laters.

Ghosts and Ghoulies and Trunks, Oh My!

Hey.

Gonna wheel out an old classic blog for one more Halloween haunt.

I wrote this horror book a couple of years before A Graveyard Visible, see. It's called Macadamian Pliers. Haunted house, a man of strange angles, trouble in a new town.  It's got everything you need for Halloween. (Hint, hint. So does 'A Graveyard Visible'. Graveyards, revenants, abandoned mansions, what more do you want?) And one of the kids in it, Jack, he's crazy-mad about ghosts and ghoulies and stuff. He's got a mondo-huge collection of mad spooky stories, new stuff and his own takes on the classics, and he sticks them all up on this website he shares with Cherry and Frank Raine - ihatemacadamianpliers.weebly.com So, to get into the mood for that most creepy time of the year, I'm going to let him take over my blog.

Okay, I'm handing over to Jack now. The kid tells a mean story. Strap in, and good luck.

The Trunk

I'll start with this bad ass story that messed my skull up for days. I got a trunk full of comics and couldn't go near them, which was a real pain.

'There was this old house that was abandoned and up for sale and these college kids were always messing around in there, having parties and stuff. There was usually about seven or eight of them, and they decided to play hide and seek. The game went on for a total age, and the college kids got bored before they finished they game, and did off. It wasn't until the next day that they realised one of them, a girl, was missing. They phoned her and called round her house and she never turned up. She was totally gone.
So it's five months after all this happened, and this family bought the house and moved in. They had a ton of stuff so it took an age, and there was a bunch of old furniture and stuff there already, but the mom wanted to keep it because she thought it was cool, the weird way oldies do. In the kid's bedroom was this properly old trunk, and that was where he wanted to stick his toys, but the lock on it was stuck. The dad sorted that out with a hammer, and they opened the trunk, and in there was the rotted body of the missing girl, all stinking and putrid, and her mouth was open in a big wide O, and her nails were all broken where she'd tried to get out.
Sick!
That ain't all of it.
The police took the body, and the family threw the trunk out. The kid was a total sycolo.. psykol... mental mess, but eventually he had to sleep in his room on his own. He was there in the dark, on his own, and BOOM! There was a loud thud, like something real heavy landing on the floor. He was so scared he couldn't shout for his mom. He could hardly bring himself to turn on the light... but when he did, it was there! The trunk had come back. He was actually kinda glad to see it coz he could stick all his toys and junk in there, so he got out of bed and went to the trunk and opened it up, and a rotting corpse leapt out and dragged him in!
When the trunk was eventually searched it was completely empty. Years later another family moved in and got rid of the trunk, but the next night when their little girl went to bed it reappeared, and do you know why? Because the thing in the trunk was hungry again, and it was time for another meal...'

Bloody Mary

I'm gonna tell this one the way my sister tells it, because her version kicks ass.

'It was, like, a century ago, before most of these houses were here. There was a woman who lived by the lake, the one past where the school is, and she lived there alone with her little daughter. The kid ended up drowning in the lake and this woman, Mary, she couldn’t cope with the grief. Eventually it drove her nuts, properly insane. People stopped going anywhere near the place. She could be heard screaming and wailing at all hours of the day, and would be seen beating herself with stones. The madness made Mary blame herself for her daughter’s death. Then the townsfolk’s children started going missing, but only the girls. It didn’t take long for the blame to land on Mary. The mob went out to her home, not to challenge her with their accusations, but to exact their revenge. They had already decided she was guilty.
Another girl disappeared after Mary was dead. She was spotted being carried away in the arms of a man headed for the lake. He was a labourer who’d moved into the area a few months earlier, and he admitted responsibility for all the disappearances. Mary’s daughter was his first victim.
And that’s what makes for a restless spirit. She waits for any opportunity to take her revenge on this town for what they did to her. It’s said that she can be summoned by chanting in the mirror…
You have to say Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, who killed your daughter Bloody Mary? They say she doesn’t just appear, though. They say she tries to smash her way through.'

Skinned Tom

This one is awesome.

'Every town has a lover's lane, one of those places where guys and chicks drive to and then sit there with soppy-ass music playing while they get it on, wasting their time. There's one town, though, where you should totally avoid the lover's lane, and I'll tell you why. Tom took this married chick there every friday night, been doing it for months. This one night they were there, kissing and whatever, when the car door was pulled open, and the chick's husband was right there and he had a knife and he was properly angry! He stabbed his wife, then dragged Tom out of the car, and said to Tom 'I told you before, didn't I? I told you if I caught you again I'd skin you alive!'
The married chick didn't die, and while she was in hospital she told the police what had gone down. As it turns out, the husband handed himself over to the police, owning up to his crimes. But Tom wasn't found. They searched and searched, but the only thing they found was a few splashes of blood near the car.
People started going missing after that. Couples would go up to lover's lane and never return. Their car would be found abandoned, and covered in bloody hand-prints. There's only ever been one survivor of these attacks, and she wound up in the loony bin, but before she got locked up she told a doctor what she saw. It was a bloody skeleton, and it was holding a knife, and it told her it needed her skin because it didn't have any of it's own.
Nobody goes up there anymore.'

Massive thanks to my man Jack for all the entertainment. We might have to invite him back again before the big night itself, Halloween...
If you liked Jack's tall tales, you might just get a kick out of the horror story he finds himself a part of. Macadamian Pliers

myBook.to/AGraveyardVisible

Laters.

Company - a short story.

Company

A short story by Steve Conoboy

It ate the cat last night, but I forgive It. I did like that cat, but I guess I can get another. Not right away, of course. Wouldn’t be much fun for the cat if I did, although the Greyling would probably be happy. Quite an appetite it’s got. Gobbled down all of my cat, fur and everything. Happened pretty quick. The cat was lolling about on the rug, the Greyling was listening to me rattle on, all calm and normal. Then the Greyling’s eyes bugged out of its head. A split-second was all it took. It was on the cat in the blink of an eye. Would have been me next if I hadn’t got over the shock and started talking again.

  Poor cat. Judging by the way the It looks at me, it’s got a similar fate lined up for my furless hide. Hasn’t tried to eat me yet, and I think I know why.

  I’ve had to learn a lot about the Greyling pretty quick. It loves the sunlight, thrives on it I think, which you wouldn’t expect to look at it. Sleeps from dusk till dawn. Precisely too, so I have to be on my toes there.

  Can’t sleep in, or I reckon that’ll be all for me. I’ll go the same way as the cat. Excuse me talking with my mouth full but it’s unavoidable. It’s become habit. No, more like a survival technique. While we’re awake, me and the Greyling, I talk. Constantly. Only thing that keeps the It at bay. It presses itself against a wall and listens, like it’s doing now. Follows me around the house to keep me in earshot and drinks in every word. It’s like some odd kind of hypnosis, not really like talking, filling the air with inane rubbish. It’s a spell, a really long spell I’ve got the Greyling under, and it’s easily broken. That’s why I don’t turn the television on any more. You can get distracted and forget. I’ve had a couple of close calls like that.

  I’m forced to sing to it while I’m in the shower. Quite loud so it can hear. I’m not a singer, I wasn’t built for music. At least it doesn’t come in the shower with me, just lurks in the room. It could do with a wash, though. Smells like an old attic. Not sure how to approach the washing of the Greyling. Or how it would react if I did. That’s why I haven’t done it yet. Neither would you if you’d been anywhere near those teeth.

  It’s not a looker. Man shaped, if that shape had been stretched and buckled. All its joints seem like they’ve been screwed inwards. Makes you think it must be slow and weak, looking at it. It’s not, though. Definitely not.

  I don’t know where it came from. I was putting the bin out one night, only takes a few moments so I left the door open. By the time I got back in the house it had snuck in. I leave the front or the back door open whenever I can now, but it doesn’t seem interested in leaving. Knowing my luck I’ll end up with another one creeping in at some point.

  I hate this time of the year when the days start getting longer. The winter wasn’t so bad, when the Greyling was getting itself off to sleep around four, five o’clock. Meant I had the evenings to myself. Could stop talking for a few hours too, although I’ve got to admit I still end up nattering on to myself. Force of habit. I think the whole experience has made me a bit eccentric. It would do the same to anyone, I suppose. These later evenings mean I have to keep my mouth going for longer. It’s a hell of a lot of time to fill up with talking. Sometimes I end up babbling nonsense just for the sake of stringing words together. The way an old person might coo and chitter to a beloved pet.

  The first couple of weeks were… fractious. I couldn’t work out what to do about the Greyling. Still haven’t really. I thought about reporting it to the police, but something tells me that wouldn’t work out very well. I’m not sure what I’d tell them to be honest. All it has done so far is menace me and eat the cat. There’s no doubt that it’s got more murderous intentions in mind… but if the police came round I suspect the Greyling would simply hide, and do a good job of it. That wouldn’t make me look very good. And it might be angry after.

  A while back I got tired of it following me around, always being in the corner of my eye. It’s just creepy. So I locked it in the bedroom. That’s why I don’t have a bedroom door any longer. It went completely berserk. For the sake of my doors I haven’t tried doing that again. I’ve never seen anything that furious. It could quite easily pluck my arms and legs out of the sockets. When it comes to the Greyling, I just don’t know what to do.

  Cleaning and talking to yourself seem to go together, don’t they? You know, it went mad when I locked it in the bedroom, but it’s fairly calm when it comes to me leaving the house. It has to be done at some time, going to shops and whatnot. Mowing the lawn. Posting a letter. Essential things you can’t get away from. Work, when I used to. I was invited to a meeting, and invited to leave. A result of my recently-developed eccentricities, I think.

  The bloody thing sets traps for me sometimes. They’re crude, but that makes them no less disturbing. I came home one time and the It had left me a sandwich on the stairs. A sandwich. There was a tube of superglue inside it. You can imagine what it had in mind. On another occasion it stuck a strand of gaffer tape across an open doorway at what the It guessed to be mouth-height, presumably for me to walk into. I got it across the neck. That gave it the idea that I’m garrotable, means I have to check all doorways whenever I get home.

  I tried to find out a bit more about the It, but where do you begin? I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life. It’s like a horrible cross between a human and a shaved lemur. I spent a while at the library on the internet, looking through websites of weird and wonderful creatures and mythical beasts and that sort of thing, sites about yetis and other things that don’t exist but people have photos of. There was nothing that looked or sounded anything like the Greyling. Maybe this Greyling is the only Greyling there is. Which isn’t very helpful for me, because it means I’m stuck without a handbook or instructions of any kind.

  I could take my own pictures, and I’ve tried. They don’t come out very well, though. It would be great if I could get a good clear picture of the Greyling, send it off to… whoever you send such things to. The news, a science magazine, I don’t know. But it doesn’t like to pose. And any pictures I do get come out smudgey. When you look at them it might as well be a gaunt old man diving out of frame. A better camera might produce clearer results, but I can’t exactly afford one of those when I’ve been invited out of my job.

  And what if this Greyling is the only Greyling? Wouldn’t that mean I held some sort of responsibility for it’s safeguarding? That worries me a lot. We’ve all heard what these sciency-types get up to, all their poking and prodding and cutting and after all that the It will be dead. Yes, it ate my cat, but perhaps cats are one of the main things it eats. I like chicken and beef and things like that. Cows eat grass, birds eat insects, that’s just the way things are.

  I’ve got neighbours on either side of me. I figured it might eventually get tired of waiting and slope off for an easier meal. There’s Mrs. Whitby out in her garden, hanging out her washing. She’s seventy-six and getting frail and has about as many visitors as I do and there’s nothing stopping it sneaking into her house when she isn’t looking. Horrible thing to think, that is, isn’t it? I’m not making excuses, but when you’re having to watch where you’re going all the time and you’re talking to yourself all the time and it’s been going on for months, well, sometimes you don’t think right, do you? It doesn’t really matter what dark thoughts I might have had. The It shows no inclination to go anywhere. Pushing it out with the broom seems unwise. The It seems to be easily riled up. And Mrs. Whitby might be going deaf, but not even she could fail to her it shrieking if I tried to shove it out while she was tending to her azaleas.

  I’d miss the Greyling if it went.

  Can’t believe I just said that. With all this nattering on, I come out with the funniest things sometimes. It often strikes me that I’m quite lucky there’s only the It around to hear me droning on. Anybody else would’ve had me locked up by now. Quick call to the funny farm, and off I go.

  I wonder if it would follow me there?

  When it comes down to it, I don’t really mind the Greyling so much. There’s no woman in this life of mine, no children pattering across these floors, just me and these walls that the Greyling clings to. There’s never a question these days whether it will be there, my strange and terrible companion. Always listening. Always attentive. Never boring. It chose to come here, and chooses to stay.

  A lot like a friend.

  I, er.

  Oh.

  I don’t know what to say.

            Er…

Endings - When is it time for a sequel, and when should the damn story be left alone?

Another novel comes to an end. Two Doors Down (still not happy with that title) has reached the final chapter. It's a pretty dramatic feeling.

Page 400. Never thought I'd get here.

Don't fret, this doesn't give away anything major (not that you'll know what the story is actually about). By the time this novel gets a release, you won't even remember seeing this picture. Plus, there's no way you can read every word of this. My heiroglyphics can be somewhat troublesome to decipher.

It's been a long journey with Ari (who lost her phone and needed a job to replace it) and the old bat from down the road (who gave her a job, but what a job it is). It's changed both characters (as it should - your story MUST have an arc, people!), and I've enjoyed tagging along for every minute of their discoveries. But they're about to move on without me. They don't need me anymore.

Now, I believe I've discussed endings in the past (here, somewhere, maybe), but I haven't really gone into what it means for the author. Months on end are spent with these characters and their stories. What happens when the story is done? Is there always room for a sequel? Should there be?

Even if there's never a sequel, these characters (if we've written them well, if we've made them sing) never leave us. If I was asked to put any one of my characters into a specific scene or situation, if I was asked to write them right now, I know that they'd snap immediately back to life for me. I know how they'd react. I lived with them all for long enough.

I wrote a novel YEARS ago (massive comic fantasy, I mean huge), and the lead characters Louisa Laloupe and Geraldine Floure still pop up in my head sometimes. A real pair of idiots. I loved writing them. That book was so much fun to discover. I kind-of wish I could write it again. I definitely wish I could get somebody to read about them. It was demented. Body swaps, musical numbers, extraordinary violence, supreme stupidity, Lead Astray had it all. Man, I miss it.
And we're talking 17, 18 years since I finished writing it. Gerald and Louisa are still with me. I still know what stupid things they'd do. I think that when you're having fun with a character, or you're at least interested in them yourself, then your writer's work is going well. They should be unusual. They should be strange. They should be bloody-minded. They should occasionally be cowardly in the face of dangerous. They should, at least sometimes, be stupid. They should be like us. And we should miss them when it's all over. After all if the writer doesn't miss them, then why on earth should any reader care?

Getting to the final act of A Graveyard Visible was a relief, because I thought I would never get there. That novel stopped and started so many times that I was convinced it was out of gas and would have to be abandoned in a ditch. Importantly, however, when I wrote the final line I was sad it was over and I was out of that world (for a while at least; need to let these scratchings rest before attempting the next draft), and I was also proud, because the work had that feeling of completeness. It was whole. It felt right. It felt done. It's hard stepping away when the story's done, though. I'd spent a lot of time with Caleb and Misha. They're a part of me.

Honestly? AGV is a dark place - but also an incredibly interesting one.

Layers of shadow and light.

Technically, there is room for more story in the world of AGV - but I'm tempted to leave it alone. Let it stand. Let readers make of it what they will. It's a very dark world to be in, and if I returned I would only find it darker, pitch black almost. As a contrast, Two Doors Down has been packed with lively bright energy. That's not to say that AGV is slow-paced - quite the opposite. The difference is that Two Doors Down feels complete, a story that has been told in its entirety.

It's funny how some novels you write could go on after the end, but it doesn't feel right. That's what it's all about, the feeling of completeness. If the writer goes too far and tries to wring another book out of the characters, it can dilute the appeal of the first book. It can leave a sour taste. That can't be worth it. This is probably too famous an example really, too obvious a choice, but look at the Star Wars prequels. That whole debacle should feature in writing classes - How To Ruin A Property and Really Upset the Fan Base. Never force the story. (Just noticed I wrote 'Star Wars' and 'force' near to each other. Ignore that.)

There's stuff up in the air with AGV, though. So, more is possible. Or not. I could change my mind, though.

As for Macadamian Pliers, have I said 'so long' to him? No. That story isn't over. That's going to be a trilogy. Second volume is pretty much done. No endings there yet. Reaching the end of the first book was more a case of 'so long for now'.

Macadamian Pliers

Out now. Go on.

A Graveyard Visible

Also out now. Go on, seriously

Laters.

(Hey, look, that was an ending.)
(Or was it?)

Next up, a series of spooky blogs. Halloween is coming...

Oldies - a free short story of horror, war, and buttery scones

Free!
What a lovely word.
To celebrate the release of my YA horror A Graveyard Visible (get it HERE), here's a second chance at this short story for you all to enjoy, or hate, or laugh along with, or laugh at, or to do with as you damn well please. All donations welcome.
It's a story I submitted to a few places, but never quite found a home, which is code for 'they hated it'. In all honesty it's about a million miles from perfect, but the energy is great, and I'm pleased with the opening image. It seems a shame to leave it languishing as a file in the cloud forever.

Quick ad for the new book first:

PRAISE FOR A GRAVEYARD VISIBLE

‘A GRAVEYARD VISIBLE is a literate horror story, a surreal portrait of coming of age, pariah status, and intellect. It is also the story of a tiny depressing town, and of a strange--even bizarre--cemetery, where the impossible occurs.’ - Mallory A. Haws: The Haunted Reading Room Reviews

‘This book goes from “good” to “great” to “I can’t put this book down until I have finished it”. If you want creepy, edge-of-your-seat page turner, this is for you!’ - Laurie’s Library Place

‘This book will make you want to close your eyes, but you can't... It's scary and chilling, and horror buffs won't want to miss this one.’ - Amy’s Bookshelf Reviews

‘For me personally, this is a story of profound loss. Each character is battling with their own loss and dealing with it in varied ways. It is through this loss that I really connected with Caleb...’ - Jayne, Goodreads review

‘Caleb is clearly a timid child and is all alone in the world. His mother is a terrible loss but in addition he has lost a father too. I loved how the author was able to portray this through his writing... (Caleb’s) development throughout the story was important. At first he was a scared, lonesome boy but after realising that there is a terrible evil to overcome, he turns into a courageous young man.’ - https://www.rorotbd.wordpress.com/

Enough of that: to the story!

Fair warning - there's an occasional bit of strong language from the dear old ladies, and the odd splattery part. Oh, and the German translations are probably way, way off, but I only took French at A level and Ancient Latin in university (what a ridiculous life I've led), so like a lazy git I just relied on Google Translate for those bits. Technically, therefore, it's not really my fault if it's wrong.
If you do happen to read it, be a love and take a sec to leave a quick note about what you think.

Oldies

Maude wiped the blood from her cheek with a lace handkerchief and took a sip of freshly-brewed tea. ‘She was a right bugger to deal with,’ she said, placing down the cup and taking a pre-made rollie out of a battered silver case.

 Enid produced a lighter from her handbag, lit Maude’s cigarette and took one for herself. ‘She got a bit excitable towards the end.’ She opened the back door to keep the kitchen aired. ‘Do you fancy one of these scones with butter or cheese sandwiches?’

 ‘Oh, a couple of scones would be lovely. Cheese has been playing havoc with my doings lately.’ Maude moved herself to the back step. Dear old Enid didn’t like anyone to get in the way when she was faffing in a kitchen, even when the kitchen wasn't hers, and she could get a smidgen grumpy after a killing. ‘Her petunias are coming on a treat.’ The whole garden was a finely-tuned delight. A neatly-mown lawn with a dainty fountain in the middle. Perfectly straight rows of radiant flowers. Hedges trimmed and precisely level.

 ‘You’re having one of your wobbles, aren’t you?’

 Maude kept her back to the annoyingly sharp-witted old woman. Enid would regularly forget where she’d left her glasses and have the most amazing difficulties naming family members, but when it came to spotting one of Maude’s moods she was always on the button. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth would I be having a wobble? Look, steady as a rock.’ She held out a liver-spotted hand which jaked and jittered. She hadn’t had a steady hand in almost ten years.

 ‘Stupid old bat,’ said Enid. ‘That wasn’t funny the last fifty times you did it either.’

 ‘That’s because you’re dead inside, dear.’ Given the circumstances, the joke fell flat. ‘We’re old women, dear, we’ve been around every block. Think about the people in this village, what would they make of it all? It would take God knows how long to explain to them that we’re not a pair of crazy old mares ready for the knacker’s yard.’

 ‘God doesn’t have much to do with any of this.’ Enid searched for a couple of nice plates for the neatly halved and buttered scones. 'It's perfectly normal to have second thoughts about things when you've just finished off one of your neighbours.'

 'And now we're tucking into one of her scones,' said Maude as her heart fluttered.

 'Yes we are, because I need a rest and a smoke and a cuppa and a bite to eat before we start shifting her and tidying up. I feel awful about Agnes, of course I do, but she was dead before we got here, dead for days. That thing up there would have bitten your arse off without a single thought, and you know that, so stop being a silly old fool.'

‘Oh, go on, have another go at me. I’m only bloody human. I've got my worries just like everyone else.’

 ‘Give over. Being precious doesn’t suit you. She was a horrible busy-body in life. It's not like you've lost your bosom buddy, is it?'

 'She didn't deserve that, though.' Maude inhaled deeply on her cigarette, the smoke rasping across her lungs. 'She might have been a shite-hawk, but no-one deserves that.'

 'Yes. Well.' Enid couldn't find anything to add. She joined her old friend in the garden to smoke. A low wail wound up on the other side of the village, like some monstrous giant had lost its great love. 'You think it's the real thing this time?'

 Maude shook her head. 'It'll be Old John getting carried away again, seeing Germans in the waves when there's nothing but water. He needs to lay off the rum.'

 'And you say I'm a cynic.' A coughing attack overtook Enid, a thick, liquid sound. Maude slapped her a little too hard between the shoulder-blades and was waved off. 'Give over, I'm not choking, I'm just dying by degrees.' The siren reached full blare, a blanket warning of horror to come.

 'That's you and me both on our last legs,' said Maude as she examined the fatly black sky. 'We're getting slow. This isn't an old woman's game.'

 'Blah blah blah.' Enid flicked her cigarette at the petunias. 'Same old blather. If it's not the killing, then it's the people we're killing, or you're too old or too slow or this is no work for a woman I told you last time, if you're worried about dying and leaving the job undone, then you need to find someone to train up, someone who can be trusted not to drop us in it. And if you mention that grand-daughter of yours again you’ll be told to shove it. That girl has no idea that a mouth can be shut as well as open. Plus she’s an idiot. She can't decide which side of the bed to get out of in the morning, never made making hard decisions on the spot. I know she’s your grand-daughter, but I have to be honest.’

 'Honesty's lovely, just stop enjoying it so much.' With one last glance to the sky, Maude led the way back indoors. Bolts were jolted into place. ‘I know she’s dumb as a post. I might love the lass, but I’m not blind. Not yet, anyway.’ She took a bite of a scone and scattered enough crumbs to make Enid tut. 'But there's no-one else. All the lads are taken up with the LDV.'

 ‘It hasn’t been called that for two years, you daft old bat.’

 Maude scoffed as she pulled the shutters across the kitchen window. ‘Call it what you like, it comes down to the same thing, all boys together playing at armies. What do you propose we do? Stroll into one of their little meetings, stop one of their drills to tell them that we’ve got a plague of monsters and we’ve been going round chopping them up?’

 ‘We’re hardly chopping anyone...’

 ‘Did you forget about Glenda? She was in pieces by the end of Monday night. As was I. You going to stand there or help me lock up?’

 Enid’s expression held the exasperation of years of friendship. ‘There’s no winning with you. You want to find a replacement but no-one’s good enough. Anyone would think you’re moaning for the sake of it. All those lads are doing is strolling along the cliff tops, swinging sticks at each other, and imagining what it would be like to fire the guns they’ll never get. They’d love to get involved in this, I’m telling you.’

 Bang, bang, bang on the door. The old ladies shared a look. ‘Is the lamp still on in the front room?’

 Maude peeked. ‘Yes.’

 ‘And the curtains?’

 ‘Open.’

 Bang, bang, bang. A muffled voice above the siren: ‘Agnes? You need to get your shutters up, we reckon we’ve got incoming. Can you hear me, Agnes?’

 ‘Shite,’ said Maude.

 ‘Language,’ said Enid. ‘Is that the Robinson’s laddie?’ A nod. ‘He might move on.’

 ‘You haven’t had a fall have you, Agnes? Can you hear me, love? Are you alright?’ The door handle rattled.

 ‘Hold on,’ shouted Maude. To her partner: ‘The bugger’s going to end up kicking his way in. He’s been a pain in the arse since he learned to walk, this one.’ She wove through the clutter of armchairs and footstools and small chests in Agnes’ front room to reach the front door, shuddering in its frame as the visitor banged again. ‘I said hold on! I’m not a bloody Olympian.’

 ‘Who’s that?’

 Maude struggled with the keys before getting the door open. ‘It’s me, that’s who,’ she told Sid Robinson, a lanky streak of boy in a cobbled-together man’s uniform. His tin helmet resembled a bucket attacked by hammers. ‘What do you want?’

 ‘Er, I’m, er, doing the rounds, er, making sure everybody locks up and boards their windows.’

 ‘It’s hard to lock up when I’m opening the door to you.’

 ‘It’s just that Betty down the road said she’d heard a bit of a commotion is all.’

 Maude’s jaw clenched as she prayed that the boy didn’t overhear Enid behind her hissing about busy-bodies. ‘She had a bit of a fall, she’s not so steady on her feet these days, so she’s having a bit of a lie down. Nothing to worry about.’ She started to shut him out, but Sid put out a gently firm arm.

 ‘I’ll be deciding if there’s any worrying to do or not.’ His tone was a poor copy of the Sarge’s. It was a tone that gave Maude an urge to cuff his ear. ‘Falling down isn’t a kerfuffle, is it? Betty told me there was a right old racket.’

 Dear old Betty was meant to be mostly deaf. ‘Our apologies. Agnes over-reacted a little, thought she’d broken something when really it’s only a little bit of bruising. She can be a drama, you know.’

 ‘Right. Well, can you make sure everything’s boarded up for her? And don’t try to make your way home, you’ll be best off staying here until...’

 ‘Until?’

 ‘Dunno. Until whatever this is blows over.’ Sid lowered his arm and Maude’s relief at getting rid of this boy was immense and she saw his eyes widen with horror and his foot shot forward to jam the door open and here was trouble. ‘I think now’s the time for you to tell me a few truths, don’t you?’

 She turned to look at whatever had caught his eye. Propped against the wall at the foot of the stairs was a blood-covered pike. ‘That? I... don’t know anything about that...’

 Enid elbowed her out of the way flung the door wide and thrust a knife at Sid’s throat. ‘Get in here, boy. Quick, before I decide to cut you anyway.’ He moved to grab the knife; she pressed the blade against his flesh. ‘Ever killed anyone, Army boy? Seen blood pumping out of a neck? It’s part of everyday life for me. Get your arse in now.’ With her free hand she got him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him inside. ‘Get the bloody door shut, Maude, and draw those curtains.’ She gave Sid a shove towards the stairs. ‘Up you go, laddie. Any messing around and this knife will go right up you.’ She gave him a prod when he failed to move.

 ‘You wait till the Sarge hears about this,’ he said, petulant. ‘He’ll have you, I’m telling you, he’ll bloody well have you.’

 ‘This is not a good idea,’ said Maude, locking up. ‘This is not how to do things.’

 ‘What’s the choice?’ Enid’s anger came through louder than her fear. ‘Let him go running off to tell the village that we’re murderers?’

 ‘You’ll end up in jail.’ A tremble shot through Sid’s shouts. ‘They won’t just throw away the key, they’ll bloody bury it.’

 Maude followed them up the stairs. ‘He’s just a daft lad.’ She hefted the pike in case the daft lad tried anything.

 ‘He’s the fresh blood you’ve been asking for. Now if he doesn’t get a move on, prod him with your big stick.’

 ‘The pair of you will burn in Hell if you’ve hurt poor Agnes!’

 ‘Prod him.’

 Maude obliged, without gusto. Sid leaped up three stairs with a yelp. ‘Why couldn’t you have pissed off, Sid?’ She suddenly felt like jabbing him a good deal harder. ‘You had to be the big man, didn’t you?’ At the top of the stairs he stopped and cringed, and she tried to push past Enid to get at him. ‘You stupid little shit! I ought to break your skull!’

 ‘That’s enough of that,’ said Enid, waving her friend down. ‘I said prod him, not kill him. Not until he’s seen what he’s here to see.’

 Bravado gone, Sid shook his head, a lamb before the old wolf. ‘I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean I’d tell the Sarge. Let me go.’

 ‘You wanted to see Agnes? Get in that room, or I’ll let this one loose with her stick. Move!’ Her phlegmy bark drove him to the bedroom door. His flappy hands got in an awful struggle with the handle. He jittered about, expecting the insertion of the pike at any second, then he was in and gagging on a miasma of sulfurous flesh and bubbling rot. Enid, pinching her nose, leaned into her friend and murmured: ‘Didn’t think you had it in you, great job acting like a bad bugger, we’ll have an heir to our throne in no time.’

 ‘Old age has finally sent you loopy if you think this is a good idea.’

 ‘But Maude, it’s not my idea, it’s yours.’ Enid followed Sid before Maude could vent any further.

 The young man had both hands cupped at his mouth. He was vomiting into them, and doing a poor job of holding onto the slippery stuff. It splattered his scuffed boots. He heaved again, spurred on by the mess on the bed.

 ‘Think I’ll crack a window,’ said Enid, giving Sid a consoling pat on the shoulder as she passed. Fright jumped him against the bed, rocking the corpse on top. The final contents of his stomach threw themselves up his throat and out. ‘Alright, laddie, pull yourself together. We’ve got enough cleaning up to do.’

 ‘What the fuck have you done?’ he asked thickly, holding his dripping hands out before him.

 Maude gave him a warning tap with the pike. ‘Language. And I’ll tell you what the fuck we’ve done, we’ve saved the likes of you from getting your arse bitten off while you stand on the cliffs looking out for Germans who’ll never come.’

 Taking out another cigarette, Enid parked herself on the end of the bed, inches from a taloned foot. ‘This thing here used to be Agnes, but Agnes didn’t die here. The thing that took her over, that’s what we killed. No, no, shut your mouth and look at it. Look. We’re not murderers because murder involves killing a human. Look at her teeth. Look at the size of the eye sockets. Do you remember Agnes having a ridge across her brow like that? Or a set of fingers like those?’ Sid made a series of noises that could have been attempts to start a sentence. ‘And I know her chest is a mess, but do you remember her shoulders being that broad? And look at...’

 ‘I can see!’ His shout was ragged, on the verge of a scream. ‘Christ, I can see, alright? God help me, I can.’ He reached towards the triple-jointed fingers, then thought better of it. ‘What is this?’

 ‘We call them boggarts,’ said Maude, putting her weapon to one side, ‘but you can call them what you like, it doesn’t change how horrible they are. They’ve been popping up in the village. We find them, we get rid of them. They get into people somehow, take them over.’

 ‘How?’

 Enid was already halfway through her smoke. ‘We don’t know. We’re a pair of biddies, not scientists. I can tell you that they horde knives and screwdrivers and the like, gather tools for when they’re ready to start killing. This thing that once was Agnes, it’s collected drawers full of blades. Drawers. All sharpened. While you and your mates were wearing your little armbands, the enemy was here and arming itself.’

 ‘Cup of tea, love?’ asked Maude of Sid.

 ‘No, ta.’ A fingernail-sized piece of flesh tumbled into the gaping wound in the boggart’s chest. Sid retched a little despite being empty. ‘How many... Urrgh, how many of these have you, er, have you...’

 ‘That’s the fourth. We thought after the first trio we’d nipped it in the bud, but...’ Enid shrugged and smoked.

 Maude took over. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. You could persuade one of your mates to come over, but what do you think they’re going to see? The monster, or what remains of a corpse? It wouldn’t end very well for us. What I’m saying is, you need to choose. Are you going to run to the Sarge with your monster story, or are you going to help us?’

 ‘It’s, er, it’s...’

 ‘A lot to take in, yes. Compared to how me and Enid found out, you’ve been eased into this.’

 Sid was a ghost of himself. ‘You want me to be stabbing people.’ A statement, not a question. ‘You want me to do actual killing.’

 Enid flashed him a big smile. ‘We want you to fight the good fight. How about it?’

 ‘Oh boy,’ said Sid, running a greasy hand through his hair. ‘I just started seeing Sadie Buttersworth an’ all.’

 That made Enid laugh until a rasping cough took over. ‘You’re alright, laddie,’ she spluttered, ‘you’re alright.’

 ‘No,’ said Sid. ‘No I’m not alright. I can’t have anything to do with this. I can’t! Look at me, look at what I’m wearing! I’ve got my Dad’s knackered old boots, this stupid armband, and that helmet, it looks like a fucking bucket attacked by hammers. I’m not even a real soldier, and you want me to do this? You’re not right in the head.’ His voice was rising. Enid flicked the fag butt and shut the window. ‘Look at the teeth on it! And the fingers! And you’re telling me there’s more of these things? And you think I want to meet them?’

 ‘I knew it,’ said Maude, reaching for the pike. ‘Bloody toy soldier, good for nothing. Don’t worry, she said, it’ll all work out fine, she said, load of old crap.’

 Enid looked put out. ‘I said it was all your idea, and that’s all I said.’

 Sid stepped towards Maude. ‘Out the way.’ He was stopped by a metallic point an inch from his nose.

 ‘What we going to do with him?’ asked Maude of Enid.

 ‘Let him go I suppose.’

 ‘Let him go? Stupid old bat.’ She didn’t take her eyes off the boy, didn’t even blink. ‘This is why I didn’t want to find someone to take over because I knew nobody could handle it. He knows what we do, and he can’t cope, so what now?’

 The urge was strong in Enid to strike up another smoke. ‘Christ on a bike. You want it plain and simple? Here it is. We either let him go and hope he doesn’t drop us in it, or kill him and dump him with whatever’s eventually left of Agnes. Alright?’

 Sid turned away from the pike, turned to the corpse. 'Kill me, then. Get it over with. You dragged me in here. I didn’t want to see this. I’m fifteen! There’s Nazis out there and there’s this in here and what chance have we got? All I want is a life for me and Sadie and I can’t have it. So kill me and have done with it.’

 Maude groaned. ‘For Christ’s sake. I can’t go killing this silly little bugger, Enid, you know that. Let him go. Let him say what he wants. Fuck it. I don’t care any longer.’

 ‘Language. If you’re sure you’re sure, then...’ Tap. Tap, tap, tap. ‘That the front door again?’ A nod. ‘Bloody hell. Busy night considering the bloody air raid siren’s going off.’

 ‘Help!’ shouted Sid and he lunged forward and shouldered Maude out of the way and stumbled down the stairs shouting ‘Help!’ all the way.

 ‘What’s going on in there?’ called a voice outside as Enid clambered over her felled friend.

 ‘Betty! What on earth is she doing here?’

 Sid’s feet tangled at the bottom of the stairs, and he hit the door face-first, smashing a tooth out of his head. Enid’s knees wouldn’t allow her to descend at any speed other than slowly. ‘You wait there one minute, Sidney Robinson. You obey me, I’m your elder!’ He tried to shake off the grogginess, fumbled with the keys. ‘Sidney! Don’t!’

 ‘Help me out!’ A returned urge to live pushed his voice to feminine heights.

 A tremendous thud against the door from the outside. Sid took a backward step into the living room. A second later and there was no more front door and the air was strewn with chunks of wood. Splinters embedded in Enid’s forearms as she shielded her face.

 In stepped a mockery of Betty. Bone bulged around the eye sockets. Those teeth didn’t fit her mouth right. Triple-jointed fingers clacked restlessly. Hunched and hulking, this Betty turned Sid’s bowels to water. It reached with too long arms, dragged Enid down the remainder of the flight, threw her at the boy. She and he hit the floor, a sore bundle.

 Rasping like a dying airplane engine, Betty spoke. ‘We need a chat. Where’s the other.’

 ‘What other?’ snarled Enid.

 ‘Play games and I will tear off your arms.

 ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ huffed Maude. She appeared at the foot of the stairs, clutching the top of her arm. ‘Would have been quick if Master Robinson hadn’t decided to dislocate my shoulder.’

 Fat, slimy words hacked through the mass of teeth in once-Betty’s strained and splitting mouth. ‘Get over there, bitch.’ One of her disgusting hands shoved Maude, a shove in the injured shoulder, and Maude heard herself cry out from far away as cold grey sheets rushed in from all corners, and a barked shin against a coffee table sharp woke her back up. Sid caught her before she pitched headlong into the fireplace.

 ‘You alright?’ asked Enid while not feeling particularly alright herself.

 ‘Excuse the language, but I’ve just picked up a bruise the size of a fucking tin helmet and it’s put me in a bit of a mood.’

 In a wild temper Betty slashed out with an engorged hand, hit an armchair, snapped its back in two. ‘Shut mouths! Old bitches!’ Betty tensed, and tensed some more, bunching up and if she launched at them now they’d be smashed against the wall and splashed across the ceiling. ‘Stupid chit-chat, like this is one of your tea parties!’ Maude nudged Enid before any wisecracks could emerge. ‘Murderers!’ Betty snatched up the broken chair. ‘Murderers!’ She hurled it across the room where it crashed into the dining table, and Betty roared, throat bulging to let the raging noise loose, and Sid sank to his knees before this tirade and wept.

 The once-Betty saw his crumpled form, his streaking tears, and her tension dissipated, dripping away from bulging head to fat toes bursting out of slippers. Her voice softened, but that deep-pit rumble remained like radio crackle. ‘Sidney. Poor, poor Sidney. A boy dressed up for the wrong gathering. Such fresh flesh.’ Gurgling laughter. ‘Do you like your new friends, Sidney? Do you like what they dragged you into? A bet I know what you didn’t like, the things they did to Agnes. Dear old Agnes. Did they make a mess of her? I smell the vomit on you. They must have left her in pieces.’

 It was with a snarl that Enid spoke. ‘My God, you moan on exactly the way she did. Why don’t you give it a rest already?’

 One of those long, long arms lifted, a thrice-knuckled digit uncurled to point. ‘Don’t be rude or I’ll poke out your eyes.’ With that corrupted limb outstretched, it was easy to believe that a quick flick could pluck an eyeball from a skull. ‘Sidney, I let you go, do you remember? You came a-knocking on my door, and I’m hungry you know, always so hungry and I could eat and eat and your flesh looks so sweet and yet I kindly turned you away. I wanted to rip open the door and drag you in and chop you up in the pantry and chew on your sweet flesh until there was only bones left to suck, and what I did was politely turn you away. And what did these murderers do? They dragged you into it. They pulled you in. They showed you blood and death.’ An attempt to smile split lips. ‘Who’s the real monster here? They’ve killed four times and stolen your innocence, and all I want to do is survive.’

 An ornamental wooden owl bounced off Betty’s head. Oily blood seeped from the thin tear that opened the dry skin. Her left eye inflated angrily as she barked outrage. ‘There,’ said Enid. ‘There’s your monster. It’s that thing there, wearing a miserable old biddy like a ripped suit.’

 The sight of that black, bleak liquid trickling from that mis-shapen temple stopped Sid’s tears. Real bleeding from an unreal thing. Cracks in his throat. ‘You sent me here, Betty. You knew what you were sending me into. Maybe you are hungry, but you like your games too, don’t you? You like watching me wriggle on the line, you disgusting thing.’ He brought his foot down on the coffee table that had tripped Maude, a heavy-booted foot, and smashed the table to bits. The sound, the action, the unexpected, caused Enid to jump. Her heart flapped like a mad bat. He picked out a short splintered leg, wielded it, a bludgeon. ‘Yes, you had your reasons, you’ve got your game. Well, I’m ready to play now.’

 It occurred to Maude that the air-raid siren was still howling its mournful warning. Had it been three minutes since it started? Ten minutes? Two hours? Why was she thinking about this when once-Betty was bracing its long arms and ripped-slippered feet against the wall, preparing to thrust itself at them? She looked around. No more wooden owls. And her shoulder couldn’t cope with smashing up chairs and tables the way Sid could. Of all the people/monsters to take her and Enid down, it had to be this old windbag, the worst gossip in a gossipy village.

 The boggart was grinding its teeth so hard that Maude heard two of them snap. Sid had his fists up, ready to box. She laughed. The stranger in the doorway didn’t. He pointed his gun and looked alarmed.

 ‘Who the hell is that?’ asked Enid.

 Bulging, bleeding face rage-twisted, Betty craned her neck round for a look.

 ‘Was zum Teufel ist das?’ barked the soldier.

 Enid had time to say ‘Language,’ before the rifle made a thin high crack, a noise that whip-lashed her ears, and a chunk of the boggart’s head blew off in a red-black mist and Maude screamed with painful volume, but no, it wasn’t Maude: her voice was a ruin from decades of smoking. Sid was the screamer. He was hitting incredible pitch.

 Betty scrabbled at the air for something to stop her fall. Her ruined head dashed against a foot stool, and a small piece of blackened brain popped out onto the floor. The boggart’s legs kicked like it was sprinting in a race, heels drumming hard and fast. It clawed about wildly, tearing gouges in the plaster on the walls. The soldier switched the aim of his rifle between the creature and the group of people by the fireplace. ‘Was ist das?’ he shouted. ‘Was ist das für ein Ding?’

 ‘He sounds upset,’ said Enid.

 ‘Him being upset doesn’t bother me,’ said Maude. ‘That rifle of his bothers me.’

 ‘Sag mir, was los ist!’ barked the soldier, jabbing the weapon’s barrel in their direction before snapping it back to the jittering boggart. He took a step back as it kicked its slippers off.

 Sid wasn’t screaming anymore. Maude saw his shoulders tense. He’d put himself in gear, but was it for fight or flight? She raised her hands; to catch Sid, or calm the soldier, she wasn’t sure which.

 The boggart stopped thrashing. One overlong arm remained stiffly aloft. The soldier’s attention focused on that arm. And then Sid was pinwheeling towards him, flailing like a flung ragdoll. The rifle fired a second time. Sid jumped like he’d just had the world’s biggest surprise, then fell to the floor. A blood-thinning cry of delight, and the boggart lashed out with bare and taloned feet, tearing chunks of flesh out of the soldier’s shins, baring bone. He only had a few seconds to shriek in agony before his throat was crushed and his head smashed against floorboards.

 Maude dropped to protesting knees beside Sid, rolled him over with a struggle. Blood seeped from his mouth. He couldn’t see her with his marble eyes. ‘Bloody hell, Sidney.’ And because she couldn’t think of anything else to say: ‘Bloody hell.’

 Stepping over the dead boy, Enid scooped up the rifle, pointed the bangy end at the boggart. She’d never handled one before. She hoped it didn’t show. ‘Listen here, Betty,’ she said to the monster that was busy carving into the German’s face with its claws. ‘I’ve had enough for one day.’ The boggart growled at her with its half-mouth, spilling thick, greasy blood down its front, but it kept on carving. ‘If you want to continue existing, you need to do what I say.’

 With a final tug and a wet tear, the monster pulled a section of the soldier’s head loose and screwed it into place within its own head. It held Enid with a sickeningly uneven gaze, one boggarty eye, one dead soldier eye looking out from a ragged patchwork face. It tapped the body it had just mutilated, fingers dripping. ‘Wha dis sack o shi?’

 ‘That sack of shit is a German. That German shot you in the face. There’s more of them out there. More, ready to shoot you as well. You think us two old biddies are bad news? When that lot gets wind of how dangerous you and your lot are, they’ll stop at nothing to wipe you out. Not for a cup of tea, not for a smoke, nothing. All they’ll want to do is shoot you in the face. You understand?’ The boggart traced its grey fingers around the bloody edges of its new chunk of head. ‘So it’s up to you. Waste time on us, or...’

 ‘Kill Germans! Kill Germans!’ It beat upon the corpse, pounded, pummeled. ‘Kill Germans!’

 Icy, Maude said, ‘Fucking get on with it, then.’

 Enid brought the rifle butt up against her shoulder in a manner intended to convey threat. A decision for the boggart. A choice between being a short distance away from the weapon that had already partially scrambled its brain, or the playground of the night outdoors and the many vengeances it could take.

 Patchwork Betty fled.

 Enid offered Maude a hand. It was accepted, and both women made various moanings and groanings as they battled Maude’s knees to get her upright. ‘Hopefully that’ll buy us five minutes or so of peace.’

 Maude looked out of the front door. There were shots in the night, and thin, hot fireflies slicing the village. ‘How do you think all this will turn out?’

 ‘Badly, most likely.’ She looked terrible in her oldness, ill, like she’d never been young, like a soul born withered. They both did. A pair of oldies. ‘Let them sort it out. Then, whoever’s left, we’ll deal with them. We’ll have to.’ She made her way to the kitchen. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

 ‘Stupid question,’ said Maude, following. ‘Not sure what we’re going to tell poor Sidney’s mother.’

 ‘I wouldn’t worry about that yet. She might not survive a night like this.’

 ‘Listen, Enid, I’ve got to ask. You didn’t push him, did you? You didn’t?’

 Enid did the best she could with a smile as she filled the kettle. ‘You know what your problem is, don’t you? You worry too much.’