Christmas Night Of The Living Dead Part 2

I slowly turned to the face the source of the wheezing that emanated from behind me. The dark bundle of rags heaved with deep breaths, the whole torso seeming to rise and fall with each inhale and exhale.

"Can I help you?" I asked trying not to slur my words in the cold.

The bundle of rags continued to look at me, I could just about make out a shape like a head upon shoulders that was fixated in my direction. The was something unnerving about the way the only sound that appeared to exist within the station, and the surrounding area, was the wheezing sound of the ragged creature before me. No cars, no excited, drunken revellers or stray cats fighting. The air was dead.

"I don't think the train to London will run, the snows coming down pretty heavily now."

Up until the point where he reached out towards me I had felt no fear, no anxiety about what this thing in front of me may have been planning to do. As soon as its hand rested on my arm I suddenly felt my heart quicken. The hand in question was bordering between the shades of blue and purple, one that had obviously been devoid of bodily heat and the circulation of blood that provides the skin with its natural warm pigments. The nails were dirty, almost black with the remnants of soil underneath them, once I had decided that I was in the presence of a reanimated corpse it was pretty obvious that the soil had come from where it had dug itself out from wherever it had been laid.

The fingernails that I would have expected to be brittle gripped my arm, instead of breaking away they embedded themselves in my skin. Tearing through not only the fabric of my overcoat and shirtsleeve, but the flesh on my arm. I tried to scream out in pain, but a combination of extreme cold, sudden shock and immense pain prevented any sound from leaving my lips. A sudden surge of adrenaline lifted my other arms and I landed a punch somewhere in the general vicinity of where I suspected the creature's head to be. My knuckles landed on the cold, hard flesh of what would've been a nose, I felt the bones break. Still the grip intensified. I swung again, hoping to find the same spot, not entirely sure why I thought a creature who doesn't feel pain would let me go if I punched it in the face. My punch was lower and instead of the nose I landed my fist in its open mouth, just in time to feel its teeth bite down on my fist and it was the bones in my hand that cracked this time. Now, fully aware of what was happening, I screamed.

It didn't take long for me to notice that my hand was no longer a composite of bones, muscles and flesh.

My heart increasing in rate, my body exuding sweat in the coldest night of the year. Unable to move, unable to process anything that was happening, I was exactly where the creature wanted me and took its opportunity well, forcing me down onto the ground. Its teeth started to gnaw at the thin skin that surrounded my skull, warm blood flowing down my face, some mingling with tears, some with sweat. When the first crack of teeth on bone vibrated throughout my body I held a slight hope that the skull would prove too thick and it would move on to a more easily digestible target, such as a fox or cat. The second crack dispelled any hope I had as the teeth forced their way through the bone. The cold night air swirled around the exposed bone and invaded the inside of my skull as all the nerves surrounding the brain were exposed. As the creature worked more of the skull bone away I thought my last thoughts, a regret that I never told Stephanie that I loved her...

THE END

Christmas Night Of The Living Dead Part 1

I walked through the little side door that allowed access and egress from the platform to the open streets of Hollow Bay. The main thoroughfare; complete with ticket office, electric timetable and vending machine, had been closed for several hours, dark and empty. Hollow Bay's train station was exactly like the other stations that had been built on the South Eastern coastal line. Grey outer shells, wooden floors leading out onto tarmac platforms with black and white patterns on all the railings and stairs that cross under the tracks to and from London.

I pulled my coat tighter as a breeze suddenly brought the full -10 degrees wind chill swirling around me. They had forecast snow all week, yet it had waited until tonight to release its first flakes. There are times when I consider Mother Nature to be in possession of a cruel sense of humour, oh how I must have wronged her in a previous life. The flakes continued to increase in size and density until very soon, with exception of the metal rails, the track itself was covered in a shallow blanket of white. Looking up at the black and yellow departure board I started to wonder if the last train to London would even run at all.

I took a sharp intake of breath as I thought I saw movement of something large and black a little way down the line. The inrush of cold air, and several large snowflakes, settled in the back of my throat and I coughed, deep coughs that seemed to stretch several unused muscles in my chest, Eventually it subsided to be replaced by a shallow wheezing as my lungs adjusted to the cold. However, after several deep breaths I soon realised that the wheezing noise wasn't coming from my own lungs, but from someone in close proximity...

Gazing

Carl Jericho strummed his guitar, tuning up for an encore number. He’d already left the stage his T-Shirt stained in various places from the incredible amount of sweat that had escaped through his pores. The crowd were all shouting in unison for more, the entire club screaming ‘Carl’ ‘Carl’ ‘Carl’ wanting the night to never end. When he’s led the band back onto the stage he’d already decided his next move. The cover version of Neil Young’s Rocking In The Free World which they had been practicing throughout the entire arena tour had never made it onto the set, never felt right, but tonight in the secret charity gig everything screamed perfection.

“We’ve been practicing this little number throughout the tour, but to play an absolute classic you need the right crowd. Tonight, in our hometown, I think we’ve found an audience good enough,” Jericho leant into the mike, “Manchester Academy, Are you ready?”

The crowd screamed out as one, Carl Jericho stood there basking in the glory of his idol status.

“Maybe, I was wrong. Manchester, Are you ready?” Jericho screamed into the microphone.

The crowd roared; screaming, shouting and pleading for more. Trying even louder with even more effort to appease their God who stood before them, asking them to pray to him and receive his gifts.

Alexandra was almost deafened by the drunken screams of the young girls surrounding her. She put a hand on her belly and tapped it gently half wondering if this was really the place to bring her unborn child. She thought of her Dad and how he’d probably say “Never too young to educate them” and start to regale her with a story of he and her mother used to play Led Zeppelin records to her while she slept in the womb. She was quite content that the avoidance of smoke and alcohol far outweighed the negative effects of treating her little one to Lithium Junkies performing some of their classics. She even treated herself to a little pregnant hormonal cry during an acoustic version of their mega hit ‘Don’t Look Like That’. Her heart skipped a beat when he looked directly at her and smiled. Carl Jericho, the sexiest man alive ever according to Cosmopolitan, looking directly at her in a sea of people.

“I think you deserve this, so I’m dedicating this to the most beautiful, the most perfect, the most amazing woman in this room. You know who you are,” Carl Jericho gushed, holding the entire room in his hand with his magnetism.

“Thank you,” Alexandra whispered back knowing she wouldn’t be heard over the screams of the audience.

As Jericho began to play the opening chords, Alexandra could see in him the man she first met at a friend’s engagement party. He was sitting in the corner of the room, a small glass of white wine sat neatly on a silver coaster, no sign of the extravagant egotistical rock star that was belting out a Neil Young classic like it was one of his own. She had sat down beside him and listened as he played Travis’ ‘Driftwood’ on an old acoustic guitar. It was just him and a guitar, yet the whole room seemed to stop and listen, like for those two minutes there was nothing sweeter in life than Carl Jericho’s grizzly vocals telling a story about a piece of flotsam. It was then that they’d got talking; found a common interest in the paintings of Edvard Munch, even more so to find that he had a genuine reproduction of Vampire hanging in his stairwell.

She looked at him on the stage, his long blonde hair a tangled mess, his chin full of overgrown stubble that hadn’t yet become thick enough to resemble the beard he favoured when being little known Spike Floyd. If only the press had seen him at the party, thick black rimmed glasses and a black suit, a million miles away from his alter-ego’s snakeskin pants and silver open fronted shirts. She looked around the room and wondered how many people actually knew that deep within this immaculate showman was an insecure depressive who could talk for hours about art and literature.

High above the spotlights changed from red, to green, to blue and gusts of dry ice flowed into the jumping crowd. Carl Jerricho began his guitar solo, in this persona everything was a challenge, he had seen Neil Young completely dismantle a guitar and play it just by waving the strings around, this was to be the best show he’d ever played. He knew that within 24 hours camera phones, digital camcorders and unofficial bootlegs would have filtered their way onto the internet. He also knew that a really good show would have the YouTube hit rate through the roof just in time for a Christmas greatest hits package to fall onto the shelves. With a final flourish he swung his guitar above his head and brought it down onto the stage, a hundred camera’s illuminating the moment with their flash as they sought to capture the moment when their hero reproduced the cover of The Clash’s London Calling.

Alexandra screamed at the top of her lungs as the pure emotion of watching Carl Jericho destroy his guitar and release all the pent up frustration inside him. She felt a twinge in her belly as she realised she was jumping a little too much and should probably sit down. She smiled broadly as Jerricho kicked his guitar from the stage and stomped around releasing more tension, more energy. He picked up the mike from the stand and bowed to the screaming adoration.

“Thank you, thank you,” he breathed heavily, struggling to get his words out, “I want to thank each and every one of you for making this gig, possibly the greatest in my living memory. You’ve come out and made a hell of a lot of money for our charity and we hope to see you again real soon. It only remains for me to thank you on behalf of the band, Tasha, JJ, myself Carl. Thanks for supporting us, you’re our heroes.”

Jericho slowed down and stood at the microphone stand, replacing the mike back into its holder. He reached behind him for one of his back up guitars. The room was a hum as they waited for a second encore song. Jericho looked out, holding his hand to his eyes in search of something or someone. Alexandra held her breath and felt her heart beating a little faster.

“Somewhere out there is the love of my life, she’s been instrumental in providing inspiration for new songs which we hope to get out to you sometime in the next year. She’s my sun, my star and the mother of my child,” Carl Jericho pointed out into the crowd to a small brunette sat at the bar holding a bottle of Bud. “Charlotte, I know you like the Foo Fighters so this is for you. I love you, baby.”

As Jerricho uttered the first line and admitted he had a confession to make Alexandra suddenly felt very, very sick.

Escape (With apologies to HG Wells)

ESCAPE

I held Susie's hand tight as she cried into my shoulder. She hid her face from the scene of carnage and mass hysteria that had taken over the docks. The gangplank onto our steamer continued to rise, but still people were jumping from the dockside and risking their lives to get aboard the only boat left in this part of London. Women were pleading for the lives of their children; men were bartering with naval officers on duty for safe passage. All of the gold and diamonds of the Western world could not save the people left behind. The crowd of people grew with the arrival of more and more desperate people, families trying to find a haven from death. Closer they were pushed to the waters edge. The desperate jumped for the steamer, while people of all religions knelt down and prayed for a miracle.

The smoke from the ship's funnel belched out large and black as the engines were pushed into full action quicker than they were designed for. Even though it blocked our view of the refugees left behind, it didn't obscure the noise of hundreds of people calling out in anger and fear. On the deck next to me the relief poured out of the lucky passengers. Grown men cried in the arms of their loved ones, Susie turned to look around her and I wiped a brown hair from her eyes. An old man lay on the wooden floor, the exhaustion too much for his heart, while all around him people crossed his prone body too caught up in their own newly mixed up minds.

"Herbert."

A young woman by the starboard railings looked out across the sea of bodies left behind directly into the eyes of her husband to be. Tears formed in her eyes as he started to drift away from her. She cried out with all her heart. Trying to fight off her father she mounted the railings in an attempt to go back to him, but her father held her tight and dragged her back on board.

"Carrie. He will be all right. He'll make his way out of the country. He'll escape the danger," he attempted to comfort her.

She continued to cry into her dress. Her face became streaked with tears as her sobbing became uncontrollable as she leant back on her father for strength. Susie watched her and held me tighter realising how lucky we are to be here together. I kiss her on the head in agreement. The farther out we steamed the more of the city we could see, fire and smoke rose into the sky from the burning buildings dotted around the capital. Where once stood proud buildings and homes lay nothing but bricks and rubble. The attack was swift and brutal and we had no answer.

Above the rooftops, giant metal tripods continue to dwarf the tallest buildings. Gleaming in the sunlight, the glass windows that gave the Martians their Gods eye view light up the tops of the silver machines. Never before in our lives have we seen anything that resembles the grotesque appearance of our foe. When I saw the first arrival on Horshell Common it shocked me. Their bodies were covered by wet leathery skin, enormous black eyes looking through us. With no ears to listen to our pleas of mercy and no mouths to talk of peace, they were all our nightmares rolled into one. Their roar of victory spread out through every area in the city. Even though they lacked mouths their machines emitted a battle roar that chilled the heart of every human and animal left in England.

"Look," Susie screamed.

One of the metal tripods started to wade its way down the Thames; it sliced through bridges like they didn't exist. In a matter of seconds it stood on the dockside. Rising up to its full height it sounded off a war cry loud enough to split the clouds above. Tugging at my arm Susie started to drag me towards the front of the boat, the shadow from the Martian tripod chasing us across the deck.

Susie stopped and almost fainted into my arms. Where people once scurried around on deck, naval officers herding them like sheep, life now appeared to stop. Time stood still until shattered by a woman's scream.

"Oh my God. Its another one," She screamed letting all hell loose.

Directly in front of us two Martian war machines stood, waiting for our steamer to enter the range of their heat ray. I could feel the steamer move beneath my feet as the Captain ordered a change in course. I held Susie in my arms again and looked around for inspiration from anywhere. My feet turned to clay and my legs went numb as the fear took hold. Men and women of all shapes and sizes threw themselves into spaces and doorways. People below decks ventured upstairs and scurried back down again when they saw what awaited them in the open air. Once couple jumped overboard holding their baby, taking it into the murky waters. Last night I held Susie in my arms as we made love. Now I hold her preparing for the end of the world.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the sleek grey shape of a naval Ironclad. Sounding its horn it powered up its engines. Smoke billowed from the funnels upon its proud deck. The sky turned black as smoke and clouds overshadowed the sun. Thunder erupted and the fighting machines stood side-by-side blocking our only way of escape. The heat-rays began to glow with power and the giant metal machines dwarfed our steamer.

"I love you," Susie screamed at me closing her eyes.

"I love you too," I replied.

Looking up at the glowing cylinders that held the dreaded heat-ray I closed my eyes and waited for the end.

With a deafening roar the Ironclad headed towards us. It cried out in anger driving intently towards the Martians. Showing no signs of fear the Iron saviour headed, guns blazing, towards the waiting metal giants. With every shot hitting the metal casing of the war machines the 'Thunder Child' cried out the determination that Britain would not be swept aside without a fight. Distracted, the fighting machines changed their attention towards the new threat. Releasing black smoke from funnels that formed part of their casing they attempted to disorientate the crew of 'Thunder Child.' The steamer continued on its course into the black smoke, we could see nothing but the person stood next to us. The anxiety gripped at my chest. Even though I couldn't see the Martians they were still there. It didn't make the danger any less real. They could still crush us at the drop of a hat.

Suddenly, surrounding us the sound of metal crashing against metal filled the air. People stopped their panic and looked skywards. The black clouds of smoke began to disperse as we carried on with our course. Out of the void the large metal shape of a Martian war machine headed down towards us. Once again the fear of death gripped at everyone on board, as the metal object fell people on deck jumped overboard fearing it would land on the steamer and drag it under. Susie tried to pull me towards the stairs that led to the bowels of the ship. I was deaf to her pleas as I watched the large metal disc continue on its decent downwards.

"No. Watch." I pointed.

Susie stopped struggling and looked along the line of my finger. The Martian tripod was falling; it wasn't the deliberate action of an attack, but a response. 'Thunder Child' had rammed the tripod legs causing them to buckle from the force. The mass of tangled metal fell into the water behind us, as it did so it created a tidal wave. The wave washed up against the back of the steamer and flung it forwards, sending everyone on board tumbling forward. I reached out for Susie's hand as water ran along the deck beneath us. She held on to me as I clung to the wooden railing by my side. We held on praying for one last miracle. Rich and poor, beggars and Lords they all held on to something, there was no class system, just a mass of people searching for survival.

After what felt like hours the steamer began to level off and I pulled Susie up next to me. Wiping the salty water from her face I kissed her on the forehead. Letting go of the railing I looked back towards the horizon. The strength of the wave had propelled us away from the Martians and closer towards our safety. For us, survival was now very real. For the 'Thunder Child' its brave crew paid for its valiant attempt to bring down the Martians. All aboard the steamer watched in horror as the cross of St. George burned in our hearts as the heat-ray burned through the Ironclad. As it sunk beneath the waves it took with it the last remaining hope for those we left behind. London belonged to the Martians.

The End.

The McGuinness Of The Moor

The McGuinness Of The Moor

"Start you stupid machine!"

Michael Stogie kicked the bonnet of his red BMW as yet again it had cut out on him. Lighting a cigarette he looked at his watch, eleven thirty. The decision to drive home after Bolton Wanderers' away game at Strathless-Over-Haven in the UEFA Cup. It's only up North, it'll be an easy drive. Now here he was in the middle of nowhere with half a pack of cigarettes and a tub of herbs for his home made lasagne. He knew he should've listened to his boss and worked overtime in the returns department but the prospect of watching his beloved whites was too much.

"Better ring the AA then. That's why I pay then, when I remember to," Michael mumbled to himself.

He cursed under his breath as every time he put the phone to his ear the signal disappeared. Out in the distance he could see the lights of an old farm house, judging the kilometres between them Michael decided to make a run for it. Locking the car in case of extreme joy riding sheep, Michael put his best foot forward , stopped, wiped it and strode purposely towards the lights in the night. Then it came, floating across the moors like a bad sound effects record. The howl!

"What was that?"

The noise came again, louder, somehow closer. Michael increased his speed to blind panicky running and charged through the door of the building. There was an eerie silence as the whole room looked at the new arrival.

"We don't get many strangers round these parts," the landlord said.

"Probably because you don't have any pub signs," Michael replied.

Grumbling to himself the landlord pulled a pint of Baskerville Ale from the large pump on the bar. He placed the heady pint down in front of the recovering Michael.

"I didn't ask for that," Michael said.,

"A pound,"

"I'll have two."

Michael handed over his money and once again the blood curdling howl spread through the air. A pair of truckers held hands and cuddled together in the corner and the whole inn came to a hush.

"What's that?" Michael asked

"That's just the McGuinness of the moor," Leanora O'Connell a six foot blonde stunner announced from behind the bar.

"The what?" Michael spat out a mouthful of beer.

"Nobody talks about the McGuinness," the landlord said.

"Don't be so stupid, dad. Rumour has it that there's meant to be, so, like this hideous beast. It totally roams the hills. A nasty vicious grey creature."

"Nobody talks about the McGuinness," the landlord said again.

"Like, my friend Charlene, she says it's a demon from hell sent to reap revenge on the sinners of Strathless-Over-Haven. But, Tracey says it's a mythical beast that has survived evolution, but she's a bit dumb. Carolyn reckons it's a wild creature escaped from a freak show. "

"Aye, nobody talks about the McGuinness,"the landlord said again, resigned.

Everybody in the inn looked at each other as if hiding a long kept secret away from the prying eyes of town folk.

"The McGuinness is nothing more than an urban legend made up to scare poachers!" the sound of disdain came from a dark corner of the inn.

"Like, whatever," Leanora retorted.

"Well, I don't believe it."

"Carlo O'Connell, nobody is interested in what you have to say. Not even Gina McPherson who has cootees and gives away kisses behind the cow sheds," Leanora fumed.

"I still won't sign those divorce papers," Carlo shouted standing up to leave, "You will have to get me to sign them with my cold dead hand!"

With that Carlo O'Connell barged out into the misty night. Severely stressed by the domestic of twin peaks proportions, Michael lit a cigarette.

"Sorry mister. No smoking in here," the landlord forcefully said.

Michael attempted to explain in his best Anglo Saxon that it was extremely cold, dark and scary beyond the confines of the inn, but felt he was getting nowhere so left the group to enjoy his harmful toxins in peace.

A six foot square of moorland was taped off with incident tape. Lying inside its cubic capacity was a mass of chewed limbs and ripped innards surrounded by a 1997 Bolton Wanderers shirt.

"Look at this, it's an absolute terrible mess," Martin Hynden of Strathless-Over-Haven CID commented.

"It is," Nikita Diamond, his assistant, replied.

"I mean, just look at my shoes. I paid good money for these fake Jimmy Choo's, now they're all covered in mud. What are we doing in the middle of nowhere anyway?"

"That would be the strange death under mysterious circumstances," Nikita reminded him.

"Oh, right. Is that the body in there?" Hynden asked.

Hynden entered the taped off area and knelt down next to the covered body.

"Tell me about it. What kind of sicko are we dealing with?"

Nikita slowly pulled back the tarpaulin to reveal the mess that was once a human body.

"My God. That's terrible," Hynden exclaimed, "That football shirt is ten years old."

"It looks like he was attacked by an animal, look at the teeth marks on the bones. It's a very wild area, maybe someone in that building over there heard something," Nikita said.

Martin Hynden entered the unnamed inn and forgot that Nikita was behind him so let the door swing into her face. The whole room went silent and a dozen pair of eyes focused on the detective.

"Your flies are undone," the landlord said.

With a highly audible zip the room returned to its old murmuring way.

"I'm Inspector Martin Hynden of Strathless CID. This tall dwarf in a dress is my assistant, Nikita Diamond. We just want to ask a few questions about a little murder that's taken place up the road."

There was a rumble of whispering among the locals as the words filtered through to their brains.

"We don't understand that word around here," the landlord said.

"Murder?"

"No, road! What is this, road you speak of?"

"It's a piece of tarmac that cars go round to get from one place to another," Hynden explained.

"Cars?" The landlord asked puzzled, before blustering "We don't get many strangers round these parts."

Hynden looked around the room at what appeared to be the extras from The Wicker Man. Even the Spaniel in a cloth cap and shotgun sat in the corner of the room leaning against the jukebox was beginning to give him the creeps. Behind him, he heard the sweet tones of Leanora singing as she entered the bar.

"Howdy Cowgirl. Do you know where I may find any deranged psycho killers hiding? Your bedroom perhaps?" Hynden flirted subtly.

"I've a poster of Mick Hucknall," Leanora flirted back.

"The names Hynden, Martin Hynden. I hold the world record for shooting peas at a bag of candy floss while blindfolded. What's your name?"

"Leanora O'Connell. But my maiden names A'barman. This is my dad Justin."

"Aye, that's right I'm Just A'barman," the landlord interrupted, "I've lived in this village my whole life. I know everything about everybody."

"Do you know who killed that poor unfortunate victim on the moors. He'd been torn apart with ferocity at velocity," Nikita dramatised.

"Aye, I do. That be the McGuinness of the moor. But nobody talks about the McGuinness."

"Why not?" Hynden asked.

"Because nobody knows anything," he replied.

Hynden stood for a moment and took in this startling revelation, all the time watching Leanora play with her pumps, a piece of gymnastic footwear not often associated with country villages.

"The McGuinness stalks the moors," the Landlord said lighting candles on the bar, "The grey haired creature was responsible for the downfall of the Faverhall family and has haunted the area for centuries. Rumour has it that he is controlled by a local sandwich maker who was chased out of the village because of her high prices. In an act of revenge she cursed them that should they venture onto the moor the McGuinness would be waiting to tear out their throats. "

"Does he sing Elvis songs during a full moon?" Nikita asked scoffing at the legend.

"Of course not," the Landlord replied, "Only on the first Tuesday of a month containing a 'U'"

The surreal conversation was broken by Carlo O'Connell entering the inn. Leanora looked at him shocked, her face an expression of 'What are you still doing alive?' as she went pale and her chin nearly hit the floor.

"Usual, pint please, Justin," O'Connell ordered. He turned to Hynden, "Take my advice chum. You don't want to get involved with her. She may be tall, have 33DD breasts and be heir to millions because of her old man's insurance policy. But, she's a man eater. She'll make you work boy…"

"Make you want more?" Nikita chipped in.

"I'm Martin Hynden, Strathless CID. I'm here to investigate a death on the moor. Poor unfortunate was ripped to pieces by a wild animal."

"It's so like the McGuinness. We all heard it howling and barking and stuff," Leanora said.

"Don't be daft. The McGuinness doesn't exist. It's like Voodoo," O'connell said.

"You do?" Leanora said

"Voodoo."

"Who do?" Hynden asked.

"We do!" The two truckers from the corner shouted.

"Carlo O'Connell, the McGuinness is real. If it wasn't how could I have trained a panther to kill by the smell of cigarette smoke, dyed it's hair grey and sent it out last night to kill you so I could have my div… Ooops."

Everybody looked at Leanora who was biting her lip very, very hard. Nikita Diamond pulled out a pair of handcuffs from her handbag and handed them to Hynden. He looked at her and mouthed the words 'It's not Thursday'.

"They're for her," Nikita pointed out angrily.

With a huge smile Hynden took the handcuffs and held them up to Leanora.

"Why don't you come back to my place, I've got a lovely cell just waiting for you."

The End

Rhys

Rhys

He ran. His pulse raced out of control. His heart pounded a continual thud, thud, thud. His ears still rang. The sound of smashing glasses and a shattering window had ripped his nerves to shreds. Stray shards of glass had embedded in the side of his face and down his neck. In the distance church bells rang and the sound of sobbing carried on the wind.

The wooden beams that held the old ceiling in place vibrated as Kit's rock music bounced off it and back down again. She stirred a pot on the gas oven while she sang along to her favourite Evanescence track. Kit was ignorant to the tiny droplets of rain that hard started to beat down against the tiles outside.

A lit candle on the dining table fluttered in an invisible breeze. A small drop of wax ran down the length of its red and blue formation, behind Kit's back the flame fluttered once again. The blob of wax landed on the base of the silver candlestick and cooled with a sizzle, Kit turned towards the table. She walked over to the square top and double-checked that every knife and fork was in its rightful place. Humming under her breath she picked up a knife and looked at her reflection. She dropped it. Kit looked over her shoulder, with a large intake of breath she let out a long sigh of relief. She picked up the knife once again. Looking at her reflection this time, she saw only her brown hair and green eyes. Placing the knife back down in its rightful place on the table, Kit looked up and saw the smoking wick of a now unlit candle.

Kit opened a drawer close to the kitchen window and took out a box of matches. She re-lit the candle and watched it burn. The flame stood up straight as if held in place by an invisible force. Kit turned to put the matches back in the drawer. The stew gave a slow gurgle as bubbles rose through the mixture. With a start, Kit turned. She drew in a breath as she calmed herself. She reached across to turn the hob down, then stopped. Once again, the candle was out. Looking around her, Kit searched for an open window, nothing. Reaching out to the candle she pulled back as a circle of cold air wrapped itself around her hand.

"Kit?"

She stepped back, her heart leaping into her mouth. Looking up she stared at the stranger in the kitchen doorway.

"Miss Kit Gardner?"

In the doorway between the kitchen and the hall stood a tall man, his hair receding like the water that fell from his damp overcoat.

"My name is detective Kane."

"You gave me quite a fright there. I didn't hear you knock or come in."


"I'm not surprised," detective Kane pointed to the stereo, "Do you mind?"

Kit stood back and watched him walk over to the stereo and turn the thumping melodies down to a background whisper.

"I have been asked to visit by my superiors at work. They were concerned by the state of a Mr David Noor. The gentleman in question was very agitated last night, in a sense of high shock."

Kit sat down at the dining table, her brow furrowed in worry.

"He stayed over last night he's, well he was, my boyfriend."

As detective Kane sat opposite her the lights flickered slightly.

"Mr Noor said he was attacked by a mirror. This is a very strange incident. As you may appreciate, we don't get many reports of assaults by inanimate objects."

Kit avoided the detective's gaze, choosing instead to stare at her reflection in the table knife.

"Miss Gardner, is there any light you can shed on the incident?"

Detective Kane looked down at the cutlery on the table and up again at Kit's vacant expression.

"There is a presence here I can't explain. David had often remarked about cold spots and eerie feelings. I'd never thought anything of it. Until last night," Kit spoke into the distance.

"What happened last night?"

Detective Kane's gravely voice sent a chill through Kit's bones. The stew bubbled again and she stood up and rushed over to turn the heat fully off. She stirred the pot slowly.

"Miss Gardner, what happened?"

"We had a few friends over, it was a kind of early Halloween party," Kit stirred the stew lazily.

"So there were more witnesses?"

"No, they had left before anything major happened."

"Anything major?" Kane choked in surprise.

Kit could feel detective Kane's stern look burning into her.

"I would appreciate it if you told me the whole story regarding last night."

"It all started when we were watching this medium…"

"You had a medium in here last night?" Kane interrupted.

"He was on TV," Kit continued, "We were watching Haunted Live. You know that three day event from Salisbury Plain."

"Of course, I thought I hadn't felt the presence of one in this atmosphere."

Kit looked at Kane, she thought carefully about whether to continue. Something about this man didn't feel right to her.

"Come on, Kit, any little thing could help," he said sternly.

"Well. It started round about ten…"

Sitting down at a large table a gaggle of guests, all adorned with costumes, watched intently as the spiritualist medium entered a trance. All eyes were fixed on the TV.

"He is so damn good."

A large figured brunette sat with her legs crossed. A large black witches hat on her head.

"Not to mention very sexy," Kit added.

"Oy," David replied feeling upstaged by the grey haired spiritualist.

"Don't worry, darling. He's not a patch on you," Kit kissed David on the cheek.

The whole table giggled and awed together as David turned a shade of red with embarrassment. Suddenly a glass fell from the table. It smashed on the wooden floor spreading fragments everywhere. The group went silent.

"What the…"

"It's all right. I'll get a broom."

Kit stood up. David grabbed hold of her hand. He pointed towards one of the candles in the centre of the table. It was flickering wildly.

"It's just a breeze," Kit reassured them.

"So why aren't the other candles moving?" the brunette asked.

The room went silent. A loud scream came from the TV and as a group they all jumped with shock.

"Ok, all calm down now. We're scaring ourselves to death," Kit said.

Kit stood up and left the room in search of a dustpan and brush. The rest of the guests turned their attentions back to the events on the television....

Detective Kane stopped making notes in his tatty, leather bound notebook.

"What happened next, Miss Gardner?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Everything continued as normal," Kit said spooning some stew into a bowl, "Would you like some?"

"No thanks, I can't eat," Kit shot him a questioning glance, "I'm on duty."

"I see," she replied.

"A guy came into the station going on about being attacked by ghosts. He was so wound up that we had to give him sedation and put him in a cell. Does that sound like someone who saw nothing?" Kane continued.

Kit tried to walk away but Kane grabbed her by the wrist. She tried to pull free but his grip was tight, his hands were cold. She could see the determination in his eyes. Thunder growled outside as the rain fell like rocks against the slate roof.

"Ok. It was about two in the morning. All the guests had gone home…"

"That was a good night," David said entering the dining room.

"Apart from everyone getting spooked at the candle," Kit replied.

Kit watched as David picked up the empty glasses from the table, he placed them on a silver tray. He reached out to an upside down tumbler in the centre of the table, it moved. Kit stood still and watched with curiosity as David leaned forward, just about being able to put his finger on the top of it. It moved again.

"Stop messing around, David."

"I'm not moving it. It moved on its own," David answered.

Lifting his finger from the glass, the tumbler leaped from the table and smashed against a wall.

"David!" Kit shouted out.

"It wasn't me," he replied in shock.

Kit walked over to the wall where the glass had smashed. She noticed her reflection in a mirror on the wall. David looked puzzled in the background, scratching hi stubble. She bent down and picked up some of the large fragments. Standing up again she took a sharp intake of breath, as in the mirror there was now a third person. Standing next to David was a broad figure his head shaven and scarred, his facial features were distorted and bleak. Kit turned to see nothing in the room but David.

"What's wrong, Kit? You've gone very pale," David asked

Kit couldn't speak, her tongue numb with fear.

"Look out!"

Kit tuned just as David got the last word out. She ducked in time before the mirror forced its self from the wall. It flew across the room. David lifted his arm to cover his face. The full force of the glass broke upon impact. Kit screamed. From within the ether a growl of anger erupted, Kit was stunned. She couldn't move as every muscle in her body froze. She could only watch as David covered his ears in attempt to drown out the shouts of anger and hatred. A large gust of icy wind blew through the room, circling in the centre like a tornado. It wrapped itself around David, lifting ornaments with its energy. In an instant it had lifted David's panic stricken form like a rag doll and flung him through the window. The glass shattered around him as he fell onto the grass below. Kit screamed again louder and longer than before...

"Is that everything?" Detective Kane asked.

"When David left, everything seemed to quieten down. It was at least ten minutes before I could move again. But nothing more happened. It was as quiet as…"

"A grave," Kane finished off.

"Yes."

"It sounds to me like the ghost of Rhys Marshall. Do you know that name?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Be afraid, miss Gardner. He came home one day, this home, to find his wife was having an affair. He killed her lover and disappeared. My entire force went looking for him. He was never found. It appears his spirit has returned to the scene of the crime."

"A murderer?" Kit looked at the detective with a look of disbelief.

"Yes, miss Gardener," he confirmed.

"Do you not find it strange that I am still here, despite what happened last night?"

Kit looked deeper into detective Kane expecting to see a look of intrigue in his eyes. Instead, they looked tired and empty. Her heart felt like a lump in the middle of her chest. She looked over the dishevelled detective trying to figure out what kind of man he was.

"I'm still here because I don't feel scared. I don't feel as though he means me any harm. I don't think I'm in any danger."

"That's great. Hold on to that thought," Kane dismissed her matter of factly.

"Is there anything else I can help you with detective?" Kit asked icily.

"Yes, Miss Gardener. Could you please show me the dining room?"

Kit opened the door to the dining room and walked in, she could feel detective Kane hovering over her shoulder. The room was exactly as Kit had described it. Broken pieces of mirror lay in the middle of the room, some still containing dry spots of blood, where it has smashed against David.

"You should think about having that window fixed," detective Kane pointed to the hole now covered by damp cardboard.

"I've not moved anything," Kit said ignoring him.

Kit stood to the side and let the detective enter the room. She felt a cold rush of air pass her before he stepped out. She shivered as detective Kane walked towards the middle of the room.

"Rhys!" Detective Kane called out.

Kit breathed in as she watched detective Kane who was stood in the middle of the room looking around him as he waited for a reply. Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the remaining ornaments move on the display cabinet.

"Ah, there you are" Kane spoke to an empty space.

Kit watched in disbelief as the detective continued a conversation with thin air. She stepped back slowly, ready to close the door if Kane's behaviour became more erratic. She jumped back as he grabbed at thin air. Kit gasped as out of nowhere an arm started to materialise. The more Kane struggled the more Kit could see the figure he was struggling with. She realised with horror that it was the man from the mirror.

"After all these years, you've finally found me, Mr Kane," a gruff voice said.

"Come peacefully, Rhys, save us all a job," Kane replied.

Kit could say nothing as she was gripped by fear. She latched on to the doorframe and pulled herself closer to it to prevent her from falling backwards. Her eyes widened as detective Kane pinned the large frame of Rhys Marshall to the floor.

"Ok, Mr Kane. I give up. Take me in," Rhys said resigned.

The two of them stood up.

"Rhys. It has been forty years of searching. We're getting to old for this," Kane said putting cuffs on his prisoner.

Kit watched as the two men faced each other. A look of respect passed between them.

"What's going on?" she asked shakily.

The two men looked at Kit.

"Many thanks for your help, Miss Gardener. You shouldn't have any more trouble from him. Its been a long time searching but now we can rest. I've brought him to justice. Come on Rhys. Time to go."

The two men took two steps forward and faded away as they approached Kit stood in the doorway. She blinked in surprise. The room was empty. Despite the chilling wind outside, the whole room now felt warmer.

"Detective Kane?" Kit called out.

The only reply she received was a gust of wind against the cardboard window and the chimes of a clock striking midnight.

Running Cold

Running Cold

.
I'm running. The crisp new fallen snow breaks beneath my feet as I run. Every hedge is neatly trimmed; every twig and branch is cut to the right length. The snow topped greenery of the hedges gives this maze a mystic quality. I think I see a wisp of material fly around a corner and I carry on running.

"You've got to be quicker than that," a giggling voice calls out to me.

"Who are you?" I ask back.

Once again she replied with a child like giggle. I turn corner after corner heading deeper into the maze. I stop and slump to my knees gasping for breath. Keeping fit has never been high on my agenda, my natural ability to keep thin allowed for this. The feeling of being spontaneous in running after the dancing blonde has made me feel happy, almost young again.

I had opened my curtains this morning I expected it to be another miserable day in a hotel room. I hate being marooned on a travel assignment almost as much as I hate the magazine I write them for. I felt resigned to this melancholy, but then I saw her. She was dancing, skipping through the snowflakes with her long blonde hair, wearing a white dress and a pure smile. She had looked up towards my window, as if she could sense me watching. She had smiled at me, waved and ran towards the maze. I flung myself into my clothes and had barely finished tying my laces before I had raced out into the cold morning air. The mysterious girl was waiting for me at the entrance to maze and beckoned me with her finger. As I approached she turned and ran into the maze, I blindly followed.

"If you kneel there much longer you'll never catch me," her voice invades my head.

"Who are you? What's your name?" I call out.

"Catch me and I'll tell you," she replies.

I saw the flowing white material of a scarf hanging from a hedge. I slowly approach it; the silky material was warm against the cold air and was rich with her scent of lavender. I tighten my grip of the scarf and start to run again. I turn left and right as I travel deeper into the maze. I had to stop once again as a pair of red shoes hinder my path. As I look down at the carefully placed shoes the same lavender scent fills the air.

"I can run faster without my shoes, can you keep up?" she giggled, waving at me from behind the next corner.

"Please wait."

Before I could finish speaking she was gone, her virginal giggle trailing behind her. Even though I have the body of a forty year old I have the enthusiasm of a teenager and the curiosity of a three year old. I move the shoes to the edge of the path and begin to run once more. For a man filled with hate and bitterness this running is very therapeutic.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" I shout.

"Love to dance, love to run, love to hide, and love to have fun. Love the chase, love the snow, love the patterns that firefly's show," she sings.

I run until I could see her just in front of me. She almost glides over the snow with incredible grace. She laughs and sings as she leads me through the hedges. Eventually she rounds a corner and vanishes altogether. I call out and continue to take what I think is the route she's taken. The snow is falling heavy now. I can't make out her footprints, if there was any there to start with.

In a dazzle of falling snowflakes and morning sunlight I am captivated by the sight of the barefooted, blonde haired girl dancing on a stone slab that sits in the centre of the maze.

"Dance, dance, round and round," she sings.

I clap out a rhythm to accompany her dancing feet. She finishes with a leap from the table and wraps her arms around my neck. She kisses me, her lips cold as ice. I pull back and look down at her black empty dead eyes.

"Oh my God," I scream pushing her away.

"I bet you never saw this coming," she says, "But then again they never do."

Instead of the wild and free dancer of a few seconds earlier, this creature looks down on me, every action calculated and deliberate. It leans back on the slab never taking its eyes off me.

"I bet you're feeling exhausted after all that running. People with bad hearts like you shouldn't over exert yourself," it clicked its fingers and I felt a stabbing pain travel up my left arm, "It's time to take your life back."

Instead of the virginal giggle that had drawn me in its voice was now deeper, the blonde hair was black and the dress was a mass of torn rags. Whatever stood before me now wasn't the vision I saw from my window.

"Take back my life?" I ask between breaths.

"There have been people watching you. For years now they've been watching you waste away, hating life and hating themselves. Life is about betterment, fun and enjoyment. You've been bitter for so long that you've forgotten about the precious things."

"It's not my fault," I start.

"Don't try that life's been harsh to me line. It's not worked for anyone else, why would it work for you? Don't even bother trying to answer that, it won't"

The large black eyes draw me in like pools. I try not to look, but every time I do a sense of dread fills my mind. It clicked its fingers again and the pain spread to my heart. I slump to my knees grabbing at my skin.

"Can I change? Maybe give me a second chance," I plead.

"The thing is, you've reached the point of no return. You've wasted so much of your life. This isn't A Christmas Carol, there isn't going to be a little boy on crutches saying, 'God bless us, everyone,' like in the book. You're not going to wake up in the morning and start buying goose. In fact, you won't wake up."

It clicks its fingers again and my heart gives one last beat as I collapse to the floor. As my vision begins to blur and the excess air escapes from my lungs I can see a blonde haired girl in a white dress, dancing in the snowflakes.

Chipping Away At The Dead

The sun beat down upon Joshua Craven as he began to chip away at the tomb entrance. He could feel the excitement welling up inside him, the first and possible greatest discovery of his archiology career. With every little chip of the thousand year old stone he was coming closer and closer to becoming the rich and succesful man he wanted to prove to his ex-wife he could be. Luckily for him the divorce papers would be signed and the decree absolute produced before she could get her hands on his wealth.

"How are thing's going?"

Hans Fiennes looked down on Joshua. The Austrian playboy had financed the expedition on a whim. He was impressed by Joshua's resolve and his attempts to raise cash through the roulette tables in Las Vegas. The sole reason for his inclusion in the party was his determination to taste the delicacy of Egypt, as he said himself, an Egyptian girlfriend would be something new.

"Everything's fine. Expect a breakthrough within the hour.," Joshua replied, beads of sweat dripping from his brow.

"An hour, why so long?" Hans replied.

"Because archeology is about recording and not disturbing. These walls have laid undisturbed for thousands of years, since before the birth of Jesus," Joshua tried to explain.

Hans snorted with derision.

"Man was not made to look to the past. We were made to chase the future. Break it down!"

"You can't do that."

"You forget, Mr Craven. I can do anything I like."

Hans signalled to one of his assistants and mimed in a swinging action.

"Bringen Sie den Vorschlaghammer!" Hans shouted.

In reality, Joshua shouldn't have been too shocked by the insistance of interference and and results as quickly as possible. His other investor was sitting under a large sun shade, she said very little and he often wondered why she was here at all. She had an individual porcelain beauty about her, an almost unnatural paleness but at the same time the most beautiful and captivating eyes he had ever seen. He had been drinking the night she first came to him with the map references of the lost tomb of Ho'Rah, even when he woke up in the morning he wondered if it was all just a delusion influenced by the Vodka in his bloodstream. It had proved to be no dream and she had even taken him to the casino where he had encountered Hans. Yes, there was an aura about her, maybe after the expedition he would ask her out to dinner.

"Stand aside," Hans commanded holding a large Sledgehammer in his hands.

"As you wish," Joshua replied, knowing there was no sense in arguing with a playboy millionaire with a large Sledgehammer in his possesion.

With a large wide swing, the metal head buried itself in the stone door and it began to crumble, a little too easy for Joshua's liking. Even his reclusive female had stirred at such an easy blow. With a second swing more of the doorway was revealed, the air turning musty as the fresh modern atmosphere mingled with the stench of undisturbed dust and stale air. Hans breathed it in and smiled.

"So this is the smell of the glorious dead?" he laughed.

The doorway was now open. Joshua felt a hand on his shoulder and the pale lady was by his side.

"We shall enter," she said solemly.