100 Word Horror: Gunpowder, treason and seditious literature; a Guy must burn!

Remember, Remember

Every year they burn a Guy in our village. We all gather round, young and old in the dark autumn night. Tall shadows. Smiling faces in the blazing amber glow. Hot dogs and mugs of steaming tea, enjoying the crackle and pop of the burning wood.

And the screams of the Guy. The sizzle of his scorched flesh. Roasting meat.

There’s always someone to be made an example of. A dissident, a traitor to be sent screaming to hell.

This year it’s going to be my son. I feel no sadness, he was caught reading banned literature and must die.

New story up on Popcorn Horror & the inspiration behind it

Popcorn Horror have kindly put another one of my stories up on their site:

http://popcornhorror.com/matter-destiny/

It's a gruesome tale set in two very different pubs in two contrasting parts of London. The inspiration for this story came on a recent visit to London's famous Theatreland. We called into an old Victorian pub on Drury Lane before going to our show, and while knocking back a pint or two of London Pride, I looked around me at all the theatre memorabilia dating back maybe a century or so, and wondered what kind of characters must have sat in my very seat drinking just as I was.

The idea fascinated me. Actors, musicians, writers, politicians? Almost certainly. Gangsters, thieves, murderers, fraudsters? Quite possibly. Thinking of what those four walls have seen in all the years the pub has been running sparked my interest. But it was the collection of rather ghastly looking clown masks behind the bar made me want to develop my interest into a story. I felt uneasy as I looked up at them and wondered what it would be like to be alone in the bar in the dead of night and see one move it's eyes, even talk to you...

And so 'A Matter of Destiny' was born. Please do check it out and feel free to let me know your thoughts. And maybe next time you're in an old pub, or indeed any old building, have a little think who and what those four walls have seen. What might even still be there. Watching. Listening. Waiting.

Tears in Joyland - My thoughts on Stephen King and his recent novel 'Joyland'

So, ten minutes or so ago, I finished Stephen King's 'Joyland', and I am so moved by its tragic and bittersweet majesty, that I just have to write about it. If I don't, I could sit here weeping like a baby. You will find no spoilers here, but that book moved me more than any other for a very, very long time.

First things first: wow.

I've been a Stephen King ever since I read 'Salem's Lot' as a petrified 13 year old, quaking in my bed, dreading having to get up and put out the light. Terrifying as that first experience was, I've been hooked on horror ever since. As years went by, I worked my way through all of King's classic work, with perhaps 'The Shining' being the highlight for me, closely followed by 'The Stand'. Thrill after thrill, terror after terror followed, and for many years, he could do no wrong.

But then, somewhere in the mid 90s it all started to go horribly wrong. His novels failed to grip me, often seeming like horror-by-numbers, perhaps even that King essentially didn't really care. Anything with his name on it was going to sell, so what the hell? By the time the millennium dawned, many of his novels had gone from steady mediocrity into the murky depths of the almost unreadable; 'Cell', 'The Duma Key', and the atrocious ending to the already deteriorating 'Dark Tower' series, led me to adandon King, so I thought, for good.

I only picked up 'Joyland' because it's part of the 'Hard Case Crime' series I've been enjoying lately, featuring hard-boiled crime fiction from old masters like Donald Westlake and Mickey Spillane, as well as badass modern noir from the likes of the delectable Christa Faust. Well, how glad I am that I did give my old hero another chance. 'Joyland' is a beautiful, funny, tragic and at times devastating ride; full of incredibly well-drawn characters, and a  magical setting. A park 'selling fun' at the end of an era as the corporations grew ever more powerful and squeezed out the independents, a time when the magic of a carnival was real, not carefully planned and scripted. A time that is now long gone, but, thanks to the imagination of Stephen King, is relived in all it's glory.

Looks like I'm getting back on that ride I stepped on as a scared kid all those years ago.

The King is Dead: An abominabal Royal Succession. Stately terror in 100 wicked words!

The King is Dead

The old man had been in bed for weeks. Too sick to move his brittle, creaking carcass. Rotting from the inside, his decomposition already begun. His courtiers, practised in sycophancy, masked their distaste at the cloying stench.

Only his eyes seemed alive. Bright, sharp. They darted around the royal chamber, following every movement of the chosen few allowed to witness his demise.

His latest demise. Not his final demise, that wouldn’t come for centuries, perhaps not at all.

His Grandson and his wife were, as carefully co-ordinated, expecting a baby.

Here one goes again, what?

A note about my 'latest' story

My most recent addition to this blog is in fact an old story I wrote a few years ago that I recently came across again. It's one of the first stories I ever wrote, and was decent enough to be runner up in a short story completion. Although there are things I would now change, I am still very proud of it, and have fond memories of writing it.

Whilst it's not a horror story like the rest on this site, it is seriously fucking dark. I mean darker than the deepest point of the blackest black hole in the outermost reaches of the darkest part of the cosmos.

It's inspired by an incident in the Yorkshire Evening Post around the time I wrote it about a raid on a Leeds brothel. It occurred to me that slavery and sexual violence and exploitation for profit exists amongst the wealth and commercialism of this modern city; the poor, the lost and the dispossessed live out lives we can't imagine, far beneath the cracks, and I guess I wanted to tell a little bit of their story.

Hope you like it.

Short Story: Voiceless

Voiceless

By

Nick Harkins

 

 

From The Yorkshire Echo

A young woman of unknown identity died of stab wounds in Leeds City Library yesterday evening. It is believed that the woman, aged between 16 and 20, could be of Eastern European origin. Police speculate that she may have been a victim of the sex trafficking phenomenon which has exploded in Leeds in the last five years. It seems that she was stabbed as she entered the building, stumbled through the doorway and collapsed. Police are appealing for witnesses, or anyone who may know the woman’s identity to come forward

They promised me work in a nursery looking after children in a big, modern city in Britain with one of the finest Universities in the country. I’d be getting good pay; more than enough to cover my living costs, and my hours would leave me more than enough time to study. I could take evening classes in anything I liked, and I would have unlimited opportunities.

A bright, beautiful girl like me could be anything I wanted there. Anything. The woman put her hand on my shoulder affectionately. Her cold blue eyes peered into mine and seemed to soften; melting like the ice in Riga when the spring comes and the Russian winds stop their remorseless assault.

The couple had approached one night me as I’d finished work at the bar I worked in in Riga. I’d seen them watching me throughout the evening as I moved between the wooden tables, carrying huge trays loaded with flagons of foaming beer for the tables of British men. They scared me these men with their flushed, leering faces and their harsh songs, bellowed at the tops of their guttural voices. Whilst some of the other girls at the bar openly flirted with them to get better tips, I would collect the bills and scurry back behind the bar.

The man and woman were sat alone at a small table in a quieter part of the bar; smartly dressed and polite. Sipping vodka and talking quietly hand in hand, sometimes kissing and often laughing together. They looked to have been in their late twenties, around ten years older than me. I remember thinking of what my parents might have been like at that age, and thinking they would probably have been much the same. My parents had died many years ago, leaving me with just my older brother to care for me.

After the bar had closed and the men had lurched off to the strip clubs, hooting and snorting like hogs, I set off on the short walk back to the tiny apartment I shared with two other girls. As I opened the door and stepped into the street, there they were. Them. The nice couple from the bar that had smiled at me, and given me a large tip and told me to treat myself were waiting for me.

I was already planning on getting myself an IPod so I could carry around all the records that reminded me of home before my parents died. My father had loved The Beatles and used to tell us that they were his brothers. We would sit in our small living room on Sunday afternoons, listening to the illicit cassette tapes my father had kept from his youth behind the Iron Curtain. Warm and happy as the snow drove against the window; big, beautiful snowflakes dancing swiftly through the chill air then tapping softly on the glass. We would laugh at father and ask him how four men from Liverpool could be his brothers, and he would laugh with us and say there were his brothers in his heart.

The lady told me her name was Velna, and introduced the man as Peteris, though as he spoke only Russian in a harsh accent I found difficult to make out, it was Velna that did most of the talking. Velna was blonde and pale skinned, with a slim, graceful figure. Her eyes were an icy piercing blue, and I felt even then that there was pain behind those eyes. I wondered what this beautiful woman had been through in her life, and felt an almost sisterly affinity for her, feeling that she was someone who had suffered like me, knowing that she would never harm me. We were the same. She had seen something in me that made her want to help me, and I was willing to do whatever she thought was best for me.

Leeds was the place, she told me. Leeds. I’d never heard of it, but that night we set out for my new life. I had nobody to tell I was going. My brother was serving in the navy; my parents were dead. I went back to the apartment and threw together some clothes, my few cd’s and the framed pictures of my family together in happier days, and set off for my new life in Leeds.

******

Velna told me eventually I’d become numb to the pain, numb to the degradation from the monsters who came to me. I didn’t listen. I would learn to switch off and take myself away somewhere I couldn’t be reached, she assured me every day.  Then before I knew it, my debt would be paid and I’d be free to start my new life. She never wanted to tell me how much of my debt was still outstanding, just that it would be soon. I would search those cold blue eyes for any trace of the kindness I had once believed in, but found none. I knew that she had done the same things many times before, and had pushed the buttons she needed to.

Her face was a brittle mask of cruel indifference at all times, hiding behind the cheap makeup she wore to disguise her diminishing looks. Only once did I see the mask slip, when I asked her how she came to be involved in such things. She had screamed at me, the vilest abuse coming from her once pretty mouth, and tears running from her eyes, no longer blue, but reddened and puffy.

I didn’t ever want to become numb. Comfortably Numb. A song my brother used to play in his room when we were young. His room with its bright, striking posters and strange books; his beloved guitar he had saved for as a teenager, and his paintings. It seemed so magical to me as a child. Dark and wonderful; a place of haunting, psychedelic music and creativity where my brother would paint or read and play his guitar, sometimes showing me how to play the chords of songs I liked, or letting me lay on the floor reading the stack of Marvel comics he loved. I was too young to understand much of the English they were written in, but I loved the vivid, colourful characters that flew through the heavens or climbed skyscrapers, punishing the bad people.

I know about bad people now; real bad people. I knew as I lay on the filthy sheets of the bed in the room they kept me in that no costumed hero was coming to save me. Nobody knew I was there. Nobody. I had wanted to call my brother before I left Riga, but Velna told me I could call when we got to Leeds. But, on arrival I was shut in this room and watched at all times with no contact with the outside world, other than the men whose lust I endure, is forbidden. They told me they know where my brother is stationed and if I try and leave, they’ll kill him. I believed them.

Every city has those who fall between the cracks, the dispossessed and the wretched; living shadowy twilight lives amongst the cafe bars and the huge corporate temples of tinted glass and concrete. I had known this even in Riga, and now I knew I myself had become part of this voiceless underclass. Would any of the countless people that walk past this house of illicit lust every day, oblivious to its true purpose, care if they knew I was here? In the three months since my arrival, each day of abuse had further confirmed my belief that they would not. Voices such as mine are not to be heard.

******

I have no idea how long I languished in that place, losing any hope of release. I rarely saw daylight, and was never allowed to leave the building. Like all the girls, I ate my meals, such as they were, in a squalid basement beneath the parlour. I was allowed one meal a day, and was given six hours to sleep between each shift. At these times, I would huddle under my thin, drab blankets and picture those days in Riga with my parents and my brother.

I soon realised it was pointless to resist the men who came to my room. If I did, I was beaten by Peteris and warned that my brother would be harmed. The men varied in age and appearance, but I rarely saw any spark of kindness or compassion in their eyes. The worst were the married men. The men in smart suits. Men with wives and children and nice houses in nice streets somewhere in the suburbs of a city I had barely seen. I always knew they were married. I knew they wanted to do with me what they wouldn’t with their wives who raised their children; raised them to be cold and cruel and to feed mercilessly on others like their fathers. They forced my flesh into submission and took me without a flicker of emotion, hating me and hating themselves and their wives and the careers they eked out in the cold, featureless towers I’d seen when they brought me here. I was the outlet, the pressure valve that stopped them going crazy; the voiceless, unseen keeper of suburban sanity.

It was one such man that unwittingly afforded me my opportunity of escape. A tall, grey haired man with dark, narrow eyes that burned with malice, I had come to recognise him as a regular visitor. Believing himself to be something of a tower of attraction to women, he had paused in the doorway on his way out to flirt with Velna. Knowing Peteris to have already gone out and that I was safe from his wrath, I fled to the doorway and burst into the street. I gulped in the chill, fresh evening air.

Running frantically, I hoped to find somewhere public I could get help and the safety of a busy place. I made my way through past shops, now all closed for the evening, I passed bars but was afraid to go in and face the kind of men that had been my tormentors. At last, I saw an old official looking building and thought it may have been a police station or a courthouse. As I burst through the doorway, I heard Peteris’s taunting voice as the cold blade slid into my back.

I look down on my body lying in what I can now see is a library. The ambulance crew are trying to revive me, but I’ve gone. I feel no sadness, for now I am free. Nothing can hurt me again. I got to see Leeds after all, but I won’t stay. Snow is beginning to fall; I can see the first flakes dancing in the amber light of the city outside, falling lightly on the passing cars and tapping gently against the windows. I can hear music playing somewhere close; the slightly muffled sound of an old, much-loved bootleg cassette.

 

 

 

 

 

Mummy Dearest - a brand new 100 word horror story

Mummy Dearest

I assumed if I could contact dead loved ones they’d be just like they were in life.

Ask me how I am, tell me not to worry, they’re happy. Inter-dimensional pleasantries; something to alleviate the loneliness since Mummy died. Just me and Molly now; Molly and her grey muzzle.

How wrong I was. Mummy has changed and not for the better. Didn’t think the Ouija board would work, but it did. She spelled out the words with my finger.

S-H-O-U-L-D

B-E

U

Then Molly’s heckles rose. Her growls guttural words. She sunk her greying muzzle into my throat and tore.

Review of Clive Barker’s NightBreed Issue 1

The first issue of Boom! Studios eagerly anticipated new comic book series Clive Barker’s Nightbreed hit the shelves in the UK on 28 May, finally expanding on the mythos Clive Barker created in 1988 in the novel Cabal, and in the movie adaptation Nightbreed. A dark, horrific, but ultimately quite moving tale of a group of freaks, misfits and monsters living in Midian, a secret underground community beneath a cemetery, Nightbreed has gained a devoted cult following over the past few decades. An Occupy Midian movement was even formed as an online pressure group to demand the release of the full unedited vision of the Nightbreed movie Barker intended, but never got to release.

Occupy Midian haven’t got their way just yet, but the first issue of this new series of comics is sure to delight Nightbreed fans as much as readers new to the gloriously strange world of Midian. Piotr Kowalski’s artwork is exquisite, truly capturing the macabre settings of the original book and film, and resurrecting the strange cast of disparate characters; the savage, the lonely and the seductive with all their drives, hungers and desires.

In the original novel, we discover little about how the various bizarre citizens of Midian came to arrive there, and this is what the comic series sets out to address. The narrative flits back and forward in time, introducing us to characters before they arrived at Midian, building on their back-story and expanding the Nightbreed mythos. The themes of isolation, prejudice and persecution so evident in the novel are continued and developed as the future citizens of Midian struggle to live above ground amongst ‘normal’ people.

Of course as in the novel and movie, the real monsters are not necessarily who they appear to be. The distinctions between good and evil, beauty and beast are often blurred; the hunted can become the hunter, the freak can become an object of forbidden lust. This was always a big part of the appeal of Nightbreed and it’s great to see this spirit continued in this new expansion of the story.

This first issue shows great promise about what could be a fantastic series, and will please existing fans of Nightbreed and gain many more with its blend of gruesome horror, and strange sensuality. Midian has opened its gates once more.

Update on latest story and upcoming work

Children of the Night,

This post comes with some regret and embarrassment that it has taken me so long to add any new material to my blog, or to my work on Popcorn Horror. I've had a two week holiday away, and since my return I have not had as much time to write as I would like.

The office I currently work in is closing and my last few weeks have been a string of leaving parties, meals and of course my own preparations before I start my new job. Life, basically, has got in the way.

Now I am in a more settled position, I aim to step up my writing more than ever before. I have so many ideas dying to burst out onto the page, I'm very excited about exploring them. I hope you will explore them with me, too.

There will be a short story in the next week or so, numerous flash fiction bloody chunks of hideousness, and the planning stages of my first novel are ongoing. Around 10,000 words written to date.

Nick

Flash Horror Story: A Helping Hand

A Helping Hand

I was alone in the wilds when I found it, hiking deep in the Red Cuillin beneath iron skies. I rounded a bend and saw him; a crow trapped in a baited cage.

He stopped hopping around and looked at me. His eyes gleaming, knowing, filled with a hideous intelligence. Guttural words sounded in my mind, harsh, croaking sounds. Instructions.

I crouched by the cage, put my hand between the bars. He gouged at my palm, greedily devouring the oozing blood until I passed out.

Now I’m in the cage. A trapped bird, frantically screeching at the man walking away.

Legends and Lore at Lochmaben Castle: Spooky happenings with Mostly Ghostly

Legends and Lore at Lochmaben Castle

 

 

A raven greets us from his perch atop the ruins of Lochmaben Castle

 

On Saturday 17th May, my partner Sarah and I attended the Legends and Lore tour at Lochmaben Castle organised by Mostly Ghostly Investigations, a team of paranormal investigators from Dumfries & Galloway in South West Scotland. It proved to be an incredible evening for many reasons, and caused me to reassess my beliefs in the paranormal.

 

We arrived on a cool spring evening to the ruins of Lochmaben Castle, the ancient dwelling of some very illustrious characters from Scotland's often bloody history including Robert the Bruce and James II who took the castle when he defeated the Black Douglas family in 1455. Mary Queen of Scots is also known to have spent at least one night in the castle. Given the history of sieges and bloodshed on the site dating back to the early 1300s, it is perhaps unsurprising that the site is home to a number of local myths and legends, with numerous paranormal experiences reported in and around the ruins.

 

There is an immense sense of quiet and tranquillity at the site; once home to the mighty and the regal, but left to crumble gently by the dark waters of the castle loch since the Union of the Crowns in 1603. That is a very long time for any restless spirits that may reside there to mull over their fate, brutal and bloody as it almost certainly was is most cases. And so, more so than at any other historic building I've ever visited, I felt something beneath the tranquillity. I felt a definite sense of sadness; an aura of melancholy that permeated the whole surrounding area. I'm unable to explain this even to myself. Perhaps it struck me as sad that what would once have been a great place of strength has been neglected for centuries, and the feeling merely came from my own subconscious. Perhaps, but I don't think so.

 

As we waited with the other guests, a large raven landed on top of a crumbling tower and peered down at us, perhaps wondering why this secluded spot had suddenly been invaded. A moment or so later, our hosts arrived dressed in full gothic regalia to make a very dramatic entrance. They led us to the banks of the loch, where we disturbed a group of drunks who'd obviously spent the day fishing, drinking and smoking mind-altering substances. The look of surprise on the face of one particularly intoxicated drunkard was especially amusing as he awoke from his slumbers to find himself surrounded by a ghost tour. Ignoring the slurred and nonsensical contributions of the three drunks, our hosts continued to regale us with tales from the castles dark history, local legends including a reputed local vampire, and tales of otherworldly sightings in the area.

 

 

 

Soon, we moved back to the ruins of the castle to attempt to actually contact any spirits that may dwell there using divining rods and crystals. This was a very interesting experiment and something I'd never heard of before. Using my divining rods, I reached out to anyone or anything that might be able to hear me, and established 'yes' and 'no' movements for the rods. To my surprise the rods did actually move, and it did seem some form of communication was established. I proceeded to ask a number of questions, that seemed to confirm that something could hear me, but not see me, and that it would like to live again. Of course, I have no way of knowing whether I did really establish contact with anything; it could have been the breeze moving the rods, or I could even have been subconsciously moving them myself. But, as with the sense of sadness I picked up on, I did genuinely feel like there was a presence of some kind.

 

The evening concluded in incredibly dramatic fashion when the whole group gathered in one room in the ruin; a place where many inexplicable things have been seen in the past. We were gathered in a circle and Kathleen (pictured above) spoke out to any spirits present to show a sign that they could here us, and distributed question cards amongst the group for people to ask of any entities that may make their presence known. At this point, a number of people in the group became distressed, with one woman close to tears and one gentleman having spotted what appeared to him to be the figure of a small boy. A lady next to me felt a very strong presence, then a few seconds later I felt a cold shock in my left arm and lower back, causing me to jolt my head round. It felt almost like something was tugging me. The atmosphere began to intimidate me a little at this point, and it was a feeling I've never experienced before and can't explain. Of course, it was getting late by this point, the temperature was lowering and there was a breeze, so it could just have been a burst of wind. But I'm convinced it wasn't. Surely I would have felt a gust of wind in more than just my left arm and lower back, and it was  a strong burst of cold energy, far more powerful than a gust of wind.

 

We said our goodbyes on what proved to be an incredibly dramatic evening, and as we moved through the deepening gloom away from the castle, I felt very strongly that I would not have stayed there on my own for the night under any circumstances. Gradually the cars pulled away as we made our way home, leaving the castle alone in the dark once again.

 

Crumbling. Contemplating. Watching?

 





Back from the North

Hello Fright Fiends,

I'm back from my sojourns north of the border in beautiful Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland, land of my birth, and have my quill in hand ready to assault your senses with more hideous tales of the unspeakable.

As well as experiencing some incredibly beautiful countryside, wildlife and some sumptuous food and drink, I saw and experienced some rather macabre things whilst there, particularly on a ghost walk with local paranormal investigators Mostly Ghostly http://www.mostlyghostly.org/.

More on the ghost walk to follow, but for now, suffice to say it was a remarkable evening.

Trouble at the Mill - New Story

Check out my latest story to be published on the awesome Popcorn Horror website. If you haven't visited it before, you should check it out. It's full of excellent indie horror content from up and coming film makers, artists and writers, like yours truly!

http://popcornhorror.com/trouble-mill/

This is a longer tale than the flash fiction I've been publishing on this blog lately, and is an exploration of a number of ideas I've been mulling over for some time. Essentially, the industrial past meets the corporate homogenised present with some spectacularly nasty results.

Enjoy.

Tonight's Short Story: A Far Greater Pain

A Far Greater Pain

They say there’s no greater pain for a parent than burying your own child. They’re wrong, of course. Hearing muffled screams from beneath the earth after the burial is far worse.

Neil was two, mauled to death by our neighbour’s dogs. He died in my arms while the neighbour smoked weed.

But I heard him thumping his coffin, crying.  I was dragged away from the cemetery, screaming and clawing.

Now I’m home and he’s here with me. Says I left him to die underground, let him down.

He demands milk, he suckles me then bites. His teeth are like needles.

The Great Cull - The lady of the estate hunts vermin on her grounds and unearths something more ghastly than herself...

The Great Cull

The damnable little things live under the Oak at the back of my grounds. Filthy vermin, full of disease. Infect my livestock.

Always hated that Oak, since I was a girl. Twisted, ancient thing.

I had my man, Higgins, procure some gas to address the problem.

It’s illegal, but what rot. Send the little bastards to sleep. Peaceful, really.

Higgins throws it down the dark hole between the roots like I tell him. I can hear things moving under the earth.

Something’s coming up. Eyes flaming red, knowing, angry. Licks its lips, tongue lolling over huge incisors.

That’s no badger.

Hunting? It's a Right Royal Gas

So Princess Anne has decided the way to protect the livestock paid for by the UK taxpayers on her vast estate is to gas any resident badgers, thus eliminating the alleged risk of her luxury moo cows contracting TB.

This is a practise that was outlawed in 1982, but I very much doubt the royal cretin realises, or cares, about that fact. Laws are for commoners after all, to stop any of the great unwashed getting uppity and threatening the lives of the privileged.

I find something about the concept of a member of the monarchy standing by while canisters of cyanide hiss under the ground, filling the homes of innocent woodland creatures with noxious death intensely disturbing.

What would she be doing? Laughing and joking while the 'little chaps pop off to sleep'? Would she be there when they pulled their lifeless bodies out of the ground?

The whole concept is deeply unsettling to me. Perhaps it's the abuse of huge wealth and power to kill a helpless being; the huge disparity between the two protagonists that disturbs me. The brutal elimination of something wild and free by someone who is almost the epitome of the establishment? Yes, I think perhaps that's it.

Because we all have that cyanide canister hissing away in our home, whether we choose to acknowledge it, it's there.

A note about tonight's story

After yesterday's post about Britain's most common phobias including Coulrophobia, the fear of clowns, I couldn't resist dedicating a story to our custard pie-flinging slapstick friends.

Maybe after writing this short piece, I do understand how people can fear clowns. The idea of a smiling, loveable and innocent children's entertainer hiding a malevolent and murderous soul beneath the grease paint is a very disturbing concept.

I mean, just what do those clowns get up to once the show is over, the people have trodden away from the big top across a muddy field, and the campsite lies quiet? Perhaps there's still the smell of popcorn and candy floss on the air, a few lights twinkling in the performer's trailers, the stillness only broken by the sound of lunatic cackling from the clowns as they prepare their evening feast....

Tonight's short but certainly not sweet terror tale: Fears of a Clown

Fears of a Clown

The corporate world was no place for me. It broke me. Took my livelihood, my wife, and for a while, my sanity.

The circus took me in, offered me a new life, a new identity. A clown. Something I’d loved since childhood.

The other clowns aren’t as I imagined. Away from the big top, they change. They frighten me. After the show, strange voices, singing, demented laughter can be heard from their trailer deep into the night.

Last night, I peered in the window. They were cutting strips of flesh from a living child, putting them in hot dog buns.

On writing, my 100 word flash fiction stories and the great fears of the British public.

I hope somebody out there is enjoying my flash fiction horror stories, I'm certainly enjoying writing them. I am going to try, whenever reasonably possible, to write one every day. I'm doing this to help get me into good practise of writing every day, to hopefully encourage people to regularly view my blog, and also as an exercise to hone my skills.

You'd find, if you really wanted to count, that every one of my flash fiction terror tales is exactly 100 words long; not 99, not 101, precisely 100; a century. To write any kind of story whilst adhering to that rule is challenging, but to send a little frisson of fear through your reader's breast is very difficult indeed. Hopefully I've succeeded in doing that with my stories, or at least in provoking your interest.

Either way, feel free to leave comments. I've set this blog up so anyone can post on it, you don't need to log in with a username/password. Whether you want to lavish me with praise, or unleash a torrent of hellish abuse on me, I want to hear your thoughts!

                                                                          ****

An interesting article in today's Independent about a survey conducted on the yougov website to discover the nation's greatest phobia. Fear of heights proved to be number one, which I found rather surprising. In fact, I feel rather cheated that the nation's greatest fear could be something so mundane. Heights? Come on, show some imagination!

A couple of more interesting phobias cropped up in the top 13 (see what they did there?) such as Ophidiophobia (fear of snakes), Hemophobia (fear of blood), but by far the most interesting for me was Coulrophobia, the fear of clowns. Clowns. They are quite macabre and scary beings in many ways, and yet can reduce people to fits of laughter. What does this say about what we find funny and what we find frightening? Is there a very fine line between the two? Is this why many people laugh at those 'home videos' of people falling over, or stand up comedians that single audience members out for abuse? Because they're actually afraid of it happening to them and relieved it's not?

Clowns. Interesting.

Tonight's twisted 100 word yarn provides dreams, solitude, awakening and intergalactic, interspecies love!

Suburban Baby Boom

When it came it wasn't like the movies. It took me in my sleep, a discreet home invasion of my unremarkable home in the suburbs.

I lay alone, dreaming; a recurring dream about arriving to work naked.

It seems so petty now. The nude human form, a mundane sack of meat.

When I awoke, the tentacle was snaking down my throat. Ice cold, serrated. Warm salty blood filled my mouth.

It took me back, showed me such sights. When it came time to change me, I welcomed it.

I will bear its young on Earth, and then others will come.

A dystopian terror tale for anyone dreading Monday morning: 'A Question of Confinement'

A Question of Confinement

The thought.

It just popped into my mind on my morning commute, crammed into the shuttle with all the other cattle.

‘Why do we tolerate this?’

The alarm above my seat sounded and two Company droids came from the cockpit, moving jerkily down the cabin to come and arrest me, take me back to HQ for disciplinary action.

The operation will be conducted without anaesthetic and will be painful. Machinery will sustain me while my organs are replaced with synthetics. Components will be placed in my skull, making me programmable; a droid never able to question the Company again.

Tonight's twisted tale filled with Glaswegian swagger. Enjoy, ya bass.....

Fuckin Lost Ya Cunt

Where the fuck are they cunts? Fuckin stag night in London n the cunts’ve fuckin left ays. Nae fuckin clue where ah um. Goat tae find thum or all never get back tae thi hotel.

Walk in this fuckin place, Victorian place, eh? Cunt comes up tae ays, says he kens am lost, kin set ays right.  Says come in the back room n all tell ye where yer pals are.

Aye, OK.

Walk in there n the cunt pulls a knife. Stabs ays in the throat. Ah hear them chantin, guttural words ah canne understand.

Then ah black oot.

Tonight's 100 word terror tale is here! Ever wondered what your own funeral will look like?

A Small Gathering

So this is my funeral; a dismal turnout after half a century of life. My mother weeps, the others stand stony faced. Impassive.

Is this my fate? An eternity spent haunting the living. Unseen and it would seem, unlamented.

There’s somebody yawning. Maybe I’ll pay him a little visit later, see what harm I can do him.

My grave looks so deep, dark. I can’t even see the bottom.  I can hear voices coming from it, beckoning. Demanding.  Shapes rise to the surface and pull me down.

Down, down, deep into the cold, dank earth.

Then I see Him.

Tonight's bloody morsel of horror: 100 fear-filled words for a Sunday night

Family Rearrangements

At first the voice came only in my sleep. A few whispered words, a mirthless tittering laugh. Soon it came to me in daylight, too. Questions, usually. “Would you like to see her dead, butchered?”  At first, I ignored the voice, tried to think of something else.

But it became more insistent and I realised that it often expressed things I wanted. It made murder, torture seem logical. Inevitable. And he knew things. Things nobody should know.

He said they used to call him Jack.

He told me to start with my daughter. Rearrange her organs.

I did.

A flash of horror fiction and an exorcism of prog/psych prejudices

Hail fellow horror fans,

It has occurred to me that given that I've only posted one story on this blog, its title is somewhat misleading; it might more properly be called Nick Harkins' Twisted Tale. This is largely because I recently suffered from a massively debilitating illness and have been unable to do anything more productive than blow my nose for the last month or so.

In an effort to remedy this, I am going to have a go at some very short horror stories over the next few weeks until I've finished something more substantial. In the spirit of shameless self promotion, I should also mention that I've had one of my flash horror fiction stories published:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Popcorn-Horror-Presents-Words-Stories-ebook/dp/B00EPM9DXY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1394651530&sr=8-1&keywords=popcorn+horror

And here, my grisly friends, is this evening's effort. A Twisted Tale in 100 words:

Unrepentant

Strangulation is merciful. A repentant witch is throttled before burning. I am unrepentant and will feel the flesh melt from my bones before the end.

Flames lick higher, the burning peat raging beneath my feet; a growing inferno inching closer. I inhale the smoke hoping it will help me lose consciousness. It doesn’t work. I struggle vainly to extricate myself from the stone pillar I’m bound to.

The flames take my feet, pain sharp. Excruciating. I scream my agony and they jeer back at me.

Their mocking gives me strength and I scream words of power. I will be back.

Hope you enjoyed that, I enjoyed writing it.

On a final note for tonight, I finally listened to 'Wind and Wuthering' by Genesis earlier, an album they recorded after Peter Gabriel left, with Phil Collins as lead vocalist. I inherited this vinyl LP along with a number of others a few years ago, and always felt reluctant to listen to it as I assumed it would not be true prog/psych like the Gabriel era stuff. How wrong I was! It's a majestic example of 70s prog that deserves wider acclaim. Who would have thought that Phil Collins was, many moons ago, very cool.

More to fantasy than Tolkien and George RR Martin

I started Michael Moorcock's 'Hawkmoon: The History of the Runestaff' a few days ago, and have been utterly enthralled by it ever since. It's such a shame that for so many people fantasy begins and ends with Tolkien, or perhaps since the HBO TV show Game of Thrones, George RR Martin.

There really is so much more in the fantasy genre that is just as good, and, dare I say it, perhaps even better.

'Hawkmoon: The History of the Runestaff' compiles three novels featuring Dorian Hawkmoon, a fabulously realised  character full of interesting contradictions; brave and loyal, a passionate lover and ferocious fighter who is at times also murderously ruthless and cold. The whole landscape is incredibly imaginative and filled with strange and wonderful beasts, beauteous maidens, psychopathic warlords, enigmatic sorcerers and strange cities.

In keeping with a lot of Moorcock's work, there is some social commentary here. The world that Hawkmoon roams is clearly our distant future, at some point after the breakdown of 'ancient civilisation' due to the 'Tragic Millenium', and many of the cities and countries names are bastardised versions of real places. The heart of evil lies in Granbretan, a nation of brutal savages that aim to conquer the world, creating one huge empire. Reminiscent of the imperialism of Great Britain and her Empire? Certainly.

So far, I've only read the first book in this collection, 'The Jewel in the Skull', but I am eagerly anticipating the rest of the Hawkmoon novels in this volume.

Just to make Hawkmoon's adventures even more perfect, the first volume is dedicated to the one and only Dave Brock, frontman of the legendary psychedelic space rockers Hawkwind, who Moorcock had a long association with.

Far fucking out, man.

Fever Dreams

As my last post suggests, I have suffered an extremely nasty bout of illness. Bronchitis, no less. For some weeks, I was unable to do pretty much anything; writing, planning future projects, exercise, and in fact anything besides playing Skyrim, proved to be beyond me.

Thankfully, my strength is now returning. I managed to do a decent workout today, and am now chomping at the bit ready to make up for lost time with my writing.

The only tiny positive I can take from the last two weeks, it is that in my fevered state I had a number of remarkably vivid dreams; far more vivid than I would normally have in a healthy state. A few of them were quite pleasant, but some were disturbing; unbelievably disturbing, and so vivid that for some time after waking, I had to keep telling myself that the events in the dream never really happened.

Of course, for someone that writes twisted, scary stories such dreams were a gift from whatever Gods administer nightmares, and at least one is going to form the basis of an upcoming story.

And thinking about that last paragraph, there's an interesting concept: a God of Nightmares gleefully spreading fear amongst the vulnerable legions of sleepy mortals...

I think perhaps we may meet him or her, too.

American Mary - My thoughts

I've spent the entire weekend in bed coughing and spluttering with a particularly nasty cold, and have had to rely on my trusty PS3, Netlix and my dvd/blu ray collection for solace.
If there is one positive that can be taken from the last few dismal, phlegm-ridden days, it is that I've finally got round to watching my 'American Mary' blu ray that I purchased some weeks ago. I'd read a lot about it, most of it good, so my expectations were high, and thankfully I wasn't disappointed.

What a strange, wonderful ride it is; filled with bizarre, often carnival show grotesque characters, it's the kind of gloriously weird experience that is rarely encountered in the modern horror genre. The tragic Beatrice, a woman who has used body modification to turn herself into a living caricature of Betty Boop is one of the most memorable and original characters I've seen in a horror movie since the demented Captain Spalding in Rob Zombie's 'House Of 1000 Corpses'.

There are no heroes and villains in this piece; they're all bad, some are just badder than others, or perhaps not, perhaps just bad in different ways. All are well developed and intriguing, there's no room for blandness in this movie, only desires sought and fulfilled. There's always a price to be paid, though....

If you like horror, or even just dark humour and an original twisted tale, you owe it to yourself to check this gem out.

Taxi to Midian

Please check out my latest poll asking you who your favourite horror author is. I've started things off by selecting my own favourite, Clive Barker. Although I have enjoyed some of his books more than others, his best work is so astonishingly good, I have to choose him. I've read his early books multiple times, and in my opinion 'Cabal' has never been equalled. Dark, beautiful and magical, it represents everything a scary story should.

What do you think?

'In the Shadow of The Wicker Man'

Check out my article about my strange trip to the locations used in the filming of 'The Wicker Man' at
http://popcornhorror.com/shadow-wicker-man/

It was an amazing trip to many of the scenes in one of the greatest horror movies of all time.

Thoughts on James Herbert's 'Fluke' and my latest horror poll

Please check out my latest horror movie poll. Stephen King, one of the masters of modern horror, has seen his works adapted for the big screen many times, but which is your favourite?

By his own admission, films of his stories have been a mixed bag; from the sublime example of Stanley Kubrick's 'The Shining' to the truly dreadful 'Dreamcatcher' and everything in between.

On another note, I was going through my bookshelf the other day and came across James Herbert's incredible tale of reincarnation, 'Fluke'. Such an interesting and moving novel, it deserves to be a lot more well known than it is. I would love to see an animated film adaptation in the gritty style of 'Watership Down', or the truly horrific 'Plague Dogs'.

News on my next story thoughts on 'Cabin in the Woods', and current horror movies in general

Currently doing some research into various figures from Greek mythology for my next horror story. A  clash between modern and ancient cultures, and the living and the dead will ensue...

On another note, I watched 'Cabin in the Woods' a few nights ago and absolutely loved it. It completely turns the whole slasher genre on its head and manages to be funny and scary, a difficult feat to achieve.

Every creature of nightmares gets to make an appearance, literally all of them! It is without doubt the smartest and most original horror film I've seen for a long time. A most refreshing change from the current trend of weak remakes, sequels, and even sequels to weak remakes. Aaaargh!

Who would have thought that there will soon be a Nightmare on Elm Street 2...2?! Insane. Freddy, and all other franchises that are being rebooted should be allowed to be incinerated in their respective boiler rooms in dignity. I'd rather see original classic horror films re-mastered and rereleased than poor imitations.

Researching new story

Currently researching for my next twisted tale, working title 'Pay the Ferry Man'. Should be ready in the next few weeks.

New story now live on @PopcornHorror

My latest horror story, 'I Know I am, I'm Sure I am' is now live on Popcorn Horror:

http://popcornhorror.com/know-im-sure/

Check it out and let me know what you think.

Ferocious new story coming this weekend

My next story, 'I Know I am, I'm Sure I am' will published on www.popcornhorror.com on Sunday 19th January. It's a brutal take on a classic horror theme. I wanted to explore the concept of somebody being infected with supernatural powers who was already feral, violent and sadistic;
someone who would relish the ability to bring bloody carnage to his prey.

Too many horror stories feature bland, unthreatening characters filled with middle-class sensibilities, wringing their hands and lamenting their transformation into a beast, a thing, a monster. What's frightening about that? Nothing.

Prepare  yourselves, it's coming...

New story to be published soon

My latest story, 'I Know I am, I'm Sure I am' to be published on www.popcornhorror.com.
in the near future. Will let you know once it's there, but in the meantime, go and check the site out. Some fantastic short horror movies and films on there.

Horror Movie Poll

I've added a poll about the best decade for horror movies. Please take part if you're a horror fan!

You'll notice the most recent decade you can vote for is the 1980s.

This was deliberate.

I don't know about you, but I despise much of what passes for horror now. Endless watered-down remakes of classic horror movies, sequels and generally insipid drivel about pretty, white Californians having some form of mildly distressing supernatural encounter.

Magick or Mania?

Have just started 'The Drug & Other Stories' by Aleister Crowley, the first thing I have read by a man I have heard so many references to. Will it be the ravings of a madman, or the brilliant work of a genius? I will soon find out.

The sound of his voice on Fields of the Nephilim's sublime 'At the Gates of Silent Memory' is utterly mesmerising and is what, more than anything, inspired me to check out his writing.

**STORY** - Their Pale Perfection

Their Pale Perfection

By

Nick Harkins

All my life I yearned for fame and adulation. As a child I idolised the movie stars I watched every Saturday afternoon at my local cinema. Alone in the darkened auditorium, enraptured by the gentle whirring of the projector and the silver deities on the screen before me, I dreamed of one day joining them; perhaps even surpassing them to become the greatest star of all time. I came close too, only for it to be snatched away from me when I was on the brink of realising my dream.

The road to stardom proved to be a far more difficult journey than I anticipated. I served a grim apprenticeship in the grainy gore flicks of the early 80s. I managed to mask my distaste for my amateurish surroundings sufficiently to excel in my work and earned a cult fan base as I hammed it up as a vampire, a mad scientist and numerous other formulaic roles.  My profile grew until eventually I got my big break in The Professor; a mainstream horror movie with a full cinematic release.

I played a dashing University lecturer who lured female students to extra tuition sessions and murdered them in various deliciously gruesome ways. It was the perfect blend of horror and sex; moviegoers relished my suave drawl as I seduced my fresh faced, voluptuous victims, and  waited eagerly on the edge of their seats for the slaughter of innocence they knew would come. The film was a global smash; the highest grossing horror movie of all time. It should have been the start of an incredible career, catapulting me to the big time starring alongside De Niro and Pacino, fucking top quality Hollywood whores on and off the screen, everything I’d dreamed of since those afternoons in the cinema that had provided refuge from my life in a bleak post-war council estate.

Sadly, those aspirations came to an abrupt end when certain allegations were made about my sex life. It was complete nonsense for the most part, but it ruined my career. I was accused of violating the dead. All lies of course, fuelled by jealousy. Yes, I visited morgues and funeral parlours, and admittedly I requested private access to the corpses, but it was all to help me research my role as a killer. Purely research, nothing sexual. I was an artist – an artist of uncommon genius – building up a sketchbook to help me create my masterpiece. I merely wanted to gaze on the pale perfection of the cadavers; their icy stillness – it always amazed me how cold they were to the touch - as they lay awaiting the eternal darkness of the grave, unmoved by the wailing and futile lamentations of loved ones.

The scandal broke in one of the Sunday tabloids; lurid headlines promised exclusive interviews with my accusers. Before the morning was out, my agent had called me to drop the ultimate bombshell; I was fired from the upcoming sequel of The Professor. I agonised over what I could possibly do to rescue my career, but eventually realised it was pointless to continue. Even if I managed to prove my innocence and escape the horrors of prison, I would forever carry with me the stigma of perversion. I would be lucky even to return to the ignominy of the splatter videos I’d worked so hard to escape. Death was the only option.

In a last desperate act of grisly theatre, I chose to dispatch myself with a prop from The Professor; the fountain pen I used in the movie to mark my student’s essays, and, on occasion, gouge out their twinkling blue eyes. It took me a number of attempts to successfully off myself in the same way, reality proving far harsher than fiction, but eventually I managed to drive the pen into my jugular and wrench it downwards towards my collar, opening a jagged, inky wound. Arterial blood sprayed in a powerful crimson jet, some mingling with the blue ink to form an exquisite purple.

In the years spent floating between the realm of the dead and frequent, moping visits to the mortal world, it dawned on me that the tabloid scandal was a set up. The hack they brought in to replace me in the sequel was surely responsible for my downfall. He knew what a success that film would be, how it could elevate his career beyond mere genre movies onto the Hollywood A list, so he deliberately orchestrated my ruin in the tabloids. Sean McCoy, the vulgar peasant from a crumbling Chicago housing project went on to become the biggest star of the decade. Even to this day he remains one of Hollywood’s greatest stars, revered and respected as a living legend, and all thanks to his big break in The Professor 2 playing my part.

For almost thirty years I’ve waited for the opportunity to destroy him for what he did to me. I’ve made many fruitless attempts to do it alone, but I, like most of the dead, have no power over physical objects. In the early days, I naively believed that my rage and hurt were of such magnitude that I would be able to channel it into an ability to move things. I tried snapping the brake cables in his car; I attempted to drive a carving knife into his chest solely by force of will, burn his house down by flicking a log from his hearth, all to no avail.

I failed at every turn and looked on as his fame grew until eventually the worst blow of all; the Oscar for best leading actor. I wept as I watched him collect the award, and stood on the stage beside him, invisible to all, screaming tearful obscenities into the microphone as I peered into the blank unseeing eyes of tinsel town’s glitterati.

It was then, as I wept before the oblivious attendees of the Oscar ceremony and the millions glued to their televisions around the world, that I realised I wouldn’t be able to get revenge alone. I needed the assistance of someone living. It took me some considerable time and effort to develop the knowledge and ability to become visible in the mortal world. I spent almost two years consulting with deeply unsavoury characters in the dark places of the dead before I could control it sufficiently to attempt to make contact with a living person.

Keen to find someone who would not become hysterical, I once tried to contact a medium who I assumed would have experience of dealing with spirits, but the old crone seemed to sense my murderous intentions towards McCoy and began chanting some kind of incantation that I felt sure was designed to banish me from the world of the living. Fortunately, I managed remove myself before she could complete the incantation, but from then on I made certain to stay well away from mediums.

More failures followed over the years, but still I waited for the break I never stopped believing would come. Finally, it arrived: Aaron Beckerleg was the opportunity I’d been looking for. I knew he was special as soon as I saw his first audition on Pop Singer. By that time I’d been searching for almost three decades for someone as hungry to succeed in show business as I’d been before my death; someone who could empathise with the tragedy of my unfulfilled potential and help me seek revenge. My own chance of stardom was taken away from me when I was on the cusp of greatness, something I hoped Beckerleg himself would soon come to understand. I knew I could capitalise on the pain of unrealised ambitions we shared, and persuade, or if necessary, force him to do my bidding.

He was a tall, painfully thin man in his late twenties with an air of vulnerability. Dowdily dressed in grubby jeans and a washed out t-shirt, his dark eyes darted nervously around the arena as he scurried onto the stage for his first audition. His appearance prompted immediate smirks and whispers from the audience as he introduced himself to the judges and announced between nervous gulps that he was going to be as successful as Michael Jackson. The backing track started and he commenced a torturous rendition of Elton John’s Rocket Man. He was met with a cacophony of jeers from the audience, many raising their arms in the air to sway mockingly along to the music. The judging panel smirked and waited eagerly for their turn to join the slaughter. When the backing track finished and Beckerleg stood before them awaiting their verdict, they unleashed a ferocious barrage of abuse. Beckerleg, they unanimously declared, had given the worst audition of the series, perhaps of any series, and should accept the fact that he had no future in the music industry.

There was nothing unusual in this; dispensing insults to the deluded is, after all, the raison d’être of any television judging panel. It was Aaron’s reaction that made him stand out from the other failures.  Weeping hysterically, he sank to his knees and crawled from the stage towards the panel, leaving a glistening trail of tears and mucus in his wake. When he reached Steven Fowell, the head judge and creator of the show, he began to kiss and lick his feet, begging between sobs to be allowed to progress to the next stage of the competition.

The camera closed in on his soggy, wild-eyed countenance as he slurped on Fowell’s handmade Italian shoes while the audience hooted in the background. Fowell immediately recognised the potential for further humiliation and put him through to the next stage. More performances like this would be good for ratings. The sobs grew louder and Beckerleg continued slurping with renewed gusto. I knew then that Beckerleg was an ideal accomplice for me; he was desperate, ridiculed and clearly prepared to do anything to achieve his dream of stardom. His fall, when it inevitably came, would be catastrophic. And I planned to be there to pick up the pieces.

His journey through the stages of Pop Singer grew steadily worse. Fuelled by a string of bizarre performances, the baying mob began to thirst for blood. In the tabloids, the gossip magazines and on social networking sites, Aaron became the nation’s favourite hate figure. Death threats were made and his work colleagues spoke gleefully in the tabloids of his kooky behaviour and pariah status in the office. But still he soldiered on from week to week. As the hatred - cleverly fed and nurtured by Fowell - grew to feverish levels of intensity, dark forces gathered, greedily feeding on the loathing and suppressed violence that surrounded Beckerleg. It is not uncommon for malevolent spirits to be drawn to such powerful feelings. Ghouls flock to horrific events; wars, terrorist atrocities, and now, it seemed, reality TV shows.  

Unseen by the viewing public, inky black shapes moved amongst the audience, feeding on their malevolence. Often, they would assume the form of human shadows, crouching in front of the most belligerent spectators, sucking in the bile as they screamed at Beckerleg. Others took the form of giant bats, swooping around the studio, basking in the hatred; whilst a huge black snake would often slither noiselessly over the judge’s panel, coiling itself around their necks and feasting on their malice, sucking greedily on the fears and resentments that burned within them as they speared Beckerleg with venomous barbs of derision.

I began to plan my strategy, watching Beckerleg’s every move on and off screen, observing his habits to ensure nothing would be left to chance. I soon learned that he was an incredibly lonely man who spent most of the tiny amount of free time the show allowed him in his bedroom in the house all the show’s contestants stayed in. Mostly he gazed at the ceiling deep in thought, sometimes he paced the floor anxiously, and he occasionally jerked off, but not once did I see him have any kind of conversation with his house-mates beyond the most basic of pleasantries. I assumed he yearned for fame to fill the emptiness inside him.

The end of his Pop Singer journey finally  came in the sixth week when he finished bottom of the public vote, as he had done on every show, but this time the head judge did not come to his rescue. He’d received a tip off that a Sunday tabloid planned to publish completely untrue claims that he’d been rescuing Aaron from elimination in exchange for sexual favours, and realised it was the right time to consign Beckerleg to the murky world of failed TV talent contestants. He announced his decision with a snarling brutality that even the studio audience found excessive. Only a few gasps and some uncomfortable shuffling could be heard as the spotlight once again fell on Beckerleg.

I, like most observers, expected more tears and pleading. In the end though, Beckerleg remained outwardly calm. When the show’s presenter put his arm around him and said ‘Aaron, the judges have made their decision. You’ll be going home tonight’, the audience waited in anticipation of histrionics to follow. Aaron raised a trembling fist and presented his middle finger to the nation, then without a word he strolled off the stage, out of the studio and into the London night. His anger had taken over; anger at the weeks of abuse and threats, anger at the rejection by Fowell. And so, at the last he had found the courage to stand up to his tormentors.

I opted to approach him when he was just home from the studio after eviction and his emotions would still be raw. That final night, as Beckerleg left the Pop Singer stage for the last time, I made my way to his bedsit and waited. I knew he wouldn’t return to the house he’d shared with the other contestants to spend a last night amongst their whispers and disdain, but would return to his own place where he could be alone in his grief.

He hurried straight home when he left the studio, striding quickly through the London streets to the tube station, hoping nobody would recognise him. A few spirits floated out of the studio with him, but were soon disorientated in the bustle of London on a Saturday night, and turned back to the studio to rejoin their brethren in sucking up the last of the audience’s hate. Gone now for Beckerleg were the dreams of travel by chauffeur driven limos or vintage sports cars. Spurned by those to whom he had given everything in his quest for stardom, he sat miserably on the tube, pretending to read a free newspaper just to hide his famous face.

He sought immediate liquid solace on his return to his sparsely furnished bedsit. As soon as he closed the door behind him, he poured a generous measure of vodka into a chipped mug and gulped it down in one. Believing himself to be alone now, he let the tears flow. Not the flamboyant sobbing he’d indulged in on Pop Singer; now that there was no audience, his sobs were deeper and almost silent. His narrow shoulders rose and fell as he filled and refilled the mug with booze.

I watched him polishing off the cheap spirit and wished I could have a shot of it myself, feeling a little ashamed that I was afraid of a confrontation with a living person.   After taking a moment to get myself together, I went in for the kill, allowing myself to become visible to Beckerleg. ‘Hello there’ I said by way of greeting, adopting a matey, avuncular tone.

Beckerleg said nothing. A dark patch on his trousers spread rapidly from his crotch to his thigh, then down his shin to drip onto the threadbare carpet. ‘I’m real. You’re not dreaming. This isn’t a hallucination brought on by vodka, or the stress you’ve been under. So,’ I said ‘now that you’ve pissed yourself, can we crack on and talk sensibly?’ I gave him my most charming smile.

He seemed to consider this carefully for a moment, looking down at his reeking, piss-soaked jeans then back up at me. ‘Sure’ he croaked, his hand pulling the fabric of his trousers away from his skin.

‘You’ve had had your dreams snatched away from you’ I said.

‘Well, yeah’ he nodded, his eyes wide and staring, all hint of drunkenness vanished.

‘I’ve been watching you for a while now. You deserve to be a star with a special talent like yours’ I lied. ‘They fucked you over, couldn’t handle someone as good as you, so they made you look a fool.’

‘Yeah’, said Beckerleg ‘but what does it have to do with you’

 ‘I’ve been through something very similar myself, you know. I think we can help each other.’

‘How can you help me when you’re dead?’ said Beckerleg, pouring himself another drink, his hands trembling wildly, splashing vodka on his already sodden trousers.

‘Revenge’ I said, and paused for a moment for dramatic effect. ‘Revenge against the scum that have denied us our chance for greatness.’

‘I’ll get my revenge next year when I win that competition and become the biggest music star this country has ever produced’ said Beckerleg.

‘That’s not going to happen; they won’t ever let you win. Do you think they’re going to let you make them look stupid? You’re deluding yourself’ I said.

‘Well, I could enter another talent show on TV and win that’ said Beckerleg, flustered.

‘Not a chance’ I shook my head sadly. ‘These people, these shows are all the same. The big shots, the men at the top, they never understand people like us; the artists, the true originals. They’d rather play safe, go with bland normality.’

Beckerleg lowered his head, defeated. ‘I guess you’re right. It’s just so unfair’ he whined.

‘You want to pay that arrogant swine Fowell back for humiliating you in front of millions, don’t you? He only wanted you there to destroy you.’

‘Yes’ said Beckerleg, venom now in his voice. ‘But what do you want me to do for you? You said you wanted revenge, too.’

I told him my story much as I recounted it to you, adding one or two embellishments here and there to add spice to the performance. I was always a master of improvisation, even in the grubby gore-fest slasher flicks I began my career in. I could take any stilted, hackneyed script and inject it with life and authenticity. I concluded my tale with a dramatic re-enactment of my suicide with the fountain pen, complete with sound effects and stabbing and tearing actions. I looked up anxiously when I’d reached the gruesome finale, hoping to see Beckerleg moved by the tragic spectacle he’d witnessed. I wasn’t disappointed; Beckerleg gazed back at me, his eyes filled with a new understanding.

‘That’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard’ said Beckerleg.

‘Yes, well we’ve both been cheated. They set you up to look a fool, and they accused me of being a pervert, the hypocrites. We’ll never be what we should have been, but we can bring hell to those responsible.’

‘Do you really think we can?’ said Beckerleg wiping the tears from his face with his sleeve.

‘I know we can, but I can’t do it alone. I have no way to physically touch a living person, let alone kill them.’

‘Death?’ said Beckerleg.

‘Death. That’s the only way we can have full satisfaction for the injustices these men have perpetrated against us. Just look at the two of us here in your grimy bedsit’ I said waving my hand theatrically around Beckerleg’s dismal garret. ‘It’s tragic.’

‘You’re right’ said Beckerleg, ‘It shouldn’t be like this for us.’

****

The day after our initial meeting was the hardest. When Beckerleg finally hauled his aching, dehydrated carcass from the armchair he’d crashed out on the night before, he looked at me in abject horror for an instant, and then proceeded to studiously ignore me for most of the rest of the day. In the gloom of the evening, however, after he’d polished off the rest of the vodka, his resistance gave out and we began to talk seriously about how we would carry out our plan. By the time Pop Singer had aired the following week, we had devised a plan to publicly execute McCoy and Fowell.

As a spirit, I can move unseen and unheard anywhere I choose. To my shame, I have used this for sexual purposes on a number of occasions, and have witnessed acts of excess and depravity that I would never have contemplated in life. I once attended a party at an apartment in Ladbroke Grove where acts took place so unspeakable that I shall not recount them here. My only defence is that I did not participate in the slaughter; I merely watched and listened to the screams as I ejaculated black, translucent seed into the face of the dying victim.

In addition to helping me to indulge in voyeurism, my spectral state allows me to find out information. Through careful surveillance, I was able to discover that both McCoy and Fowell planned to attend the big movie premier of the festive period at Leicester Square; McCoy because the bastard starred in it, and, curse him, directed it, and Steven Fowell because he wanted to bask in the glow of the movie’s guaranteed success, and probably get a few free drinks. Through regular visits to McCoy and Fowell’s homes, I was able to learn their plans in detail. As I’d hoped would be the case, Fowell’s colossal ego would not allow him to arrive at a time when he would be walking the red carpet with any of the film’s lesser lights. He had synchronised his arrival with that of the leading man, meaning that they would be in close proximity and as close to the public as either of them ever cared to get.

I was pleased to find Beckerleg unconcerned about the potential consequences of the murderous plans we hatched. He was aware, even in the deep funk of drunken depression that enveloped him, that there would be no way back for his musical aspirations, but felt little unease about the prospect of losing his liberty if apprehended by the police. Often, he would rave drunkenly about how no jury would ever convict him of murder, and he would get off based on diminished responsibility. The stress he’d suffered during his humiliating ordeal was enough to send anyone over the edge. In his more drunken moments, he’d even convince himself that I could appear as a character witness for him in court; a conviction I did nothing to discourage.

For my part, I realised that it would probably be the end of me in the sense of my ability to continue lingering amongst the living. My purpose served, I would finally end my purgatory in the shadows of celebrity and move on to whatever awaited me, good or bad. I felt sure that my appetites in life and the scheme I was now hatching in death meant I would not be headed anywhere pleasant, but the fact that McCoy would be joining me offered me great comfort. I would have an eternity to wallow in his suffering.

As Beckerleg never had the connections to allow him to purchase the firepower we needed to carry out the executions, it was left to me to do some reconnaissance work. I haunted the drinking pits of London looking for someone who could supply us with a gun. Many nights I mingled unseen amongst pimps, junkies, thieves and whores until I found a supplier. I witnessed two fatal stabbings, and a number of severe beatings, all of which served as welcome entertainment after the relentless claustrophobia of Beckerleg’s bedsit. One hapless dealer who’d burned his supplier on a shipment of heroin was repeatedly kicked in the head so severely that an eye detached from the socket and dangled limply on his cheek, much to the amusement of his assailants.

I eventually located our man in a South London pub. For a reasonable price, was able to provide a gun and ammunition to rent no questions asked. After much cajoling, I persuaded Beckerleg to take the tube south of the river and make the transaction at a time during the day when I knew our supplier would be present in the pub, and the place would be relatively quiet.

Fortunately, Beckerleg was not recognised when he arrived at the pub. I told him to stroll in as though he was a regular, but not to overdo the confidence. He pulled it off perfectly, moving quickly through the dingy pub, the hood of his sweater pulled up to mask as much of his face as possible. He arrived at the dealer’s regular table in a quiet nook unchallenged by the smattering of bar flies around the premises. In a brief, muttered transaction, he managed to rent a handgun and ammunition. The thug never asked any questions about what Beckerleg planned to do with the weapon, probably taking him for a cuckolded husband or a disgruntled employee seeking retribution against his boss.

Transaction complete, he made his way unsteadily into the pale grey London afternoon, blinking as his eyes adjusted from the gloom of the pub and made his way home as quickly as he could, anxious to enjoy a drink to calm his nerves.  When he arrived, he took out the gun and sat for some time staring blankly at it as he sipped his drink, ignoring my attempts to engage him in conversation. I began to worry that he was going to flake out on me in some way and fail to carry out the plan. ‘I wish I could just shoot you and end all this’ said Beckerleg eventually. ‘Why did you have to involve me in this madness?’

‘You know why, we’ve been through this dozens of times. We’ve been wronged, cheated. Something has to be done about it and this is the only way’ I said patiently. ‘Tomorrow night, you are going to that movie premier. You’re going to wait in one of the nearby bars until I give you the word, then you’re going to burst your way through the crowd and open fire.’

‘But...’

‘But nothing. You wanted to be famous, remember? Nobody is going to forget your name.’’

‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right’ said Beckerleg brightening slightly.

When the day finally came, I could barely contain my elation. I floated around the bedsit, singing to myself, visualising what was to come. Beckerleg was going to go through with it and I would get my revenge. Despite my initial sympathy for Beckerleg, I’d privately grown tired of his deluded whining. Even so, he was serving his purpose wonderfully; choosing him had been a masterstroke. Prison no doubt awaited him, but that was no concern of mine. I chuckled at the thought of watching him being violated in prison by cons who would no doubt welcome such tender meat in their midst.

****

Beckerleg found a quiet seat in a little nook in the dusty old pub near Leicester Square tube station that we’d agreed he would start operations from. When I arrived I found him nursing a pint of lager and staring intently at a faded old print on the wall depicting Sherlock Holmes shooting a large, ferocious hound with glowing eyes.

‘It’s time’ I said.

‘I know’ said Beckerleg ‘This is for the best, isn’t it? I mean, we’re doing the world a favour really?’

‘You know we are.’

‘Well, let’s get it over with.’

I said nothing and watched him get to his feet and head for the door. To my surprise, he moved purposefully without stumbling or bumping into anything. He kept his head down and strode quickly towards Leicester Square past the cafe bars and ticket agencies into the throng of people gawping at the arriving stars. He timed his movements perfectly, hanging back until a large black limo arrived and the crowd began to scream and push towards the metal barriers. It was him.

McCoy oozed out of the limo and began to strut his way up the red carpet, then, as planned; Fowell arrived thirty seconds or so later. Beckerleg’s eyes honed in on his prey. He moved between the throng of excited fans squeezing himself to the front of the crowd until he was pressed up against the barrier.

‘Hey! Remember me?’ Beckerleg shouted at Fowell.

‘Aaron?’ said Fowell, grinning wolfishly, anticipating an opportunity to raise a few more laughs at Beckerleg’s expense. ‘Are you going to sing for us?’

Beckerleg drew the gun from under his belt and shot him in the mouth, shattering his whitened teeth and blowing the back of his head out onto the red carpet. McCoy froze in terror as Beckerleg then pointed the gun at him. As security lunged for him, Beckerleg turned swiftly to me and grinned.

‘You’re just like all the others’ he said, then lifted the gun to his temple and fired. Blood, brain and bone splattered onto the carpet and merged with Fowell’s, their minds finally meeting in death.

****

So close. Next year will be different.