Date: 2014-11-09 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Paranormal; Fiction; Thriller; Mystery; Supernatural; Suspense; Fantasy; Gothic
Description: Blake Price is the most celebrated mystery writer since Agatha Christie, but a violent tragedy from his past sends him running from his life and into a secluded cottage in the countryside. Selfishly, he drags his family with him. Trying to connect with his melancholy son and grieving wife is difficult, but Blake tries his best to hold the strands of his life together while kidding himself that everything is okay. One day, while out looking for treasure in the field outside their new home, Blake and his 10-year old son, Ricky, find something buried in the dirt—an antique picture frame. It chang
Publisher: SalGad Publishing Group
Rights: Copyright 2017 Iain Rob Wright. All rights reserved.

The Picture Frame

Evil should stay buried

Iain Rob Wright

SalGad Publications

Contents

Untitled

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Quotes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Plea From the Author

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About Iain Rob Wright

How does a man keep his family safe against an evil they can't escape?

Blake Price is the most celebrated mystery writer since Agatha Christie, but a violent tragedy has sent him and his family to a secluded cottage in the English countryside. He tries to keep the unravelling strands of his life together as best he can, but it becomes impossible when an old picture frame worms its way into their lives.

The wooden picture frame is odd, maybe even unnatural, and Blake slowly begins to realise that something wicked has fallen upon his family. The picture frame curses any whose picture is placed inside of it. Unfortunately, Blake's wife thought it was just perfect for a family photo...

With the lives of his beloved at stake, Blake must discover the origins of the cursed picture frame before it's too late. In doing so, he will be forced to face his past and fight desperately for his future. Luckily, he'll have allies along the way, including a man he once gave up on. Together they might just have a chance of defeating pure, unimaginable evil.

Don't miss out on your FREE Iain Rob Wright horror starter pack. Five free bestselling horror novels sent straight to your inbox. No strings attached.

For more information just visit this page:

www.iainrobwright.com/free-starter-pack/

In addition, you can also save money by purchasing books in extra-value box sets. Grab yours now.

Boxset 1

Sam, ASBO, The Final Winter, The Housemates, Sea Sick

Boxset 2

Ravage, Savage, Animal Kingdom, The Picture Frame, 2389, The Peeling Omnibus, Slasher, Soft Target, A-Z of Horror Vol 1

Dedicated to my wife
for all that she goes through.

“It is by going down into the abyss that we recover the treasures of life.”

– Joseph Campbell

“It is a man's own mind, not his enemy or foe that lures him to evil ways.”

– Buddha

"I’m every nightmare you’ve ever had. I’m everything you ever were afraid of."

– Pennywise (Tim Curry), IT, Warner Bros. Television

Chapter 1

“Keep it steady, move slowly, or we’ll never find a thing.” Blake watched his son wave the metal detector around like a sword and sighed. Whenever Ricky did anything, he did it fast. The boy did not walk, he ran. He did not eat his dinner, he wolfed it down. Life was not a stroll for Blake’s exuberant ten-year-old, it was a mad, arm-flailing sprint.

“I’m trying, Dad, but it’s not doing nothing.”

“Anything. It’s not doing anything.”

Ricky swatted a greasy strand of brown hair out of his eyes and huffed. “Help me.”

“Okay, okay.” Blake trudged across the field. It wasn’t Ricky’s fault he was having so much trouble; the thing was old and heavy, as much a relic as anything they hoped to find buried. “There you go,” he said, helping to guide the wand. “Just like that, back and forth. Now you’re getting it.”

They quickly covered an area about the size of a tennis court—and got nothing. The wand beeped rhythmically the entire time, but never got excited. Blake remembered combing the seaside with his own father and finding loose change galore. He wanted Ricky to feel that same rush of adrenaline upon hearing a metal detector screech. But it had all been one great disappointment. Ricky was clearly growing bored with what he likely considered a waste of a Saturday afternoon.

It was difficult for a father to entertain his son in the 21st Century. Television and toy companies were the ones in charge, not the parents. Ricky would rather spend his days with grumpy birds on his iPad than in a field looking for buried treasure with his dad. Kids weren’t excited by the thrill of adventure anymore, they wanted instant gratification; and if they could get it while sitting on the sofa, all the better. Blake wouldn’t mind so much, but he wanted his son to grow up into a relaxed, content adult; not another stressed-out consumer, forever reaching for the next rung on the endless ladder of modern affluence. Blake wanted to teach Ricky the things that were actually important.

Ricky let the metal detector sag to the ground. “Can we go inside now? It’s getting cold.”

“I suppose we should. I didn’t bring your coat. Didn’t think we’d need it.” Blake placed his hands on his hips. “Okay, let’s head back, then.”

With a hop, skip, and a jump, Ricky started down the sloping field towards home. The mid-century cottage was two miles away from anything else with plumbing. The added solitude had saved Blake’s life. Buying the quaint cottage, with its cobbled stone walls, original fireplaces, and thatched roof, had been a desperate gamble to escape the endless cycle of stress that plagued him. Getting away from the city and grabbing six acres all his own had returned to Blake his freedom, which had previously been eaten up by credit card bills, mortgage statements, noisy neighbours, gas-spewing traffic, cold-callers and, of course—the straw that broke the camel’s back—crazed fans finding his address.

Being the nation’s most treasured mystery writer since Agatha Christie wasn’t all it had cracked up to be. The money was great and the work was soul-enriching, but the whining editors, greedy publishers, and spiteful critics made life a constant cycle of negativity. Blake was truly blessed for what he did, but that blessing was also a curse. His job and his life had become one. The phone calls, emails, and social media postings never ceased. The publication of his next novel, immediately followed by another, was all anybody cared about. New York Times Bestseller or not, Blake had needs beyond writing books and making money.

So, three years ago, he’d used the advance money for two of his upcoming releases and purchased the run-down, yet beautiful Poe’s Place cottage. The property was surrounded by an undulating field, while a long, gravelly driveway set it well back from the seldom used B-road that led there. The fresh air brought Blake’s heels back down to earth and reminded him to concentrate on taking one breath at a time.

“Dad, why do foxes always poop in our field?”

“Where do you suggest they go?”

“In the hedges, or something. Not right where I can step in it.”

“I think they do it to mark their territory.”

Ricky fiddled with the metal detector’s strap over his shoulder and gave his father a quizzical look. “Mark their territory for who?”

“Other foxes. If a strange fox comes along and sees droppings, they know to stay clear. It’s how a fox lets other animals know whose turf it is.”

“But this is our turf. You bought the field and now a fox is shitting in it.”

Blake pointed at his son. “Language! Your mother hears you swearing, she’ll hit the roof.”

“I’m ten, not two.”

“You’re still a new-born as far as she’s concerned, so watch your mouth. Anyway, I kind of like having a fox around the place. Reminds me I’m in the country. Besides, he might have been here before us. Maybe he thinks we’re the intruders.”

“The country is boring.” Ricky kicked a stone embedded in the dirt and sent it spinning into the air. They both watched it roll down the hill.

“You’re lucky to grow up in a place like this.” Blake tried to sound enthusiastic. “Better than I had as a boy. I know the country is quiet, but believe me, things are worse in the city.”

“Why?”

“They just are. Everything is too busy. Everywhere is cracked, broken, and dirty.”

“The country is dirty.”

Blake sighed. “No…no, it’s not. It’s clean, and nothing ever breaks in the country. Nature heals itself. A tree falls down, another grows in its place. Take our cottage, for instance. When we moved in it was broken down and smelt bad, remember? Because nobody had lived in it for so long, weeds had taken root and there were rats and mice. The oak trees along the driveway were all overgrown and it was hard to even see the place from the road, remember?”

“There were spiders everywhere,” said Ricky, nodding.

“Yeah, spiders, too. Nature saw nobody was living in Poe’s Place, so it moved in. Nature makes the best of things; it always copes. In the city, things just fall apart. When you’re older you’ll see that.”

“Maybe, but I still hate all the fox shit.”

“The city has dog shit, and that stinks a whole lot worse. And mind your language.”

“Sorry. Hey, when we get back can we have pizza?”

“The pizza place doesn’t deliver here. I’d have to go out.”

“Pleeease.”

Blake sighed. “Okay, let me thi—”

Whhhhaaaaaoooooooooow!

Blake looked at his son, who was standing like he had a live grenade in his hand. “Ricky, you’ve got something.”

“What do I do, what do I do?”

Wahhhowowowoooooo!

Blake laughed. He pulled the trowel he had strapped to his belt and held it up. “You dig, silly. Here, take this.”

Ricky grabbed the trowel from his father and knelt beside the imaginary X spot. The noisy detector swung around his neck like a musician’s guitar.

“Here, give that to me.” Blake took the metal detector and clicked it off.

Ricky struck the dirt with the trowel and split open the mud. Luckily it had rained that morning and the ground was yielding. Liz wouldn’t be pleased about the grass stains working their way into Ricky’s jeans. She was forever shouting at their cocker spaniel, Bailey, for running mud into the kitchen.

It wasn’t long before Ricky was puffing with exertion. He’d dug a hole a foot wide and had gone down by about the same. It was wonderful to see him so excited. Blake just hoped it didn’t end in disappointment—like the manhole cover he’d unearthed one day when he was about the same age. Blake had dug for more than forty minutes to get at the shiny chunk of metal, before eventually realising it was nothing fantastical or ancient, but simply a chunk of iron from an old sewer grate.

“We should’ve brought a shovel,” said Ricky. “What if it’s huge? It’ll take all day if it’s a Roman shield or something.”

Blake dropped down beside Ricky. “Let me take over,” he said. “We’ll take it in turns.”

And so they did. For twenty minutes they took turns, digging until their forearms burned. At one stage, Blake double-checked with the metal detector to ensure something was definitely there. The speaker whined deliriously to let them know that indeed there was.

Five minutes later Blake hit the edge of something with the trowel. It made a clinking sound.

“Did you hear that?” yelled Ricky.

“Yeah, I heard it. Here, you do the last part. It was your find.”

Ricky beamed and took the trowel. “Thanks, Dad.” He dug furiously, his vigour renewed. The soil gave way and the buried object started to reveal itself. Whatever it was, it was covered in some kind of sackcloth. Ricky grabbed an exposed corner and started pulling it up.

Blake wondered if they should be more delicate. What if they really had found something valuable? The last thing they wanted was to smash it into pieces by being heavy-handed. However, it was too late to say anything because Ricky was already tumbling backwards with the muddy sack clutched securely in his hands.

“I got it,” he yelled. “I got it!”

Blake grinned. “Yeah, you got it, son. Let’s take a look.”

Ricky lay the sack on the ground carefully, brushing its surface and delicately removing any dirt and debris. “What do you think it is, Dad?”

“Only one way to find out. Open it.”

Ricky reached inside the sack.

Blake suddenly felt a wave of nausea, like he needed to eat. It quickly passed as a light breeze grazed the back of his neck.

Ricky slid out a black hunk of what looked like aged wood. He examined the item in his hands, turning it over carefully. “It’s…a picture frame.”

Blake frowned. The solid wood was stained so dark that it was almost black and the edges were finely carved with intricate patterns. An iron stud held a rudimentary stand in place at the back, which must’ve been what’d set off the metal detector. “It looks old,” was all Blake could think to say.

“Maybe it’s an antick,” said Ricky.

Blake chuckled. “We’ll have to get it valued. Ha! Perhaps you’ll have enough money to buy your own PlayStation this Christmas. I can use the money I save to buy myself a new writing desk.”

Ricky pulled a face. “No way! You promised me a PlayStation and you can’t get out of it. Anyway, I don’t want to sell this.”

Blake folded his arms to shield himself against the cold. “What do you want with a dirty old picture frame?”

“I dunno. We found it together, buried all the way in the ground. I want to keep it.”

“Okay, we’ll get it all cleaned up, then.”

Ricky leapt to his feet, grinning from ear to ear and clutching the frame tightly against his chest. “I can’t wait to show Mum.”

Blake scooped up the muddy old sackcloth from the ground and straightened it out. “We should check there aren’t any messages inside. Sometimes people bury things hoping they’ll be found years later.”

“Like a time capsule,” said Ricky.

Blake nodded. He reached inside the sackcloth and felt a twinge of excitement when his fingers brushed something at the bottom. All of a sudden he was a kid again, scouring the beaches with his own father. Perhaps he and Ricky were about to find out the story behind the mysterious picture frame. Maybe they would find a letter written by an old grandfather a hundred years dead, leaving behind a memento for younger generations to find.

It didn’t feel like a letter at the bottom of the sack, though. It was something loose and hard. Blake grabbed a fistful of whatever it was and removed his hand from the sackcloth.

When he opened his fist, he grimaced.

“What is it?” Ricky was staring at him expectantly.

Blake dropped the bone fragments back inside the sack and shoved it into his jean pocket. “It’s just some worms and stuff,” he lied. “Must have crawled inside and died.”

“And you just shoved your hand in them. Ha!”

“Cheers, son. Now come on, let’s go show Mum what you found.”

“Yay!”

The two of them set off down the field, heading back towards Poe’s Place and the inviting warmth of its natural fires. It had suddenly got very cold out in the field.

Chapter 2

Blake unlocked the front door and Ricky charged inside. Liz was home, but Blake still preferred to lock up whenever he left. After what had happened at their home in the city, he wasn’t willing to take any risks. If he had his way, he would build a large brick wall around the property and a gate, but Liz didn’t want to feel trapped. They’d compromised and installed an alarm system. They’d also built a kitchen annex onto the property, which was where Liz was now.

“Mum, look what I found!” Ricky zoomed through the galley kitchen and joined his mother by the range cooker at the back. The heat it gave off made it all the way to the reception hallway where Blake stood. He was stuffing the sackcloth full of bones into one of the pockets of a coat hanging in the entranceway.

Liz turned from her cooking and smiled at Ricky. Her blonde hair was tied back, making her look all business. “Oh, wow! What is it? Did you find that with the metal detector?”

“Yeah, it was buried way down in the dirt. It’s an old picture frame. We had to dig it up.”

“I can see that from the state of your clothes.” There was a subtle hint of irritation in her voice, and Blake knew it was directed at him.

Blake grabbed himself a coke from the fridge and asked Liz if she wanted anything.

“No,” she raised a large glass of red. “I’m good for now.”

Blake checked his Citizen to find it was a little past four. He might join her with a glass later. He was an enthusiastic drinker — just like his brother and father — which was why he made such an effort to limit himself. “Ricky did really well,” he told her, “a natural treasure hunter if ever I saw one.”

“And here I was thinking you wouldn’t find a thing. Well done, honey,” she said to Ricky. “Now, why don’t you take off those dirty jeans and I’ll throw them in the wash before dinner.”

“What are we having?” asked Blake, pulling the tab on his coke. “Smells good.”

“Special spaghetti.”

Ricky pumped his fist in the air. “Woohoo! I love special spaghetti.”

Blake did too. He didn’t know what Liz made it with, but the bits of bacon mixed with the tomatoey pasta was divine. His saliva ducts loosened at the thought of it. “Saves me having to go fetch a pizza,” he said.

“You told Ricky you’d get a pizza without checking if I was making anything first?”

“What? No, he just asked and…sorry.”

Liz sipped her wine and patted Ricky on his head. He was now standing in his underpants. “Go get washed and put some fresh clothes on. You look like Mowgli.”

Ricky frowned. “Who’s Mowgli?”

“Never mind, just go.”

When Ricky left, taking his prized picture frame with him, it gave Blake the opportunity to approach his wife in private. “You okay?” he asked her. “You seem upset.”

She sighed and dropped her head. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. I’ve just been on the phone with my mother. She’s on one, as usual.”

Blake sighed. The old dragon had a knack for upsetting his wife with a thirty-second phone call. “What has she said this time?”

“Oh, nothing, if you ask her. She’s without fault.” Liz breathed deeply and sighed. “Oh, you know, just her usual: telling me how lonely she is, how she’s cooking a roast for just herself, and that she’s forgotten what Ricky looks like.”

“She saw him last week.”

“Exactly. She’s trying to say she wants to do something with us, but she’ll never come out and say it. She prefers to play the victim and guilt-trip me. I’ve just had too many years of it now. It gives me headache.” She took another gulp of wine.

Blake gave her tense shoulders a squeeze. “We’ll do something with her in the week. I don’t know why you let her get to you.”

“She’s my mother. God knows you have enough issues with your own family. Your father was a drunk, your brother too, and as for you mother…”

Blake felt himself getting wound up, but took a breath. He reminded himself that Liz was stressed—and stress was something Blake understood well. He’d be a hypocrite if he didn’t give his wife a free pass from time to time. “You’re right,” he said. “Families are a nightmare, but you’ve got me and Ricky. We have your back, honey.”

Liz took another hearty swig of wine and placed the empty glass on the counter. She fumed for a moment more, but then her expression softened. “She just has a way of making me really mad, you know? She’s always been like it. Always passing judgement with her snide comments. I know she raised me on her own, and that she loves me, but…” She made a growling sound. “She just makes me so mad sometimes.”

“Fuck her,” said Blake before he could stop himself.

Liz gawped at him. He expected her to fly off the handle, but she ended up laughing. “Yeah, you’re right,” she said. “Fuck her.”

Liz picked up her wine glass and filled it from a new bottle. It was then that Blake spotted the empty one in the sink. He wondered if she’d polished off the whole thing today, or if it’d been half-empty when she’d started.

Blake shuffled his feet on the tiles. He never used to feel awkward around his own wife. “So…what you fancy doing tonight?”

“Watch a film, maybe? What’s that new one, with all the apes taking over the world?”

“Gorilla Warfare? I don’t think it’ll be on WebWatch yet. I’ll find us something, though.”

Liz took another gulp of wine, then gave him a wet kiss on the lips. “Thanks, honey. I do love you, you know?”

“I know. I love you too. You’re a good daughter, so don’t let the old bag grind you down.”

She nodded. “Just let me get dinner sorted and I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Give us a shout when you’re ready.”

Blake went into the main house. As soon as he opened the door to the hallway, Bailey bounded down the stairs towards him. The blue roan cocker spaniel was a menace to the groin, and she managed to land both front paws directly into Blake’s tender area. He bent forwards and grunted. “Hey, Bailey. Did you miss me? I would’ve taken you treasure hunting with us, but you’re a bloody lunatic.” Bailey had a habit of sprinting off into the distance every chance she got, an insatiable urge to just run.

Bailey whined excitedly and wagged her tail. They’d gotten her as a pup six years ago to get Ricky used to dogs, but she hadn’t lost any of her energy with age. Moving to a place in the country had only served to increase the cocker spaniel’s excitable nature.

“Come on, girl. You’re in the way.”

Bailey plonked her bum down and tilted her head. She offered her paw.

“I don’t have any treats on me. Go fuss Mummy and she might give you a chew.”

Bailey barked. Blake managed to shift her aside with his foot and make his way to the family room. The family room was an open-plan dining room/lounge at the front of the cottage that was also part of the modern extension. There was another, more traditional lounge on the other side of the property, where the original cottage stood, but the family room was where they spent most of their time.

The older Ricky got, however, the more difficult it became to keep family time going. The boy’s bedroom was slowly turning into a man cave, with its flat screen television and confusingly named videogame consoles stacked beneath it. Blake grew up with Nintendo vs Sega, but the waters seemed to have got murkier since then—and children were more partisan about their gaming choices than most political parties were about their manifestos.

Blake sat in one of the room’s two reclining armchairs and raised the foot rest; his arches ached from the uneven ground of the field. Blake flicked on the wall-mounted LCD situated above the fitted bar in the corner of the room.

The news came on mid-broadcast.

Commissioner Palu, head of the UK’s Major Crime Unit, was waffling on about whatever today’s threat was. Something about a terrorist cell planning an attack on the country by infecting hospital patients with infectious diseases. The commissioner was followed by Prime Minister Breslow, who gave a speech about whatever Middle Eastern conflict Britain would be interfering with next.

Blake switched the television back off again. It might’ve been selfish, but the fear of terrorism and global conflict was something he’d chosen to leave behind in the city. He made a point not to lend his attention to the horrors of the world. Those were for someone else to deal with.

Ricky came sprinting into the room. He’d changed into his pyjama bottoms and a Brody isn’t Dead t-shirt. The picture frame was clutched against his chest. “I gave it a clean,” he said proudly.

Blake stood and took the picture frame from his son, giving it a once-over. “Hey, you got it looking good as new.” It was strange, but the picture frame was spotless. Even after a thorough clean, Blake wouldn’t have expected it to come up so well. The ingrained carvings were now clear of debris and appeared even more intricate. With his thumb, Blake traced images of flowers and flames, interwoven like a garden on fire. It was a strange design, like nothing he’d ever seen before. It wasn’t pretty, exactly, but there was something captivating about it.

“I’ve got a picture to put in it,” said Ricky, pulling something from his pyjama pocket. “It’s a picture of Bailey. Can we put it on the side table with all the others?”

Blake looked over at the crammed side table in the dining area and wondered if there was even enough room for another frame. Liz was an avid picture-taker and had filled the table with scenes from Orlando, Barcelona, Armação de Pêra, Port El Kantaoui, and other places he couldn’t even remember visiting. They were memories of their previous lives; the one he’d removed them from for their own good.

Blake shuffled the frames around until there was just enough room to fit one more. “There you go,” he said.

Ricky was grinning. He placed the picture frame on the table and edged it backwards, shoving aside a picture of Liz and her mother in Gran Canaria. Once the new frame was set in position, Ricky stood back and admired it. It was strange how unblemished the glass was, having been buried for at least several years.

“You going to put the photograph inside, then?” asked Blake.

“Yep.” Ricky lined up the photo of Bailey with the gap at the top of the frame, then slid it behind the glass carefully. “There,” he said, “perfect.”

It was a nice picture: a rare snapshot of Bailey sunbathing in the garden. It was taken last summer, if Blake recalled correctly. “It looks good,” he said. “You should be proud. That frame might have been buried for decades, but now it’s all cleaned up and sitting in our lounge. You did that.”

Ricky smiled widely. “It’s really cool, isn’t it? Can we go treasure hunting again tomorrow?”

Blake tussled his son’s hair. “Maybe.”

There was a sudden bang that forced them both to jump, followed by what sounded like screeching tyres.

“What the hell was that?”

Ricky’s eyes were wide and his lower lip trembled.

Liz started screaming from the kitchen.

Blake raced through the house.

When he reached the kitchen he was unable to disguise the panic in his voice. “What is it? What the hell happened?”

Liz was sobbing and couldn’t speak. She pointed out the kitchen window.

“What is it? What…” Blake stared out of the window, out at the B-road running past the end of the driveway, and covered his mouth in horror. “Jesus, no.” He raced out of the kitchen and flew through the open front door.

Had he left it open?

The white van was already fading long into the distance as it sped along the B-road, impossible to identify, but it had left Bailey behind, lying where she’d been hit. The cocker spaniel was broken, her tongue lolling with every agonising pant. Blake ran over to her as quickly as if it’d been Ricky lying there. Ricky was hurrying up the driveway behind him, but Blake spun around and shouted at him to stay back.

Liz grabbed the boy and ushered him inside.

Blake got to his knees beside Bailey and went to touch her, but recoiled. He didn’t want to cause her any more pain by carelessly prodding at her. The only parts of her still moving were her ribcage which heaved, and her eyes which were fixated on Blake. They seemed to be pleading with him to make the pain stop. Maybe she was wondering why this had happened to her.

Blake decided to place a hand against her muzzle and stroked gently over her head. A soft whimper escaped her, but then she was gone; a bloody mess right outside her home. Her killer had fled scot-free, no witness within a two-mile area to grab the license plate number or flag the van driver down.

Suddenly, Blake loved the country a little bit less.

Chapter 3

There was nothing the vet could do. Blake had offered to bury Bailey in the garden, but Ricky surprised him by saying no. He didn’t want her at home, upsetting him. He knew she was in a better place and that her body didn’t matter anymore. Besides, he didn’t want the fox in the field digging her up.

Liz and Blake gave their son a huge hug, and paid the vet to do what needed to be done. Before she did, though, she gave Ricky a pen and paper to write a goodbye note. It could be placed next to Bailey when they cremated her. Ricky wrote something quickly, making sure nobody else read it, then handed it over with tears in his eyes.

Then they drove home in silence. Blake knew his son was hurting, but was surprised by how much he was as well. All of the times Bailey had misbehaved, making him shout or scold the dog, came back to haunt him now and made him well up with tears. He knew, deep down, that Bailey had had a good life, however short. It didn’t change the fact that he would happily endure a thousand more doggy punches to the groin if it would bring her back.

Liz sat in the passenger seat, rubbing her forehead and turning an unhealthy grey. Blake suspected she had a hangover from the several large glasses of wine she’d downed whilst making dinner. A drink sounded good right about now, so a hangover was most likely in his near future, too.

It was dark when Blake dropped Liz and Ricky off at the house and headed off to get pizza. The special spaghetti would have to wait for another day. Liz was in no mood to cook.

The pizza place was in the high street of the nearby town of Redlake. The town wasn’t much more than a village, in truth, but it had a lot of history and character, which Blake had found attractive when considering his purchase of Poe’s Place. The town’s eponymous body of water was bordered by a 12th century Cistercian Abbey-turned-museum. Blake took Ricky there once to learn about the town’s history and how it had got its name, but it hadn’t gone down particularly well.

The monks at the abbey had once produced dyes and pigments; the runoff from which had turned the lake red, thus giving the town its name. Back then, nothing lived in the lake, but now it had been repopulated by the council and made into a nature reserve. Sport fishing, sailing, and bird spotting all went on at a place that once resembled a lake of blood. It was just another example of how nature prevailed, even after mankind had wrought its destruction.

Blake turned his Citroen Picasso off the roundabout and pulled into a small car park outside a row of shops. He parked in front of the pizza place, DiMarcos, which was sandwiched between an Indian takeaway and a chippie. At the end of the row was a hairdresser and grimy laundrette.

A couple of people formed a queue inside the chippie, but the rest of the shops were empty or closed. Blake entered the pizza place and stood in front of the counter. It took a few minutes for anybody to appear from the kitchen, and that was accelerated by Blake coughing and clearing his throat loudly.

“Hey,” said a teenaged boy in a red baseball cap and baggy blue shirt.

“Hello, could I get a large Chicken Deluxe and a medium Margareta, please?”

“Gunna be about ten minutes, mate.”

“No problem.” Blake took a seat on a bench by the window. He checked his watch: 8:30. He couldn’t believe how quickly the last few hours had rushed by. He still hadn’t properly processed what had happened. Had he left the front door open when he’d come back from the field with Ricky? The more Blake thought about it, the more he was sure he had.

He’d killed his son’s dog.

No, some jackass in a white van had killed Bailey, and then sped off like a coward. Blake wished he could get his hands on the driver. Animal cruelty left a particularly sour taste in Blake’s mouth.

What made the situation even more tragic was how Ricky had delighted in placing a photo of Bailey inside his newly acquired picture frame. As soon as he had done so, Bailey had been struck down and killed. It was the very essence of cruel irony, a spiteful jab of coincidence.

The ten-minute wait turned into twenty and Blake was in a sleepy daze by the time the teenaged boy shouted at him. “Ready, mate. Fourteen-ninety-eight.”

Blake reached into his pocket and pulled out a tenner and some coins. He took the pizzas and left without waiting for his two-penny change.

He returned to the car and slid the pizza boxes onto the passenger seat, but before he started the engine, he rubbed at his eyes with balled fists. He felt weary and mildly unwell, like he had a cold coming. Hardly surprising considering the shock he’d suffered. Grief had a way of crippling the immune system.

He drove home on autopilot, parking on the driveway without even realising it. When he headed inside with the pizzas, the kitchen was dark, so he went on through to the family room. He found Liz, laying back on the recliner and watching TV with a glass of red in her hand.

“Hey, I got the pizzas. Where’s Ricky?”

“He was upset so I put him to bed. He’s been asleep for half-an-hour. What took you so long?”

Blake placed the two pizzas on the bar and measured himself two fingers of Scotch. He plonked down on the recliner beside Liz and sighed. “I didn’t realise I was that long. The pizzas took a while to cook, but I was quick as I could be. You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Me either. They’ll keep. Cold pizza is as good as warm.”

“I can’t believe what happened,” said Liz. “How did she get out?”

“I think…maybe I left the door open.”

Liz looked at him like she was about to go off, fireworks fizzing in her eyes. Instead she took a sip from her wine glass and sniffed. “Don’t tell Ricky that. He’ll never forgive you.”

“That’s a bit extreme. I should admit what I did. He’ll understand.”

“He’s a ten-year-old boy who just lost his dog. Lying to him is kinder.”

Blake thought about it, but couldn’t make up his mind. He didn’t like lying to his son, but perhaps Liz was right. She usually was. “Okay,” he relented. “I’ll keep it to myself. How is he?”

“He’ll be okay. Something all boys have to go through, I suppose. I still remember when my rabbit died as a little girl. Mum had to sit with me all night while I cried. Still makes me sad.”

Blake stroked her arm. “I’m really sorry. I screwed up.”

Liz didn’t say anything. She polished off what was left in her glass and headed to the bar. “You want another Scotch?”

“No, I’m good, thanks. Haven’t made a start on this one, yet.”

Liz poured herself another large helping of red, then shivered.

“You cold?”

“Yeah, it’s a bit chilly.”

Blake nodded. “Maybe it’s time to start putting on the heating again.”

“Maybe. I’ll get the fire going in the other room and we can watch some TV.” She picked up the pizza boxes from the bar. “I’ll go put these in the kitchen for later.”

Blake rolled the Scotch around in his glass and smiled. “Okay. I’m just going to sit for a while. I’ll join you in a bit.”

Liz half-bent towards him, as if she were going in for a kiss, but seemed to change her mind and just left instead.

Blake took a sip of whisky and stared into space for a while.

When he finally got up to leave the room, he went over to the side table and placed the picture of Bailey face down. “Goodbye, girl,” he said, before switching off the light.

Chapter 4

Surprisingly, Blake slept well. He’d thought he would lie awake until the early hours, but instead he was gone the moment his head hit the pillow. He’d assumed Liz would do the same, but when she awoke beside him the next morning, she looked like she’d barely slept a wink. There was a pint of water on the bedside table and she downed it in one.

“You okay?” asked Blake, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before sitting up. He felt worried, but couldn’t pinpoint what about. Sometimes he just woke up feeling bad, afraid and anxious. It was part of who he was. Sometimes a worrier worried for no reason. Sometimes, if there really was nothing at all to feel bad about, a worrier would worry about worrying.

Liz swallowed audibly and spoke with a voice made of ash. “I’m fine. Just got a bit of a headache.”

Blake thought about how much wine Liz had drank last night, but didn’t bring it up. “Okay, maybe there’s some Ibuprofen in the bathroom.”

Liz winced and rubbed at her temples. “Yeah, or maybe some Codeine.”

“I thought I might work in the office today.” Blake made the decision as he said it. “I know it’s Sunday, but my anxiety is playing up and it might help if I get started on a new book.”

Liz gave him a look partway between irritation and understanding. “Whatever you want. Did you take your pill last night?”

Blake cursed. “No, I forgot! No wonder my head feels so fuzzy.”

Every night, Blake took an SSRI to help control his Generalised Anxiety Disorder. He’d been diagnosed with it in his early twenties, which had finally made some sense of the emotional rollercoaster that had comprised his teenage years. His constant worry and flip-flopping emotions had been due to a chronically low threshold for stress. The normal parts of growing up had sent him spiralling into drinking binges and irresponsible sex—both ways to self-medicate his unhappiness. His brother, Stevie, had a similar temperament but had turned to booze instead of a doctor.

Blake’s therapist once told him people were like buckets and stress like drops of water. Too many drops in the bucket would make it overflow, and that was when people panicked. Anxious souls like Blake had smaller buckets than people who coped with stress well.

The fact that Blake had missed his pill explained why he’d woken feeling so worried. He would be anxious today, there was no way around it, but it would pass. There would also be a healthy dose of dizziness once the withdrawal began, but it was nothing he wasn’t used to.

“You want to take your pill now?” asked Liz.

“No, I’m not supposed to do that. I’ll just have it tonight. I’ll be okay. Won’t be the first time I’ve missed one. It just makes me a bit anxious and fuzzy-headed.”

“Perhaps you’d better work, then.”

“That’s the plan. I need to get started on something soon, anyway. It’s been a while.” It had been six months to be exact. While Blake had no current commitments — he made it a rule not to sign contracts for books he’d not yet written — he knew that writing more novels was what kept his career going. Readers wanted to fall in love with an author’s library, knowing that there would be more to come. Reader and author could be a lifelong love affair and, like a marriage, it needed tending to.

Blake and Liz got out of bed and changed. Neither of them felt like a shower so they brushed their teeth and headed downstairs together. They found Ricky in the dining room, staring at his picture frame with hands on his hips. He was still wearing his pyjama bottoms but was bare-chested. “Where’s the photo of Bailey?” he demanded. “Who changed it?”

Blake glanced at the picture frame in his son’s hands and saw that the photo of Bailey had been replaced with a family photo: a day out in Torquay that featured all three of them, as well as Liz’s mother, Val. Modest trips to the English Riviera suited Blake better than the lavish international vacations they’d used to take.

“I changed it before I went to bed,” said Liz softly, moving towards Ricky.

Ricky shrugged away from her. “I want the photo of Bailey back.”

Liz nodded. “Okay, no problem, sweetheart. The photo is in the drawer. You can put it back if you want. I just didn’t want it to upset you. You said you didn’t want to bury Bailey here because it would upset you, so I thought…”

Ricky ignored her. He delved into the drawer beneath the side table and snatched at the photo of Bailey. He grabbed the wooden picture frame and fiddled with the top edge. A few moments passed. Ricky went red in the face. “I can’t…get it…out!”

“Here, give it to me,” said Blake.

Ricky didn’t so much pass the frame to his father as shove it at him. Blake wondered if he should scold him, but decided not to. Blake tried to open up the frame and replace the picture, but couldn’t manage to pry it open. He looked at Liz and raised a curious eyebrow. “How did you change it last night?”

“I just pulled it out the top. Give it here.” Blake passed the frame to her. “I just pulled it from behind, like…I…I can’t get at it.”

“Give it back!” Ricky snatched the frame from his mother and raked his fingers along the edge. He was furious, cheeks bulging as he strained.

Blake tried to take the picture frame away from him. “Ricky, calm down.”

“Fuck it!” Ricky dropped the frame on the ground like it had stung him.

Liz’s eyeballs bulged in their sockets. “What did you just say?”

Ricky had his finger in his mouth and was sucking it. He realised what he’d said and shrivelled up and backed away.

Liz stepped towards Ricky, but Blake put a hand on her shoulder and stopped her. He decided he should be the one to address what had just happened. Calmer heads prevailed.

“Ricky, you are never to use that word, do you understand me?”

Ricky pulled his finger from his mouth long enough to say, “You use it all the time.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do. In your books. You always use it.”

Beneath his hand, Blake felt Liz trembling with rage. “My books are for adults,” he said. “You shouldn’t be reading them, Ricky.”

Ricky looked at the floor. “I just wanted to know what you wrote like. You spend ages in your office sometimes, so I just wanted to know...”

Blake frowned. “I haven’t been at work for months. I’ve been home with you and Mummy.”

Ricky kept his eyes on the floor and shrugged. “I guess.”

Blake sighed and Liz softened. She no longer looked like she was ready to explode. Blake noticed blood coming from Ricky’s finger. “What did you do to yourself?”

“I cut it on the glass.”

Blake picked the picture frame up off the carpet. There were no sharp edges or broken glass, not even from the fall it’d just taken. He ran his own fingertips along the edges and felt nothing. “Hmm, perhaps we should just throw it away.”

Ricky stamped his feet. “No! We found it together. It’s ours and I want to keep it. I just want the picture of Bailey back in it.”

Blake set the frame down on the side table. He studied the photograph inside and smiled. “I like the picture that’s in here now, but we can decide whether to change it or not later. We’re going out for the day.”

Liz glanced at Blake, confused. “I thought you were working. Your anxiety?”

“Isn’t getting any better, but perhaps some fresh air would help. We’ll go to Stratford for the day, pick up Grandma Val along the way. Two birds, one stone.”

Ricky stopped sucking on his injured finger long enough to give a wide grin. “Yay, Grandma.”

Liz smiled. She still looked a little grey, but better than when she’d first woken up. “You sure you don’t mind taking us all out?”

“Of course not. I think we could all do with some fun. Go get changed, Ricky. Liz, you want to give your mum a call?”

Liz kissed him on the cheek. “Okay, but first I’m going to put a plaster on Ricky’s finger. Come on, terror.”

Ricky went obligingly with his mother, who only two minutes ago had looked ready to kill him. Blake found himself alone in the room, so he decided to take another look at the new photograph in the frame. Blood from Ricky’s finger had spattered the glass, covering Grandma Val’s face. Blake chuckled. “Always knew the old bat was a vampire.”

He licked his thumb and wiped the stain away before putting the picture frame back and heading out to start the car.

Chapter 5

The mood in the car was better than it had been at home, and by the time they picked up Grandma Val from her bungalow in Wilmcote, they were all giggling and chatting away. Ricky was telling them how he was going to go treasure hunting again to find more picture frames. He’d decided there was a set of them and that the rest were buried in the area. The idea sounded naive to Blake, but the worst that could happen was they had a bit of fun.

The collective good mood turned south when Val heard about what’d happened to Bailey. “No…no, I don’t believe it,” she said. “That poor, sweet little dog? How did it happen? Oh, Ricky, you must be feeling awful, my love. How did she get out?”

What annoyed Blake most was that Val absolutely detested Bailey. She hated dogs and had kept a vicious cat named Bobby for almost twenty years. It’d clawed anyone who ever came near it, other than Val, and lived like feline royalty. Blake used to wonder if Val loved that cat more than she did Liz. She’d certainly treated the thing better.

“She got out into the road,” said Ricky sadly. “She got hit by a van.”

Val tutted. “I’m always saying you need to get a gate, living in the wilderness right next to a busy road. Insanity.”

Blake gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s not a busy road. It hardly gets any traffic.”

“Well, how did Bailey get run over, then? I won’t even mention how easy it is for someone to just turn up and rob you. There isn’t a single neighbour nearby that could help you.”

“We have a security alarm. The police will come within five minutes if we need them.”

“That’s if you can even get to the panic button by the time someone turns up and knifes you.”

Liz was looking ill at the subject of intruders. “Mother, can you not talk like that in front of Ricky, please?”

“He’s a man now, he should know whether or not he’s in danger. Have you told him about what happened when you lived in the city?”

“What happened in the city?” asked Ricky.

“Nothing,” snapped Liz. “Mother, be quiet. Bailey got run over because of plain bad luck. She didn’t suffer and we’ll miss her. End of story.”

In the rear view mirror, Blake saw Val fold her arms and pout.

“I found a picture frame, Grandma,” said Ricky, changing the subject and releasing the tension. He’d already told her about it once, but he was so proud of the thing that he obviously needed to tell her again.

Val beamed. “Did you, now? A picture frame, you say? What an odd thing to find.”

“It was buried in the ground. Me and Dad found it with the metal detector. It went Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!”

“Really? Been years since I seen a metal detector. Pity I wasn’t around, I could have come treasure hunting with you.”

“I’m going to do it again soon, Grandma. You can come then.”

Blake cut in, but he knew it would already be too late. “Ricky, your grandmother is too busy to walk around a muddy field with us in winter.”

“I’m never too busy to spend time with my wonderful grandson. I won’t be around forever.” She grasped Ricky’s hand and looked into his eyes. “You just let me know when, sweetheart, and I’ll be there. Your dad won’t mind picking me up.”

Blake and Liz exchanged glances, both gritting their teeth.

When they finally reached Stratford-Upon-Avon, the October air had lost most of its chill. Blake parked on a tree-lined street beside the river. It was a stroke of fortune to find such a great spot; even Val approved.

Everyone got out and grabbed their jackets from the boot. There was a football inside, too, which Blake gave to his son. There was a large playing field further down the river. Ricky saw himself as the next Lionel Messi, and Blake had to admit the kid was pretty good. Better than he had ever been as a kid, which in fairness, was not particularly skilful.

“Can we get a whippy?” asked Ricky as they crossed the road towards an ice cream truck.

Blake nodded. “Go on, then. We can all have one.”

“Yay, me and Grandma will order. Can I have some money?”

“Grandma and I,” corrected Val. She glanced at Blake. “Don’t you teach the boy English? I thought you were a writer?”

“I am a writer. You may have heard of me from the New York Times or the Guardian, or maybe you might have caught me last year on Bright Morning Britain?”

Val grunted. “No need to get a big head with me, Blake. And don’t worry about the ice creams, they’re on me.”

“Don’t be silly, Mum,” said Liz. “We’ll get them.”

“Why? Because you don’t think my pension will stretch far enough? Don’t you worry about me. I might not be a bigtime writer, but I can afford to buy my family ice cream.” With that she stomped away, dragging Ricky behind her.

Liz shook her head at Blake and groaned.

Blake waved a hand. “I know, I know. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

“She’ll be a nightmare now, and since when do you act all cocky like that? It usually kills you to admit that you’re a writer. It embarrasses you.”

He shrugged. “I missed my pill, didn’t I? My fuse is a little short today.”

Liz surprised him by giving him a quick hug. “Well, you got your shots in for today, so play nice. I thought you brought us here to relax.”

“I did. I won’t say anything else, I promise. She just seems like she’s out to annoy me today.”

“You and me both, but what else is new? Like you said last night, fuck her. She’ll relax after a while and start acting human.”

Blake nodded. They both knew that Val usually became more bearable as the day went on. It was like she tried to resist having a good time for as long as possible first.

“So, are you going to start that new book tomorrow?” Liz asked Blake.

“I think so. It’s been a while since I wrote a Caz Bailey mystery novel. I had an idea about a murder on a plane that needs to be solved by the time it lands.”

Liz nudged him with an elbow. “Ooh, that sounds great. Better than that book you wrote about those vampires chatting up a bunch of schoolgirls.”

Blake shook his head. “Yeah, the less said about Twinkle, the better.”

The young adult book he’d written was just another reason he was done with his editors in the city. Write a novel with vampires and werewolves, they begged him. It’s what’s selling. With your name attached, it’ll make millions. With Blake’s name attached, all it had done was damage his career. For almost twelve months he was the butt of all the jokes in the literary world, and branded a ‘sell out’ by his long-time mystery fans. His brief foray into young adult fiction had been a disaster, mitigated only by the fifteen years of hard work preceded it.

Ricky and Val handed out the ice cream cones, which all came with flakes; a subtle way for Val to show that she wasn’t short of money when it came to Ricky.

Without word, they licked their treats and took a walk beside the river. Ricky ran around, dribbling his football. Blake and Liz held hands, enjoying the view. They had their problems, but they were still able to enjoy each other’s company.

The river on their right was the type of backdrop found in watercolour paintings, inhabited by ducks and a family of juvenile swans. The fluffy grey birds were being watched carefully by their gleaming white parents. Every time a canal boat went by, Val and Ricky would stop and wave, often receiving a horn blast in reply. At one point, a barge went past with the name Lazy Liz and they all laughed deliriously.

“They must have tasted your cooking, sweetheart,” said Val, but the barbed comment went unanswered. Not even her cranky mother could bring Liz down now.

An hour later, they all had a bite to eat at the café. Blake was able to pay the bill without argument, which was refreshing, and meant that Val was starting to lose the chip off her shoulder. Then, once they were done, they headed out to the playing field. The grassy area teemed with families, friends, lovers, and people walking their dogs, but Blake managed to find an empty space for them to play. Ricky impressed them all immediately with a series of keepy-uppy flicks, before launching the ball at his father. Blake was able to head it down to Liz, who clumsily passed it to her mother. Val gave the ball a hefty kick and sent it directly to Ricky’s feet.

Blake whistled. “I can see where Ricky gets his skill from now.”

Val gave a thin-lipped smile, but it was obvious she enjoyed the praise. “I was always good at ball games, ever since school. Don’t know why Liz never took after me that way. She was always more interested in boys than balls. Then again, she had the looks to flaunt.”

Liz rolled her eyes and carried on smiling. The next time she kicked the ball, Blake could tell she was concentrating. It still didn’t stop her from toe-poking it wide.

“Rubbish,” said Val, giggling. “Don’t worry, I’ll go fetch it.”

When her mother was out of earshot, Liz rolled her eyes.

“Don’t worry,” said Blake, “I never married you for your ball skills.”

Liz smirked. “I thought you did.”

“Well, not these types of ball skills.” Blake gave his wife a squeeze on the rump.

Ricky pulled a face. “Gross.”

The three of them laughed.

“Come on,” Blake shouted to Val. “I’m going grey here.”

Val looked back over her shoulder and swatted at the air. She was near the river now. The ball had rolled down the embankment and reached the footpath. She stooped down to pick up the ball.

Something black shot into view from further down the path.

Blake saw immediately that it was a dog; looked like a Doberman. Its jaws foamed and it was racing right for Val.

“Val, look out,” he shouted, sprinting across the playing field towards the footpath.

Val looked up and spotted the big black dog rocketing towards her. She dropped the football and put her hands out in front of her, letting out a startled yelp. She braced herself for the bone shattering impact that was only seconds away.

The Doberman sprinted like a thoroughbred, picking up speed.

Blake ran as fast as he could, but he wasn’t even halfway there. He would never make it in time.

The Doberman leapt into the air, jaws wide and foaming.

Val wailed.

Everywhere people stopped and looked.

The Doberman attacked the football at Val’s feet, piercing it with a single powerful bite. Then it ran off again, as quickly as it had arrived, taking the punctured bowl-shaped ball with it.

Val doubled over, sobbing with fright and relief. Blake carried on running until he made it over to her and placed an arm around her. Ricky and Liz were right behind him.

“Mum, Mum, are you alright?” shouted Liz, moving Blake aside so that she could stand next to her. “Jesus, I thought that dog was going to kill you.”

Val was huffing. She’d gone deathly pale and her eyes were streaming, but she had a grin on her face. She placed a hand on Liz’s shoulder for support and straightened herself up. “I think I bloody shit myself.” She bellowed with laughter until she was red in the face. All four of them joined in, standing in a huddle and howling with laughter.

“I thought…I thought you were dog food,” said Ricky, trying to catch his breath.

“I think Mum scared the dog off at the last minute and made him go for the ball instead,” said Liz.

“He knew better than to mess with a bitch like me,” said Val, gasping between laughs.

Liz hooted. “I’m glad…I’m glad you’re okay, Mum.”

“I’m fine sweetheart. Don’t you worry about me. It’ll take more than a bloody mutt to—” Val staggered backwards, clutching her chest. Her terror-filled eyes darted between each of them. Suddenly she didn’t look like a tough old bird, but a frightened child.

Liz screamed as Val collapsed sideways. Blake tried to catch her but wasn’t close enough. Val crumpled onto the footpath, her forehead clunking as it hit the pavement.

“Grandma!”

Blake grabbed Ricky to his side and turned him away.

Frantic, Liz dropped beside her mother and tried to do something. Blood was already streaming from the wide gash where Val’s forehead had struck the concrete. “Mum, shit, Mum. Mum! Blake, do something. Do something!”

Blake was already reaching into his pocket for his phone. As he spoke to emergency services, he couldn’t take his eyes off Val’s blood-soaked face. It looked just like it had in the picture frame before he’d wiped it clean.

Chapter 6

“I’m afraid your mother suffered acute heart failure,” the doctor said in a suitably low tone. “There was nothing we could do. I’m very sorry.”

Liz wailed.

Blake shook his head in disbelief. Ricky was in the relatives waiting room, being looked after by a nurse. It was utter shock hearing that Val was dead, even though Blake had suspected it from the moment she hit the pavement. At the hospital, a medical team had worked ceaselessly to get a heartbeat, but Val had shown no signs of response.

Blake put his arm around his sobbing wife and pulled her close. She turned her face into his chest and collapsed against him. The doctor stood awkwardly, probably having seen this many times before. “Thank you, doctor,” said Blake, dismissing him. “Can we see her now?”

“Of course. Just press the buzzer and someone will let you in.”

Blake kept his arm around Liz and guided her towards the Resuscitation Room. He pushed the green button with his palm and waited. The door clicked and he pushed it open.

Val lay on a trolley bed. Her eyes were open but they seemed more like the eyes of a porcelain doll. Her skin looked clammy and slightly grey, but otherwise she looked just like Val. The blood had been cleaned off her face and the gash on her forehead was dry and puckered.

Liz broke away from Blake and stepped up to her mother, reaching out tentatively and stroking her cheek. “Hi, Mum. Here you are, causing me grief again, as usual. You’re a nightmare, d’you know that?” There was no malice in Liz’s voice. Tears fell with each word. “What am I going to tell Ricky? He loves you so much. You were supposed to watch him become a famous footballer. He’s going to be so mad at you.”

Blake smiled. As much as Val had driven him crazy, he never doubted how much she’d loved his son. Ricky was going to be devastated, and with good reason. His grandma had been his biggest fan.

Liz smiled glumly at Blake. “She doesn’t look like herself, you know?”

He grabbed her hands and stroked them gently. “It’s all so surreal right now.”

“I can’t believe we were all sharing ice cream just a few hours ago. Maybe it’s for the best. She would never have said it, but Mum would’ve hated a long, protracted illness. She would’ve hated losing her independence. This was the best way for her to go, without her even knowing it was coming.”

Blake understood. Val would have hated losing her dignity. She’d died on her feet, and that’s exactly how she would have wanted it. He didn’t know if that made things any easier for Liz, though. “Are you okay?” he asked her.

“No, not really. She drove me crazy but we had a lot of good times too. She did her best for me when dad left, and I guess I never really appreciated that as much as she wanted me to.”

“You had your own life to live. You shouldn’t feel guilty.”

“I know. I’ll be okay. I just don’t know what I’m going to say to Ricky.”

Blake didn’t want her to have to worry about that. “I’ll do it. I’ll talk to him.”

Liz smiled and squeezed his arm. “Thank you, but we should do it together.”

And so they did. They headed into the waiting room and relieved the nurse who’d been looking after their son. Ricky was sitting on a scuffed leather sofa, sipping from a can of fizzy orange drink. When he looked up, it was clear he knew something bad had happened. His eyes seemed wiser than his ten years, but they were also full of fear.

“Is Grandma okay?”

Liz’s breath hitched in her throat, so Blake answered the question. “I’m sorry, buddy. Grandma’s gone.”

Ricky stared at the worn carpet and nodded, as if he understood perfectly. “Like Bailey.”

“Yes, like Bailey.” Blake wondered why his poor son was suddenly surrounded by death. “She had a heart attack, but didn’t suffer at all. She’s in Heaven now.”

Ricky had never shown any interest in Heaven, or any of the fantastical stories of the bible, yet he smiled now. “Yeah, she’ll be okay. Wherever she is, I’m sure she’ll make friends.”

Blake sat beside Ricky and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Are you okay?”

There were tears in Ricky’s eyes, but none fell. “I feel sad, and I can’t stop thinking about the sound Grandma’s head made when she fell down.”

Blake rubbed his son’s back. Liz sat on the other side of Ricky and did the same. They were all hurting, but at least they were together.

“You’ll forget about it after a while, sweetheart,” said Liz. “It’s all just a big shock. That’s how these things happen sometimes, without any warning.”

“Are you okay, Mum?”

Liz wiped her eyes. “Me? Of course. Mummy’s fine, but thank you for asking.” She hugged him. “You’re a sweet boy and Grandma loved you lots, okay? She’ll be watching from up above, so make her proud, okay?”

“Okay.”

Blake smiled to himself. Liz had zero belief in God, which was what made it such a kindness that she was pretending to have faith now, for Ricky’s benefit. Whether you believed in a higher power or not, you couldn’t deny that having faith was more comforting at times like this.

Ricky sniffed. “What happens to her now?”

Liz told him straight. “They’ll take her down to the morgue and we’ll have a funeral director collect her tomorrow. Then we’ll arrange a funeral where we can all say our goodbyes. We’ll bury her in town so we can visit her whenever we want.”

“At the church where I was christened?”

Liz nodded. “Yes, we’ll take her to St Martins. Do you remember it there?”

“Not really.”

“Well, it’s a very nice place, with lots of trees and a field full of sheep right next to it.”

“When can we go home?” asked Ricky. He suddenly looked like a very tired little boy.

“I’m going to stay here a while,” said Liz, “but Daddy can take you home.”

Blake didn’t want to leave his wife at a time like this, but he didn’t want his son to suffer, either. “Are you sure, honey? Don’t you need me to stick around?”

“I will need you,” she said, “but not right now. I need take care of things here first. You two get a burger on the way back. I’ll grab something here from the snack machines if I need it.”

“Okay. Come on, Ricky, let’s go grab a Maccies.”

Ricky stumbled after Blake like a yawning zombie. Blake had followed the ambulance in and parked up in the Pay And Display. His mind re-enacted the scene: Val being rolled across the tarmac, both paramedics working on her the whole time, Liz chasing behind, weeping.

They stepped outside the hospital and Blake shuddered. “Come on, Ricky. Let’s get going. I’ll race you.”

Despite his tiredness, Ricky bolted across the car park. The Citroen was three rows up, parked next to a boxy little Smart car. Blake ran as fast as he could, but he was no match for a ten-year-old boy. Ricky was waiting for him by the time he eventually caught up.

“Come on, Dad. I’ve been waiting ages.”

Blake was out of breath and felt his age. Being forty didn’t feel old until he tried to do anything quickly. “Alright, big head. You’ve got a few years on me.”

Breathlessly, Blake unlocked the Citroen and they strapped themselves inside. Ricky fiddled with the radio after a few minutes, and was dismayed when it wouldn’t work. They were heading up the A46, back towards Redlake—no reason for interference—but all the radio did, on any bandwidth, was hiss.

“Stupid thing,” said Ricky, banging the display with his fist.

“Calm down. I’ll look at it tomorrow. Just put a CD on.”

Ricky played what was already inserted and sulked when it turned out to be Liz’s Mamma Mia soundtrack. He cheered up slightly when they stopped for a burger and fries, but by the time they got home he was exhausted. Ricky went upstairs, stripped off, and was asleep within minutes.

Blake needed to get some rest, too; take his pill and wake up tomorrow with a little more emotional strength. His hands were shaking and he felt the need to cry, but he didn’t want to go to bed until Liz was home.

Blake’s own parents had died eighteen years ago—one year before Blake was published. Enough time had passed that he’d forgotten quite what the pain was like, but he knew it was bad. He remembered how his father had died of a heart attack at fifty, and that his mother had succumbed to weakness and killed herself a month later. His brother, younger by four years, went completely off the rails then. Blake had lost track of how much money he’d given his brother to pay bills after he chosen to drink instead of work.

Liz was an only child, her father gone before she was eight, never to return. Val was the only family she’d had other than Blake and Ricky. She was probably feeling pretty lonely right about now.

When Blake left Ricky asleep, he went into the bedroom and changed his clothes and freshened up in the en suite. When he reached the downstairs hallway, he heard buzzing. It sounded like white noise through a subwoofer. He assumed he must’ve left the television on, but when he stepped into the family room he was engulfed by a black cloud.

The buzzing grew ferocious.

Blake swatted at the air and choked against his hand. There were hundreds of flies, swarming in an angry cloud, hitting his face and trapping themselves in his mouth and eyes. He spat them out and hurried across the room, waving his arms in a panic. He quickly opened all of the windows and ushered the flies outside, absurdly yelling at them to leave.

Every handful he swatted away was replaced by two more. It was like trying to catch sand. When he dared open his eyes, he was immediately blinded, but not by the flies; by a bright light. It took his disorientated mind a second to realise that it was the headlights from a taxi outside, creeping down the driveway between the trees.

Through the open window, Blake heard Liz thank the driver before heading towards the house. He quickly swatted as many flies as he could out of the window, but was forced to give up. He had no idea what had attracted them, but he had visions of finding a dead mouse rotting away behind a skirting board. It wasn’t something he wanted to have to deal with right now, so he hurried into the hallway to head Liz off before she saw; but he needn’t have bothered. Liz headed straight into the kitchen, where he found her in front of the wine rack, pouring herself a glass of supermarket Cabernet. She grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the boxes stacked on top of the cooker.

“I’ll join you,” he said, wanting a drink now more than ever.

Liz poured a second glass and passed it to him. They both took a sip and ate some pizza before speaking.

“How’s Ricky? Did he go down okay?”

“Out like a light as soon as we got home. No kid should have to go through what he has in the last two days.”

Liz leaned against the worktop and sighed. “I know. I hope it doesn’t affect him. I mean, in a bad way.”

Blake knew what she meant. Kids were easily screwed up if you weren’t careful. It was a parent’s job to steer them through dark situations and back towards the light. The very essence of parenthood was being a guide and mentor, using hindsight to help naive children prevail as better adults than they had been. “He’s still young,” said Blake. “We just have to keep him busy. You too, Liz. Are you doing okay?”

“I’m coping. It happened so suddenly that I haven’t really had time to dwell on it.”

“I can’t believe your mother had a heart attack. She was the healthiest person I know. I don’t think I ever even saw her eat a steak.”

Liz took a big swig of wine, leaving her lips blood red. “I guess you can never tell what’s going on inside a person. She appeared healthy, sure, but maybe she had a weak heart or something. Maybe there’s nothing any of us can do at the end of the day. We all have to die somehow.”

“You should get yourself checked out. It could be something hereditary”

“I’m not even going to worry about that right now.”

Blake placed his glass down on the counter and nodded. “Of course not, sorry. I’m not trying to add to your troubles.”

Liz topped up her glass and went to top his up, too. He placed a hand over it. “I’m okay. Red gives me a bad chest if I have too much.”

“So take something for indigestion. I need a drink and I don’t want to do it alone.”

Blake paused for a moment before moving his hand away. Liz filled his glass to the top. “Can we go into the other room?” she said. “I’ve got to get my feet up.”

Blake cleared his throat. “Yeah, erm, okay. There’s something up with the family room, though. I came home and there were a load of flies inside.”

Liz frowned at him. “Flies? In this weather? Where would they come from?”

“I think a mouse might have died.”

“What is it with this family and death right now? Does everything around us have to die?”

Blake gave her a pat on the back as they headed out of the kitchen. “I think we’re just the victims of bad luck. We’ll go crazy if we try to see sense in it.”

Liz sighed. “Let’s sort out whatever it is in the family room tonight. I don’t want to have something rotting away while we sleep. It could be diseased.”

“You sure? I can sort it in the morning.”

Liz opened the door to the family room. “I’m not going to sleep much tonight anyway. Might as well deal with it now.”

Blake followed her inside and noticed two things: one, it was freezing, and two, all the flies were gone.

Liz rubbed at her arms. “The window’s wide open. You could catch your death in here.”

“I wanted to get rid of the flies.”

“What flies?”

Blake looked around the room and couldn’t understand it. When he’d left there were still hundreds of the little black pests buzzing around. They’d been making no effort to escape then, but it seemed in the last five minutes they’d fled en masse.

“There were hundreds of flies in here,” he said, already doubting himself. “I swear.”

Liz closed the window. “It’s too cold in here. I’m going to go sit in the living room.” As she left, Liz stopped over by the side table and picked up Ricky’s picture frame. “I hope he keeps this photo in here. It’s nice. We all look so happy, don’t we?” She put the frame back down again and left.

Blake moved to the side table and picked the frame back up again. Liz was right, they did all look happy, just like they’d been today before Val had died. He looked at Ricky and smiled at how young he looked. Just a couple years made such a difference. Things changed so fast.

Blake stopped smiling when a fly landed on top of the picture. It perched right on top of Liz’s face. He tried to crush it, but it flew off. When Blake turned around, the fly had disappeared, but the chill in the room remained.

Chapter 7

It was dark when Blake woke up. His head was heavy from too much wine and bile soured his mouth. For a while he blinked in darkness, wondering why he was awake. Then he heard Liz retching in the en suite.

He slipped out from beneath the duvet and wobbled as he tried to stand up straight. Clumsily, he edged around the bed and headed for the toilet.

“Liz, are you okay?”

Another painful-sounding retch, followed by uncomfortable hacking. They must have drunk too much. Blake didn’t even remember the two of them going to bed. They’d shared several bottles of cheap Cabernet in front of the living room’s fire last night, sharing stories about Val and laughing, but then…nothing. His memories cut off right around 10pm when the news coming on.

Blake shielded his eyes as he entered the bright light of the en suite. The smell hit him immediately: the eye-watering tang of vomit. Liz was stooped over the toilet, one arm propped up on the rim and trembling. Her hair was sodden, from either sweat or sick, and her eyes were bloodshot.

“Liz, honey, are you okay?”

“Do I…look…okay?”

Blake got on his knees and bunched her hair behind her head, started rubbing her back. Another bout of retching took hold of her. The smell was toxic, a cocktail of wine and stomach acids.

“Did you have too much to drink?”

“Fuck you.”

“No need to be like that. I wouldn’t blame you if you’d drunk too much after what happened. I’ve got a headache, too.”

“I’m ill.”

“Really?”

Liz spat a mouthful of something awful into the bowl. “My stomach’s killing me and my head is banging. This isn’t because of the wine.”

Blake frowned. Liz had definitely drunk a lot last night, but she was an adult. If she said she was ill, should he doubt her? “Do you want me to call a doctor?” he asked.

“Urgh…n-no—” She retched again and brought up another mouthful of odious spew. “No doctor. I just need a minute.”

“Okay.” He carried on rubbing her back. The sounds she made were awful. “I wish I could make it easier for you, honey. I hate seeing you like this.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know, but I love you and I hate seeing you in pain.”

“I’ve been in pain for a long time. Don’t see why you suddenly care now.”

Blake flinched. “What?”

Liz groaned. “Nothing.”

“No, what do you mean?”

“I mean…I mean…oh God!” Liz hitched forward and let out another stream of stinking vomit. It was the worst bout yet, just when Blake was sure she must’ve been running on empty. When it was finally over, Liz collapsed sideways into his arms, exhausted and beaten. “No more,” she said. “Please, no more.”

Blake picked his wife up off the floor and carried her back to bed. He emptied the contents of the en suite’s bin into the shower cubicle—too tired to dispose of it properly—and then put it beneath Liz’s chin to use as a sick bucket. She was ice-cold when he covered her with the duvet, yet sweat glistened on her forehead like she’d just run a marathon. He got in beside her and stroked her back with his fingertips, listening to her moan and retch. He couldn’t say when he finally fell asleep, but he knew it was before she did.

Chapter 8

Blake woke to find the door to the en suite locked and Liz inside showering. She refused to come out, or let him in, so he decided to leave her be until she was ready to talk. He tried to think back to how he and his brother had reacted when their parents died. Anger had certainly been one of the prominent emotions.

It was a strange feeling to lose your parents. It was the kind of deep, enveloping pain that only came with truly life-altering loss, but at the same time it was accompanied by a degree of emotional liberation. Being without parents was like taking the stabilisers off a bike; both exhilarating and frightening. It was the final challenge on the road to becoming a true adult, beholden to no one but oneself.

Blake headed downstairs and went into his office. There was something he needed to do before he started the day. He’d remembered to take his SSRI last night, but with things the way they were, it wasn’t enough to keep his nerves under control.

The beta blockers were in the top drawer of his writing desk. The wide, oak workspace lay beneath a leaded bay window that looked out onto the field. It was the perfect window for a writer; a beautiful blank canvas. Instead of the green grass, Blake could imagine a ballroom full of guests or a crashed air plane with a sabotaged fuel line. The view from his office was his sandpit.

Blake pushed one of the beta blockers from its aluminium pocket and dry-swallowed it. Then he stared down at the blank computer monitor. It’d been a while since he’d last written anything and a sheen of dust lay over the keyboard and mouse.

As a younger man he’d been prolific, releasing several books a year—and at only forty he still had many tomes left to write—but lately he’d felt little desire to get started. He didn’t believe in writer’s block, and he knew that if he sat down and made himself write, he would hammer out a few thousand words easily enough. The problem was that lately he didn’t want to. Whether it was Ricky growing up, or a desire to spend more time with Liz, writing just wasn’t a priority. There were parts of life he hadn’t yet mastered, and writing seemed to stop him from doing anything else. Being a father and a husband was something he wanted to be better at—perhaps before it was too late.

Ricky bounded into the office then with the metal detector hanging around his neck like a Stratocaster. The bags beneath his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept much, but the grin on his face said the fuel tank had more than enough left to go a few more miles. “Can we go treasure hunting again, Dad?”

Blake frowned. He wanted to spend time with Ricky, but he didn’t think trekking through the field was the right call for today. Liz would need them both. The only way to get over the dead was by focusing on the living.

“Maybe later, buddy. I think we should stay inside today and see how your mum is feeling.”

“Is she still being sick?”

“You know about that?”

Ricky nodded. “I heard her.”

“Your mum is feeling under the weather, so you and I need to look after her. Maybe later, if she’s feeling better, we can play with the metal detector again.”

“Should we make her toast?”

“I’m not sure she’ll be up to breakfast, but maybe. We’ll see when she comes downstairs.”

Ricky nodded. “Okay. Can I go play football outside until then?”

“Okay. Just stay away from the road.”

“I will, I don’t want to end up like Bailey.”

Blake’s heart ached. “Go on, have some fun. You deserve it.”

Ricky grabbed his ball from the porch and headed outside. Blake went into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. He grunted when he found there was no Nescafe; only some speciality Brazilian blend Liz had bought at the market for three-times the price. With coffee off the menu, he plonked a bag of PG Tips into his favourite mug—a jumbo one with an old comic strip from The Beano on it—and brewed himself a strong tea. His anxiety ebbed away with the first sip and he wondered if it was the tea or the beta blocker he’d just taken. Maybe it was both,

He took his mug of tea into the hallway and cursed when he noticed the alarm system blinking by the front door. Not only had he gone to bed in a drunken stupor, but he’d irresponsibly forgotten to set the alarm.

One of the risks of living out in the country was that robbers saw you as easy prey. Making noise didn’t matter as there were no neighbours to hear, and the getaway was a breeze.

The alarm system was wired straight to the security company, who’d contact the police if they couldn’t reach anybody at the house. Blake also kept a baseball bat in the bedroom inside the wardrobe but, ironically, there’d been no burglary attempts in the three years they’d lived there. Their former townhouse in Gloucester had been hit twice. The first time, they took the television, jewellery, and other easily replaced things. The second time, a man named Richard Heinz had taken things that were impossible to ever get back. Blake felt a shiver up his spine just by skirting the edges of that memory.

Liz stomped around upstairs on the old, creaky floorboards. Blake hoped she was feeling better, and that she’d be willing to talk about the comment she’d made last night. She’d said she’d been in pain for a long time.

Blake had suspected Liz was unhappy, but he suppressed it, partly because he didn’t know what to do, but mostly because he expected it to pass. Wounds could heal on their own over time, but last night he realised that perhaps that wasn’t always the case. His marriage was in trouble, had been for a while, and there was no ignoring it anymore. Something between him and Liz had faded, and he’d been too afraid to face it head-on.

Blake Price, famous mystery writer and millionaire, anxiety-ridden mess, and failed family man. What scared him most was that without Liz, he wasn’t sure how stable he could be. It was her strength of character, her confidence and decision-making, that had allowed him to focus on his writing, knowing that all else would be managed by his industrious wife. That was why his writing had always been so important to him; it allowed him to control events, to reshape the world into ninety-thousand words and decide the outcome. In real life, he could only dread the worst for there was no way to know what would happen next. Liz had been his emotional guardian and without her he would fall apart.

Blake scolded himself for being so selfish. Liz needed him right now and all he could do was worry about his own welfare. If Liz was unhappy with their marriage, it was his responsibility to face the consequences of letting things get that way. He just hoped it wasn’t too late to fix things.

Blake was just about to head upstairs when Ricky came rushing back inside the house.

“Whoa, slow down. What is it?”

Ricky skidded to a halt in the hallway. “There’s a man,” he said. “There’s a strange man standing outside.”

Chapter 9

Blake hurried out onto the driveway. The only person who ever visited unannounced was the postman, but this was a stranger. Blake prayed it wasn’t a fan of his. He did all he could to keep his address a secret, but in these days of Internet hacking and social networking, privacy was a fantasy.

Blake loved his fanbase dearly, but meeting his readers made him awkward and uncomfortable. There was also the inherent danger of knowing nothing about them, or their motives.

“What did he look like?” Blake had asked Ricky before heading outside.

“Tall, dark hair, a bit like you, but younger.”

Blake had frowned. “Huh?”

“He looks like you.”

From the driveway, Blake spotted a scruffy man strolling down the road, carrying a duffel bag over one shoulder. He was half-a-foot taller than Blake, and four years younger, but otherwise they looked just like brothers. And brothers they were.

“Stevie?”

Stevie came down the driveway, smiling his wide, mischievous grin that he’d had since he was a child. “Big bro, how you doing? I read Twinkle the other day. I especially loved the part where the broody vampire turns the high school sweetheart into a monster so that he can save her from a brain tumour. I wept for days.”

Blake smirked. He was happy and relieved to see his little brother, but he knew that the bantering would now begin. “Look what the cat dragged in, after the dog ate it and shat it out.”

Somewhere behind Blake, Ricky giggled. He had crept back out of the house and was now standing beside Blake. “Who is he, Dad?”

“This is your uncle Stevie. You’ve met him before, but it’s been a few years.”

Ricky frowned. “I think I remember.” But Blake knew he didn’t. Perhaps that was for the best. Ricky had last seen Stevie at his wedding to Cindi. Stevie had been wasted the entire time.

“What are you doing here?” asked Blake. “Did you hear about Val’s heart attack?”

“What? Oh, yeah. How’s everybody doing?”

Blake shrugged. “As can be expected. Liz is shattered, losing her mum…but what can you do?”

Stevie nodded slowly. He’d only met Val a couple times, but he’d always been very fond of Liz. “Poor mare. Sucks losing a parent.”

“It certainly does. Well, I suppose you best come in. You fancy a coffee? I could offer you something stronger, but it’s…” he checked his watch, “11am.”

Stevie rubbed at the thick stubble on his cheeks and sighed. “I guess I’ll have to go without a drink for a few hours, if you people are so civilised around here. Maybe I can raid your supply later.”

They headed inside, Ricky bombarding his uncle with questions the whole way. Where did he live? What did he do for a living? Was he good at football? Did he want to go treasure hunting?

“Ricky, go find your mother and warn her we have company.”

Stevie nudged Blake in the ribs. “Warn her? What am I, a Jehovah’s Witness?”

“You know what I mean. We weren’t expecting guests, and now isn’t exactly a great time.”

“Sorry. I just wanted to see you guys. It’s already been too long, you know?”

“Yes, I suppose it has.”

Ricky ran off to find his mother while Blake and Stevie went into the kitchen. Stevie took a seat at the breakfast bar while Blake made tea. They took the hot drinks into the family room where they sat down on the recliners. It reminded Blake of the old days, plonking themselves in front of the living room telly—a 26” mahogany effect Grundig that had seemed huge in those days.

Stevie cupped his hot mug in his hands. “So, tell me what happened.”

Blake told his brother about the events of the last forty-eight hours, beginning with Bailey’s death and ending with Val’s skull cracking against the pavement beside the River Avon. “It’s just been a shit couple of days,” he said finally.

Stevie pulled a face. “Sounds like it, man. I loved that little dog. Val…not so much. You know she called me a drunken buffoon at my own wedding?”

Blake laughed. “Val certainly had a talent for telling people what she thought, but she loved Ricky and she loved Liz too, deep down. She just struggled to show it.”

“Like our own mother,” said Stevie. “I have more memories of her putting her hand across our backsides than hugging us.”

“She wasn’t that bad. You’re younger, you don’t remember. She used to have a good sense of humour. Sometimes when she laughed it sounded like she was having a fit. She just had a way of quickly flipping the other way, though. She was either extremely happy or extremely sad. I think I take after her that way. You’re more like Dad.”

“You mean I have a drink problem?”

Blake looked at his brother. There was no point denying it, but there was no need to give Stevie a hard time either. They were practically strangers nowadays, so what right did he have to judge? “Hey, you got the alcoholism and I got the mental illness. I think we both got pretty raw deals.”

“Some say alcoholism is a mental illness.”

“Maybe, but at least there’s an obvious cure.”

“What’s that?”

“Stop drinking.”

Stevie looked hurt, but then chuckled. “You should write a book about it. With your name on the cover, it’d replace Alcoholics Anonymous overnight.”

“Huh, I’d be lucky to write anything at the moment. I just can’t seem to get myself in the office lately. It just seems so…unimportant. Oh well. It’s not like I need the money.”

Stevie raised an eyebrow. “No shit! I heard you bought a little place in the country, but I didn’t realise it was a little chateau.”

“Liz wanted to go bigger. This was a compromise. The original cottage was only two bed, but we had a couple more built and extended the kitchen. The room we’re in now is new as well. The original living room is at the back of the house.”

Stevie looked around admiringly. “It’s nice; what you always dreamed of as a kid. You were always wanting to go exploring in the woods or fishing at the lake by yourself. You always did like the solitude. Me, I was always more interested in being where the people were.”

Blake remembered how sociable Stevie was as a kid. People couldn’t help but love his cheeky smile and boundless energy. Ricky was a lot like him in many ways. Blake just hoped they were unalike in others. “I’m happy here,” he said. “We all are. I just need to get back into the groove of things and stop feeling sorry for myself.”

Stevie waved a hand. “Don’t sweat it, man. You were never in this for the money, so what’s the rush? You used to write those awful bloody stories when you were in college and you’d make me read them. They sucked, but you were always so proud of them. Writing is something you do for you, not the money. When you want to write again, you’ll write. Just please don’t turn into that clichéd writer that constantly moans about writer’s block. Don’t be that asshole. You’re a lucky son-of-a-bitch, so wear a smile and wear it well. Anything else is ungrateful.”

“You’re right. I am lucky. You just caught me at a bad time.”

“I know that, big bro. That’s why I’m here. I know I’ve been a burden in the past, but I do give a shit, you know?”

“I know you do.”

“Then let me know what you need.”

“I need to be here for Liz and, right now, I’m not sure your being here is conducive to that.”

Stevie’s face fell. “Oh…right. Okay, I guess I’ll call a taxi and head back home, then. You mind if I leave after lunch? It’d be nice to spend a little time with Ricky before I go.”

Blake nodded, already feeling wretched. “Of course.”

Stevie got up and strolled around the room with his hands on his hips, examining the wall art and furniture like he was trying to make a lasting impression to take with him.

“Look,” said Blake. “I’ll see what Liz says. If she doesn’t mind you being here, then perhaps you can stay for the night. Don’t you have work tomorrow, though?”

“I’ll call in,” he said. “I can get a couple days off. Thanks, big bro.”

“You’re welcome.”

Stevie looked at Blake and gave another of his cheeky grins. “So, when are you going to get rid of this dining table and get a snooker table in here?”

“Ha! Have you been spying on me? That’s the exact thing Liz and I argued about when we first bought the place. I wanted this to be a games room, but it ended up being a ‘family room.’”

Stevie cracked an imaginary whip at Blake.

“No, no, Liz was right. She usually is. We spend time together, eating or watching TV, it’s nice. A pool table would just end up gathering dust. Who would I even play with? Ricky prefers football.”

Stevie turned a circle before heading to the side table full of picture frames. “You could always play with yourself. You used to enjoy that, remember?”

“It used to beat playing with my annoying little brother.”

“Beat is the word, like how you used to beat off to badger porn.”

They both chuckled.

Stevie picked up a picture frame from the side table. “Didn’t think you were one for antiques.”

“I’m not. Ricky found it with the metal detector in the field.”

“No shit? That’s really cool. Thing looks ancient.”

“I don’t think it can be that old. It has a glass front. Maybe it’s twenty, thirty-years-old.”

Stevie turned the frame over and examined all the carvings. “Maybe the original owner of the cottage made it.”

“Why bury it?”

“Dunno. Do you know about the history of the cottage?”

Blake shook his head. “I had a building survey done. That’s all I cared about. I’m not really one for history.”

“You should be, man. Places have a story to tell. You being a writer, I would’ve thought you’d be interested in stuff like that.”

“I prefer make-believe. Nobody gets hurt in made-up stories.”

Stevie shook his head. “God, you’re a cheery soul. You’d have made a better alcoholic than I ever did. Anyway, who chose the picture in here? It’s nice. You’re actually smiling in it.”

“It was a good day. Torquay, I think. Ricky put a picture of Bailey inside initially but, after what happened, Liz changed it. Now, after what’s happened to Val, we might have to end up changing it again. Tell you the truth, the thing is starting to give me the creeps. Seems like all our bad luck started the moment Ricky dug the thing up. It was buried with some old chicken bones. How creepy is that?”

Stevie scrunched up his face. “Chicken bones? That’s a bit grim. Wonder why somebody buried it with bones? I’d get rid of it if I were you. Sounds a little funky.”

Blake shook his head. “I can’t, Ricky would be upset.”

“There’s much worse things a kid can go through than having a picture frame thrown in the bin. Just tell him it was ugly and buy him a videogame instead. He won’t even remember this time tomorrow. Besides, there’s a big old smudge on the glass anyway.”

“Really?” asked Blake. “Show me.”

Stevie held the picture frame up. Sure enough there was a blemish on the glass. It was right over Val’s face. Blake wet his thumb and rubbed at the mark, but it wouldn’t come away. “I think it might be on the photograph,” he said.

Stevie turned the picture over and rubbed at the glass with the cuff of his sleeve. “You might be right,” he said. “Here, let me slide it out and then you can chuck the thing away.”

Stevie fiddled with the top of the frame and tried to pinch the photograph with his dirty nails. He turned it over in his hands, checking each side. At one point he even went at the thing with his teeth. Eventually he gave up with a huff. “I can’t for the life of me work out how to get this bloody photograph out, man.”

Blake took the frame from his brother. “Liz said you just slide the picture out the top from behind the glass. I struggled with it too, yesterday, when I tried to change the picture.”

“Huh? Weird.”

Blake fiddled at the edge for several minute, but he too failed to remove the photograph. “Sod it. It’s not that nice a photograph. I’ll just have to chuck it along with the frame.”

Stevie chuckled. “Come on, let’s get rid of it now while we have the chance.”

They headed into the kitchen where Blake went straight to the bin. He stepped on the pedal and lifted the lid, then tossed the picture frame into the rubbish. He covered it with cardboard and old lettuce. Ricky would kick off about it, but Blake couldn’t deny how much better he felt throwing the thing away. He’d never been a superstitious person, but the more he thought about the old picture frame, the more he was sure it’d brought bad luck to his family. He was glad to see the back of it.

“Good riddance,” he said, as he slammed the bin’s lid down.

Chapter 10

“What is your brother doing here?” demanded Liz once they were alone in the kitchen.

“He just turned up out of the blue.”

“He could’ve called. Would’ve given us time to hide all the booze.”

“Look, I was as surprised to see him as you are, but what could I do? He’s my brother. You always seemed to get on with him fine in the past.”

“I got on with him fine ten years ago, when you and I were still young and irresponsible. We have a son now. We can’t have your train wreck of a brother hanging around and drinking himself silly on our couch. Just look at the state of him. Has he even taken a bath in a month?”

Stevie cleared his throat, appearing in the doorway. “Hey, Liz. I’m sorry about your mother.”

Liz went red in the face and started fidgeting. “Oh, yeah, hi Steven. Thank you. I’m finding it quite hard at the moment, but thank you.”

Stevie nodded. “I know, and I shouldn’t have just turned up. I’ll get out of your hair right after lunch, if that’s okay? I’d like to spend a little time with Ricky. Last time I saw the kid, he was still a toddler. I’ll be good, I promise.”

Liz cleared her throat and swallowed audibly. “Maybe you should go play kick-about in the field. Ricky would like that.”

Blake knew how his wife operated. The suggestion was designed to keep Stevie out of the house and away from the family room’s bar.

Stevie seemed happy enough to comply. He nodded and smiled. “Thanks, Liz. It’s good seeing you again. I’m sorry it’s under such shitty circumstances.”

Liz nodded curtly, but she did manage a thin-lipped smile that made her look just like her mother.

As soon as Stevie disappeared again, Liz turned back to Blake, scowling. “How much of that did he hear?”

“I don’t know. Why are you angry at me because he may have heard you being nasty about him?”

“I wasn’t being nasty, I was being truthful. Your brother is a train wreck. Remember our 10th anniversary? He got so drunk that the police were called. He got behind the wheel of that rickety old truck of his and started burning around the car park like a maniac. Lucky he didn’t kill anyone.”

Blake laughed before he could stop himself. “He was just trying to impress a girl. He’s always been the same, likes to have a good time.”

“Even if it means ruining everybody else’s.”

“Our 10th anniversary was five years ago. You should let it go.”

“Should I now? That girl he was so interested in was my friend, Wendy, and we haven’t spoken since. He went back to hers and puked everywhere and broke a lamp. Then he stole money from her purse in the morning so he could get a taxi to go collect his bleeding truck.”

Blake sighed. “As I recall, Wendy was a bit of a state herself that night. Besides, Stevie got married less than a year later. We were at the wedding.”

“Ha! I’ve never seen a bride and groom as drunk as they were. She’s as much a mess as he is.”

Blake was losing patience. What did she want him to do, eject his brother the moment he’d seen him coming down the driveway? “Look,” he said. “If I catch Stevie taking a drink, I’ll tell him to sling his hook. I don’t want Ricky around excessive drinking any more than you do. To be honest, I don’t even like how much you drink around him.”

Liz’s face darkened. “What?”

“I think you’ve been drinking a lot lately. It’s started to worry me a little. Last night…”

The look on Liz’s face was thunder, with lightning ready to leap from her eyes. “How dare you. If I want to have a drink after looking after your son, your home, or putting up with your moods whenever you’re having a ‘bad day,’ then that’s exactly what I’ll do. Who do you think you are?”

Blake put his hands up. “Fine, you’re right. I’m just saying to take it easy.”

Liz shoved him aside. “Get out of my face. God, I can’t believe you. My mother is dead and you’re giving me shit.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right.”

“You’re a bastard, Blake. Just leave me alone, and get your goddamn brother out of my house.”

Liz stomped out of the kitchen.

Blake placed the heels of his palms against his head and hissed. “God damn it,” he said. “When did I get so bad at dealing with life?”

He exited the kitchen and headed out the front door. The cold air immediately made him feel calmer, and he was once again glad to live in the country. In the city, there was nowhere to collect your thoughts in silence.

Blake headed for the field, listening out for sounds of Ricky and Stevie playing; but what he heard did not sound like playing.

Stevie came rushing around the corner of the cottage. His weathered face was completely pale. “Blake! Ricky’s hurt.”

Blake’s stomach turned. “What? Where? Take me to him. Take me to him now.”

Stevie nodded. “This way.”

Blake’s body tingled with adrenaline as he ran. Nothing got the muscles pumping like fear.

Ricky was at the bottom of the field, screaming in agony. Tears flooded his cheeks and blood covered his left leg.

Blake whirled on his brother. “What the hell happened?”

“A fox attacked him.”

“Are you joking?”

Stevie looked like a frightened child. “Blake, I swear. I kicked the ball over by the hedges and when Ricky ran over to get it he must have disturbed a fox. It leapt right out and bit him.” He pointed to the edge of the field, but there was nothing there.

Blake shoved his brother aside and knelt beside his son. There was a lot of blood. “Ricky, are you okay? What happened?”

He was crying so hard that it took him a few seconds to catch his breath. “A…a fox. A f-fox b-bit me.” A fresh bout of tears took hold of him.

Stevie was almost in tears as well. “I know it sounds crazy, man, but it’s the truth.”

Blake shovelled his son into his arms and hurried back towards the house. Ricky sobbed the entire time and buried his head against his father’s chest, just like he did when he was four-years-old after a nightmare.

Stevie raced after them. “Blake, I’m so sorry. There was nothing I could do, I swear.”

Blake said nothing. He didn’t want to hear it, he just wanted to make sure his son was okay. He ran as fast as he could towards the cottage and started thinking about what he was going to tell Liz. She had enough to deal with right now, and she was already in a bad mood.

She was standing outside the front door as they came around the corner. Her hands were on her hips, but as soon as she saw Ricky, her arms fell to her sides. “Oh God, what’s happened?”

“He was bitten,” shouted Stevie.

“Bitten by what?”

Blake shoved past his wife and went inside. “A fox,” he mumbled.

Stevie and Liz chased Blake into the kitchen, where he plonked Ricky down on the breakfast bar, spilling the contents of a fruit bowl everywhere.

Ricky had managed to find a rhythm for coping with the pain and was no longer crying, but whimpering and panting instead.

“Let’s get your trousers off,” said Blake, already tugging at them.

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” said Liz, rushing off.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Stevie.

Blake looked him in the eyes. “Just stay out of the way.”

Stevie dissolved into the background.

Liz came back with medical supplies. Without needing to be asked, she handed over the alcohol wipes.

Blake began cleaning the wound, ignoring Ricky’s hisses of pain. Most of the blood was sticky, already clotting, and came away easily. No more replaced it. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” said Blake. “It’s already stopped bleeding.” It wasn’t entirely true, but he saw Ricky relax immediately.

Blake tore open another alcohol wipe and continued dabbing at the wound. As it became clearer, it did indeed look like a shallow bite, from jaws a little smaller than a dog’s. The puncture marks weren’t deep and were likely caused by a startled snap than a vicious bite.

“We need to take him to hospital,” said Liz. “He could get tetanus.”

“He’s been vaccinated. It’s not that bad. We just need to make sure the wound is clean and he’ll be fine.” Blake picked up a tube of antiseptic gel from the first aid kit and spread it liberally on Ricky’s shin.

Ricky hissed. “It’s cold.”

“That’s good,” soothed Liz. “It’ll numb it and stop it hurting.”

“Daddy’s not going to kill the fox, is he?”

Blake and Liz looked at one another. “Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t want him to hurt it. I scared it, it was just frightened.”

Liz stroked his forehead. “Don’t worry about that now.”

The truth was that Blake did want to go out with a shotgun right then and take the animal’s head off. He didn’t own a shotgun, though, and he was an outspoken critic of fox hunting. He’d be a hypocrite if he killed an animal that was just acting on instinct. ‘Animals commit no crimes and deserve no punishment,’ he had written once in an article opposing blood sports.

Liz handed Blake a cotton wool pad and a bandage, which he placed over the wound. By the time he was done dressing Ricky’s leg, the boy looked like a wounded soldier.

“You alright there, bud?”

Ricky nodded. “Can I have ice cream?”

Everybody laughed, except for Stevie, who remained at the back of the room looking like a man condemned.

Chapter 11

Ricky was in his bedroom, laid up with ice cream and video games. Before Blake left him, his son once again pleaded for the fox to be left alone. “We’ll see,” Blake had said. “I don’t believe in hurting animals, but I won’t put you in danger either. Maybe I can find a way to move it on.”

In the kitchen, Stevie and Liz were already arguing. “How could you let this happen, Steven?”

“There was nothing I could do. It just happened in an instant.”

“If you weren’t such a drunken mess, you would’ve spotted the fox sooner.”

Stevie winced. “I haven’t had a drink. I’m as sober as you are.” He glanced at the half-finished glass of red wine in Liz’s hand and corrected himself. “More so, actually.”

Liz’s upper lip curled. “How dare you. You come into my home, injure my son, then have the audacity to comment on my behaviour?”

Stevie raised his hands. “I wasn’t, Liz. I’m just saying I haven’t had a drink today. I know I haven’t seen you guys in a couple years, but I’m here because I care about you all. The last thing I would ever do is hurt Ricky.”

“All you ever do is hurt people, Steven. Why are you really here? Do you need Blake to bail you out again? How much is it you need this time? We already paid for yours and Cindi’s wedding. Don’t you think we’ve given enough?”

Stevie snarled. “I don’t want your bleedin’ money. I came here because I thought we were family.”

Liz laughed cruelly. “Family? That’s rich. When did you ever behave like family? All you ever do is take, take, take. Blake doesn’t want you here.”

“Hey, hey,” said Blake, entering the room. “Don’t start making statements on my behalf.” He looked at his brother, who was trembling, but was it from alcohol withdrawal, anger, or just plain adrenaline? “Have you had a drink today, Stevie?”

“No!”

“Okay, then I don’t blame you for what happened. I know there’s a fox that lives in our field, and it biting Ricky is just incredibly unlucky.”

Stevie nodded. “Thanks, bro.”

“But I still think it would be better if I took you to the train station now. Liz is grieving and having a house guest is not helping her.”

Liz grunted.

Stevie nodded. Despite his eyes glistening with tears, he managed to smile. “I’ll get my things ready,” he said, then headed out into the hallway.

Liz immediately set upon Blake. “Get him the hell out of here, right now.”

“He’s done nothing wrong.”

“Oh really? What do you call letting our son get mauled by a fox?”

Blake shook his head and was about to let it go, but he found himself unable. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, Liz? Ricky’s fine. Unless Stevie has picked up the ability to summon wild animals, this was no one’s fault.”

Liz glared. “Get him out of my house now.”

Blake turned and went into the hallway, fuming. He knew Liz was grieving, and that he was probably being an arsehole, but he’d always happily accommodated her family. Val had been no picnic, God rest her soul, but he’d always made the effort.

Liz did have a point, though. The problem with Stevie wasn’t that he had done anything wrong. It was the fear—the almost certainty—that he would eventually. It was only ever a matter of time before an alcoholic let you down.

Stevie had his coat on and was zipping up his holdall. It was early afternoon but the sky was a dark, foreboding grey. Blake felt guilty about not letting his brother stay at least one night, but he wasn’t going to change his mind.

“If you can just drop me at the station in Redlake,” said Stevie, “I can get a train back home from there.”

“Sure thing,” said Blake. “What happened to your truck, anyway? I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“The old banger finally popped its clogs. Got a mate trying to fix it, but it’s probably time for me to get a new motor. You don’t want to help your brother out with that, do you? A beamer would make a nice early Christmas present.”

Blake frowned.

“Kidding, I’m kidding. I don’t need anything from you, bro. I just wanted to see you, that’s all. The truth probably isn’t something you’d expect to hear from me, but that’s it, right there.”

Blake sighed. As much as he loved his brother, he was right, he didn’t expect the truth. He suspected there was something more behind Stevie’s surprise visit, but Liz and Ricky were his priority, not his brother’s myriad issues. “It’s just a bad time right now, Stevie. Any other time and we’d love to have you. We’ll arrange something soon, okay?”

Stevie nodded, but looked like he didn’t believe it. He shouldered his holdall and limbered up. “Ready when you are, bro.”

Blake nodded. He set the house alarm and went out onto the driveway, where he unlocked the Citroen with his key fob.

As the two of them climbed inside, Stevie started chatting away. “You know, I don’t get it. You have all this money, yet you drive around in an ugly ass people carrier. Why don’t you get something nicer?”

Blake flexed his hands around the steering wheel and examined the pragmatic plastic dashboard. “I like it,” he said. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s nicer than my truck, but then I’m a low-paid telecoms engineer. You’re a millionaire, according to NEWSCOM. You should be driving a Porsche at the very least.”

“You read the article NEWSCOM did about me?”

Stevie nodded. “Yeah, and the Guardian’s feature last year. I’m always checking up on you, big bro. Just because we haven’t hung out in a while, doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you. Incidentally, you need to get a Facesnapper account.”

Blake groaned. “Please, social networks are the bane of my life. As soon as I take the plunge with one, another opens up and replaces it. I gave up in the end.”

Stevie shrugged. “It’d just be a nice way to stay in touch is all. Ricky’s growing up and seeing some pics now and then would be cool.”

“I’ll think about it.” Blake started the engine. He switched on the headlights and reversed out of the driveway and onto the B-road. “I drive a Citroen because people pay attention to a Porsche,” he said. “I just want a quiet life. What is a sports car going to do for me other than make it less safe to drive my family around?”

“You always were so rational. I tell you, if Cindy and I were millionaires, we would blow it in less than a year.”

“Thank God you’re not, then. How is Cindy, anyway? I haven’t seen her since the wedding, and you haven’t mentioned her.”

“Oh, yeah, she’s great. She wanted to come, you know, but I told her it would be a bit of an imposition, us both turning up.” Stevie pulled out his wallet and tugged out a crumpled old photograph of the two of them. He held it in front of the lit dashboard. “Our honeymoon in Spain.”

Blake flicked his eyes between the picture and the road. “Yeah, I remember her. She’s a looker.”

Stevie smiled proudly. “Ain’t she!” He went to slide the photo back into his wallet but, as he did so, another picture fell loose. Before Stevie was able to snatch it back up again, Blake saw it was of a suited gentleman getting into a posh-looking car.

“Who’s that?”

Stevie shoved the candid snapshot back into his wallet. “Nobody. Don’t worry about it.”

Blake decided not to pursue it. It was none of his business. They drove in silence for a while until Blake started to feel awkward. It felt like sitting in the car with a stranger, not the brother he’d grown up with. All the nights they’d spent together, reading Beanos beneath the bed sheets with a torch while their drunken father argued with their selfish mother downstairs, seemed like they’d occurred in another life. He and Stevie had grown up together, yet they couldn’t have ended up further apart.

“How’s work?” asked Blake, breaking the silence.

Stevie looked out the window, even though there was nothing to see. “It’s okay. Just climbing up and down telegraph poles most days. Pretty dull.”

“I couldn’t imagine climbing up one of those massive things; makes me sick just thinking about it. You always were fearless, though. Remember that big hill behind the supermarket where we lived? You went down it on your bike, but I was too afraid to. Upstaged by my little brother.”

Stevie laughed. “I paid for it, though, remember?”

Blake frowned. “No. What happened?”

“Huh, maybe you weren’t with me that time. I went it one time and hit a brick at the bottom. Went over the handle bars and bust my lip on the ground. I buckled the wheel and Mum whipped my arse blue when I got home.”

“No, I don’t remember that at all. You were always getting injured.”

“I know. I was always trying to prove myself to you. The bigger the risk, the more I thought my big brother would like me.”

“I loved you, Stevie. I always have.”

“I know that now, but try telling that to a snot-nosed ten-year-old.”

“Ricky reminds me of you.” Blake hoped it didn’t sound like a negative, because it wasn’t meant that way.

“Ricky’s a great kid. Did you ever think about having more kids?”

Blake gripped the wheel tightly and felt his chest get heavier. “Yes.”

There was a brief silence before Stevie asked, “When?”

“Liz was pregnant just before we moved to the country. We lost it.”

“Shit. Sorry, bro. How come you never told me?”

“It’s private. It hurt. No reason to share the misery.”

“A problem shared is a problem halved.”

“Sometimes a problem shared is a problem multiplied.”

Stevie made to speak again, but Blake kept his eyes on the road and sighed. It was enough to make his brother move on from the subject. They sat in silence again until they neared the town of Redlake. The country roads gave way to floodlit thoroughfares.

Stevie shivered in his seat. “Shit afternoon, huh? Looks like it’s going to rain. It’s dark enough to be night.”

Blake nodded. “It’s started to get colder the last couple days. Not looking forward to winter—gets chilly at the cottage. Maybe now’s a good time for a holiday, once everything’s sorted with Val’s funeral.”

Stevie nodded. “Yeah, that would be nice. The only time Mum and Dad were ever happy together was when we went on holiday together.”

“That’s because Dad could start drinking at 11am and Mum could flirt with the waiters.”

“We had some fun ourselves, though.”

Blake chuckled. “Yeah. Remember that time—shit!” He stamped on the brake, sending the car drifting sideways towards the ditch. He leant hard on the wheel, counter-steering against the skid and trying to keep them on the road. The car seemed to tip over slightly. There was a loud bang!

Blake missed the clutch in his panic to emergency stop. The car bucked unhappily as the engine stalled. The wheels locked up and the tyres shrieked in protest, but they gripped the road and brought the Citroen to a stop, where it rested diagonally across the road, listing to one side.

“Jesus sodding Hell,” shouted Stevie. “O’mother, o’mighty. I think I just shit myself. My bumhole is squeaking.”

Blake was panting. He gripped the wheel like the bars on a rollercoaster. His heart was pulsing like a dance club speaker.

“What happened?” asked Stevie once he finally calmed down.

“Something ran out in front of us,” said Blake.

Stevie frowned. “What? I didn’t see anything.”

“I swear, it ran right out in front of us.”

“What did?”

Blake had to focus hard on getting the words past his lips. “A fox.”

Chapter 12

“Bugger it!” Blake stared down at the burst front tyre with his hands on his hips. “What do we do?”

Stevie patted him on the back. “Don’t sweat it. Nothing to changing a wheel. Open up the boot and we’ll get to it.”

“You know what you’re doing?”

Stevie looked at him. “Jesus, bro. How are you the successful one? Changing a tyre is easy-peasy. Let’s crack on. It’s bloody freezing.”

Blake pressed the boot icon on his key fob and watched Stevie pull up the false floor to reveal the replacement spare wheel. “This is just a placeholder,” he explained. “You’ll have to get it changed at the garage tomorrow.”

Blake frowned. “Isn’t it a spare?”

“No. Manufacturers stopped putting in spares years ago. They just give you one of these crappy things, just about good enough to get you home. Can you get me the locking nuts?” When Blake looked cluelessly at him, Stevie rolled his eyes. “Seriously, big bro, you’re useless. There’s a little plastic container in the boot. Pass it here.”

Blake located a purple container like a child’s lunch box and handed it to his brother.

“First thing you do is find the winch spot underneath the car. You try to jack it up in the wrong place and you’ll go straight through the bodywork.”

Stevie jacked the car up and installed the placeholder wheel in next to no time. Blake was genuinely impressed. When he checked his watch it was nearing dinnertime.

Stevie brushed his hands together before wiping them on his jeans. “You’re all set.”

“Let’s get back to the cottage.”

Stevie frowned. “What about me? I need to catch a train, man.”

“You won’t get home till late if you leave now. You’re staying in the guest room tonight and I’ll take you to the station tomorrow.”

“You sure? What’s Liz going to say?”

“She’ll probably give me hell, but I can hardly dump you off after you rescued me from my automotive ineptness.”

“Think you could do a wheel on your own next time?”

“Yeah, you’re a good teacher. Let’s get back while there’s still time to relax for a couple hours. I feel like all I’ve done today is stress.”

Stevie laughed. “Isn’t that what you do every day?”

“Good point.”

They got back in the car and Blake switched on the heating full blast. When they pulled away, the steering felt a little stiffer than usual, and he wondered if it was the placeholder tyre or if the skid had done more damage than he thought.

“So you really saw a fox, then?” asked Stevie.

“I know, I know. After what happened to Ricky it sounds like an awfully big coincidence. I’m telling you, though, it was definitely a fox. Shot out of the hedge and almost went under the wheels. Maybe I should’ve just kept going.”

“And crush the poor thing? Doesn’t sound like you, man.”

“I’m beginning to make exceptions when it comes to foxes.”

“You said you knew you had a fox on your land? Weren’t you worried?”

“We’re in the countryside. There are foxes everywhere. I’m not going to start acting like some character from a Roald Dahl story and go nuts every time I see a wild animal. I didn’t even think foxes were dangerous.”

“Me either,” said Stevie. “You hear about them attacking babies in the city sometime, but I always think, ‘hey, why you leaving your baby alone in the garden?’ I don’t like to blame the animals.”

Blake nodded. “We have that in common, but things change when it’s your kid that gets attacked. If I’d have got hold of that fox right after it attacked Ricky, I would’ve throttled it.”

“Me too. I still might if I see it. It was pretty amazing that the first thing on Ricky’s mind was whether you were going to hurt the fox or not. Kid’s got a good heart.”

Blake nodded. He’d been surprised and a little proud that, even in pain, Ricky had found compassion for the thing that had hurt him. “I try to raise him right, to be a good man, but the truth is I don’t really need to try. He’s growing into one regardless.”

Stevie smiled. “That kid’s going to rule the world, you’ll see.”

“You barely know him. Sorry, that came out wrong.”

Stevie didn’t seem offended. “No, you’re right, but that’s why I’m so sure he’s going to be something great. I fell in love with the kid after spending five minutes with him. Before the fox ruined our fun, he was teaching me football tricks. He wasn’t showing off, he genuinely wanted me to learn them, like it’d help me in life somehow. Kid’s going to be a leader.”

“Thanks, Stevie. I hope you’re right.”

“Course, I’m right.”

They pulled onto the B-road, nearing Poe’s Place, and Blake saw light up ahead.

Stevie leant forward in his seat. “Is that coming from your place?”

Blake eased up on the accelerator. The light was bright orange and flickering.

Fire.

“Please, God, don’t let that be my cottage.”

But it was. Poe’s Place was on fire.

Chapter 13

Blake pulled on the handbrake before the Citroen came to a full stop, sending it sliding on the gravel several feet along the driveway. He was sound-minded enough to switch off the engine, but he raced towards the house immediately after. Stevie was right behind him.

The fire was coming from the kitchen. From the driveway, Blake could see the flames crackling in the thatched roof above the annex. Once inside, he spotted the source. The oven was ablaze, the pizza boxes from the other night had been left on the hob and were now ash. The flames had licked high enough to ignite the ceiling. The fire was mostly overhead as Blake headed through the kitchen.

“I’ll call the fire department,” yelled Stevie, plucking a mobile phone from his pocket.

Blake turned on the kitchen taps and started panning water onto the flaming oven. The pizza boxes were easy to subdue, but there was no way to get at the flames taking hold of the roof. Smoke was everywhere. Bits of wood and burning flakes of plaster fluttered down like searing rain.

Stevie grabbed a hold of Blake and pulled him away from the oven, while bellowing a plea for help into his phone. Blake fought him for a moment, but realised it was pointless. The fire wasn’t going to be beaten by one man and a potful of water. The only thing Blake could do was check on his family, so he shoved Stevie aside and headed into the main house.

He found Liz in the family room, reclined in front of the telly. There was an empty bottle of wine beside her, along with a foil wrapper for a prescription tranquilliser. A doctor had given them to her after the miscarriage to help her sleep. It looked like she’d taken a handful, topped with the bottle of wine.

“Liz, wake up, damn it! WAKE UP!”

She was totally out, not even flinching at his shouts. He slapped her face and got a slight moan, but she still failed to wake. “Liz, the bloody house in on fire. Wake up now!”

No response.

Blake had never been as furious with Liz as he was right then, but he still loved her like hell and needed to get her out of there safely. He pulled one of her arms and managed to lift her forward. Drool escaped her lips and her eyes flickered. “Blaaaa.”

“Yes, it’s Blake. Come on, we have to go outside.”

“Blaa, I miyoo.”

“You miss me? What the hell are you talking about?”

She was gone again. Blake hoisted her over his shoulder. She didn’t weigh much more than Ricky. Had she always been so thin?

Blake stumbled through the family room, heading for the door. He moved as quickly as he could with Liz over his shoulder, but stopped when something caught his eye. The old picture frame was back on the side table.

Hadn’t he thrown it in the bin?

“Blake, come on! We have to get out.” Blake spun around to find Stevie standing in the doorway. He had Ricky limping alongside him.

“Dad, what’s happening?”

“There’s a fire,” said Blake, snapping back to the present. “We have to get outside.”

And so they did. They raced out onto the driveway, holding their breath as they passed the billowing black cloud coming from the kitchen. Blake saw that at least another three-feet of ceiling had ignited, and was relieved to hear the sound of sirens in the distance.

Help arrived a short time later and a fire engine parked on the driveway while a team of six firemen directed a hose towards the cottage. The sirens remained on, adding to the chaos and bathing Poe’s Place in an unsettling crimson light. Liz remained semi-conscious the entire time, while Ricky sobbed constantly. Stevie rubbed Blake’s back and reassured him. Suddenly Blake was grateful to have his younger brother around.

It took almost two hours for the no-nonsense men and women of the fire department to get the blaze under control, and by that time it had gone seven o’clock. The damage was unknown, but at least it had been contained to the annex. The main house was safe to return to, so Stevie put Ricky to bed early, while Blake did the same with Liz. Stevie hovered around for a while, but eventually bunkered down in the guest room.

Blake returned to the driveway and spent the next three hours dealing with firemen and police. When he finally got to bed himself, it was early morning.

Chapter 14

Waking up was like recovering from surgery. There was a brief moment of confusion, where Blake stared up at the ceiling, before the doom and despair came flooding into him like a blood transfusion. Once again he’d forgotten his pill, making his head fuzzy, but what made him worse were the memories of Liz passed-out on the recliner while their kitchen burned.

Blake sniffed hard to clear the mucousy ash in his airways and then sat up. The sun was up but the day was grey. The windows were beaded with raindrops. Beside him, Liz snored on her back, as still as a corpse. He decided not to wake her while his head was still in such a mess.

He slipped from beneath the duvet and stumbled into the shower, turning the temperature as hot as he could stand. The heat relaxed him and allowed him to get his head together enough to face going downstairs.

What was he going to say to Liz when she woke up? She’d lost her mother, and it was hard on her, but she was responsible for letting part of the house burn down in the middle of the day. It was pretty clear her drinking was a problem, but would she take responsibility for it? It seemed that the merest mention was enough to make her angry and defensive. Alcohol had always been a destructive force in Blake’s life, starting with his father and carrying onto himself and his brother, and now it had claimed Liz.

Blake switched off the shower and stepped out onto the mat. He took his time getting dressed, trying to delay facing the mess downstairs. Facing problems was not something he was good at. Liz was the problem-solver in their relationship, but she was incapable right now.

Perhaps it was his fear of confrontation that led Liz to the dark place she was in now. He tried so hard to avoid stress in his life, but that meant that Liz was often left to deal with them instead. Blake wondered how he could’ve been so selfish for so long. It didn’t excuse Liz’s behaviour, though. Ricky had been in the house while she popped pills and drank herself unconscious. Blake wasn’t even sure how to start to forgive her for that.

He finally summed up the courage to head downstairs, and it was a relief when he found the main house undamaged, almost as if there’d been no fire at all. It was a different story when he headed to the kitchen annex. Smoke had painted the entire area black, and the odour it gave off was caustic, as if the flames had left behind a remnant of their fury. It was difficult not to choke. Blake saw countless flecks of ash swirling in the dim shaft of light.

“Hope you have insurance,” said Stevie, staring at the blackened oven. He’d been standing in the kitchen when Blake arrived. Having someone there made the situation a little less overwhelming.

“I do have insurance, but I don’t think I can wait to cash in. I need to get this sorted right away.”

“Just use some of those millions you have,” muttered Stevie, looking away.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That it’s just money. You’ll buy a new kitchen. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Isn’t it?”

Stevie looked at Blake like he was a child. “You’re a moron sometimes, big bro.”

“Excuse me?”

“The fire isn’t the important thing here. What’s important is that your wife, who used to be a happy, friendly chick, was miserable enough last night to check out on pills and booze. What have you done to her, man?”

Blake took three angry steps towards his brother, but stopped himself short. “I haven’t done anything,” he shouted. “I provide for this family. They want for nothing.”

“Look around you, man. That’s not true.”

“Piss off! I’m not about to accept judgement from my degenerate brother.” Blake couldn’t believe how angry he was.

Stevie’s eyes rolled towards the floor, but then he looked up again, also furious. “You’re right. How can I possibly criticise the great Blake Price? You have everything, don’t you? Well, let me tell you something, big bro: I am a degenerate, which is why I can see, clear as day, the path Liz is wandering down. I know because I’ve walked it myself, man, there and back, every day since Mum topped herself and left me all alone.”

“You weren’t alone. You had me.”

“Your pity, you mean? You write a bestseller and give me a few hand-outs here and there, but I was never anything but a burden to you. I haven’t even seen you in two years. I live in Colchester, not Buenos Aires.”

“You know where I am.”

“Yeah, I do, and when I turn up to see you, you want me gone as soon as I walk up the drive. You think you’re so goddamn perfect, but you’re deluding yourself. You think that by avoiding all of life’s problems, they’ll go away, but all you’re doing is burying yourself—and your family. You were at university when Mum and Dad died. I was the one who had to clear out the family home and sort out their estate, while you partied with your buddies at the Student Union and spoke about your feelings. You even credited your first book to them, like their deaths had been a goddamn inspiration.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I know you didn’t come home to help me back then. I wasn’t much more than a kid.”

“I was at the funeral.”

“Gone the next day.”

Blake kicked at one of the charred kitchen cupboards. It crumbled into ash and splinters. “When are you going to stop blaming your screw-ups on everybody else? You’re a grown man, Steven. The only person responsible for your life is you. I’m not going to feel guilty for not being there for you. It was never my job to be. I never agreed to provide for you.”

“No,” said Stevie. “You made that vow to Liz, though. How is she, by the way?”

Blake snarled. “Get out of my house before I fucking throttle you.”

Stevie rubbed at his forehead like he was tired. “See, now there’s the great Blake Price I know, just a bundle of nerves and anger bubbling beneath the surface. Do you know something, big bro? I like that part of you best. That emotional headcase I grew up with is far better than the grey, featureless human being you’ve become. Escaping to the country was just your way of escaping life. The tragedy is that you took your wife and son with you.”

Blake lunged at his brother; but Stevie was ready for him. Before Blake knew it, he had an arm around his throat, choking the life out of him.

“There you go,” whispered Stevie in his ear. “Doesn’t that feel better? Where’s all that emotion you have inside? Let it out and be a man again.” Blake struggled, but Stevie had always been the athletic one and held him tight, continuing to whisper in his ear. “You’re a good man, Blake. When did you start being so afraid of you?”

“When…one of…my fans…raped…Liz.”

Stevie broke away, leaving Blake to slump back against the cupboards. A cloud of ash billowed into the air. He coughed and spluttered, rubbed at his windpipe. He considered lunging at Stevie again, but most of the anger had left him. Stevie was right. He had pulled Liz and Ricky away from the world. He’d cocooned them in a prison of misery and nothingness. Ricky was ten-years-old and didn’t have a single friend he could bring home from school. Liz hardly ever left the house.

Blake knew there were tears on his face, but he left them there.

Stevie was staring at him. His eyes were as wide as saucers and his mouth opened and closed like a fish. He too had slumped to the floor.

“It was back when we lived in the city,” Blake began. “Back then I used to travel a lot—meetings with editors, book signings, marketing campaigns, and everything else I used to think was important. Liz was pregnant and had decided to quit her job to raise Ricky and the baby-on-the-way. Ricky was at school by then, so Liz spent most of her days at home, alone. I regret that so deeply now.”

Stevie said nothing. He just listened.

“I thought I was God’s gift to the world. I drove a Maserati, I ate lobster with agents in New York, even met the odd celebrity. I felt as if the world was made for me and that nothing could ever touch me. It was that hubris that ended up hurting my family—Liz most of all.

“The love and admiration I got from fans and critics was intoxicating. I became addicted to it. I expected everyone to be in awe of me, and usually they were. That’s why I would give out my address from time-to-time; but only to my biggest, most loyal fans. Not so they could visit, of course, but they liked to send gifts, fan mail. It seemed harmless at the time.”

Stevie leant on his fist and look ill, like he didn’t want to hear whatever came next.

Blake had to finish the story, though. “There would be presents sent to the house every Christmas—postcards, family photos, invitations, all kinds of things. It all just added to my ego. I never considered the danger I was putting my family in. You think a guy who writes about maniacs and killers would know a little better, huh? I used to think all the monsters in my life were made up.”

“What happened,” asked Stevie. “What are you telling me?”

“One day, a long-time fan of mine, a guy who’d been in touch with me almost since the beginning of my career, turned up on the doorstep wanting to meet me. His name was Richard Heinz. Liz said the man had seemed friendly and polite at first. He’d dressed smartly and had bought a bottle of expensive Scotch as a gift—he knew it was my favourite, knew everything about me. Liz let him inside the house.” Blake swallowed hard as he fought to go on. “She tried calling me, but I was in a meeting with a magazine writer in SoHo. I got the call, even saw her name come up on my phone, but I…”

Stevie nodded. He understood Blake was trying to tell him he’d rejected Liz’s call.

“Liz left me a couple of messages, but a couple of hours dragged by before she decided she’d have to ask Richard Heinz to come back another day. She couldn’t get a hold of me and didn’t know when I’d be back. But Heinz wasn’t leaving without meeting his idle—the wonderful Blake Price. He got angry with Liz for trying to come between him and me. She demanded he leave but he became even more furious. When she tried to call the police, he hit her. Liz has never told me exactly what happened after that, but I know he used the bottle of Scotch on her, and by the time he was done, there was no more baby.”

Stevie had gone deathly pale. “Did they…did they catch the guy?”

“The very same day. He was a convicted sex offender, already on police supervision. In his statement, Richard Heinz said he’d been trying to save me from a controlling harridan and that the Scotch was an extra special gift now. Heinz had a whole host of mental conditions, I’ve forgotten most of them, to be honest—schizophrenia was one, I think—but they charged him and gave him fifteen years in an institution. When they found out about two other women he’d attacked, they changed his sentence to life.”

Stevie shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

“Heinz can’t hurt anybody else now,” said Blake. “At least there’s that. Didn’t stop him from sending me letters, though. I didn’t read any of them, but I made up my mind to move then. I needed to get my family out of the danger I’d put them in. I bought Poe’s Place, sold the Maserati, and stopped meeting with big-shot editors in the city. Even if I never write another book again, I have enough money to look after us all here forever.”

“But that’s no way to live,” said Stevie. “What happened to Liz—to you—is just about the sickest, most wretched thing I’ve ever heard, but teaching your son to retreat from the world won’t do him any good. How do you expect Liz to regain her confidence if you hide her away?”

Blake blinked slowly and felt his shoulders drop of their own accord. “You’re right. I’ve neglected Liz ever since it happened. I’ve done what was best for me, not her. Ricky is collateral damage for my mistakes.” Stevie gave Blake a hug. For once, Blake felt like the younger brother. “Thanks, Stevie,” he said.

“Hey, for a degenerate, I’ve been known to speak some sense on occasion.”

Blake rubbed his face and straightened up. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, you did, but I can hardly blame you. Never given you much reason to trust me. You’re right, I only have myself to blame for my past. I came to that conclusion a while ago.”

“What do you mean?”

Stevie raised an eyebrow as if to suggest his brother was an idiot. “Have you seen me take a drink the whole time I’ve been here?”

“No, I haven’t. You mean…you’re clean?”

“As a whistle. I haven’t had a drink in almost a year.”

Blake couldn’t help but grin. In the dark ruin of his kitchen, he was glad to finally hear some good news. “That’s great. How did you do it?”

Stevie shook his head as if he were ashamed. “Let’s get out of this skanky kitchen, shall we?”

“Okay.”

They walked into the hallway and Stevie started to explain. “It was my wedding to Cindi. Not the day itself, but the DVD of it. Last year, Cindi and I were having a few spats so I stuck our wedding DVD on to cheer myself up—or to remind myself why I loved her, I dunno. Anyway, I saw what a mess I was, slurring through my speech and stumbling around with a glass in my hand. I saw the awkward looks on people’s faces. It’s weird, but I never felt like such a loser until I saw myself like other people did. I went cold turkey the very next day. It was tough—Christ, it was tough—but I feel like a different person now, and it’s only been a year. I’m sorry I let you down so much, but I don’t want to waste any more time. I want to rebuild bridges, get to know my nephew.”

“I’m so proud of you, Stevie.”

Stevie went red in the cheeks and looked away. “I’m pretty proud of me, too. I’m just sorry that my turning up was at such a bad time.”

“Did you really know Val was dead when you got here?”

“No. I didn’t know what I was going to say when I turned up, but I expected to be unwelcome, so when you said Val had died I just went with it. It’s pretty shitty, I know, but it made me want to stick around even more. I could see how stressed you were. You used to get so emotional as a kid. I still know that look you have.”

“The pills I take help a lot, but I keep forgetting them with what’s been happening.”

“Probably not a good idea to forget your crazy pills, man.”

“Nope, certainly doesn’t help. I’m okay. I just get a little…shaky. After a while I start losing my temper easily and become a bit of a shit. Liz jokes that the pills are for her mental health, not mine.”

“Always did love her sense of humour.”

“I hope she can get it back.”

Stevie pat him on the back. “She will. Things will get better.”

“Can’t get any worse. Bailey getting hit by a van, Val dying, Ricky getting injured, and now the kitchen burning down. It’s like there’s a curse on this family.”

Stevie chuckled. “D’you still think it’s that creepy picture frame? Maybe the guy who made it was a voodoo priest.”

Blake’s eyes widened. “Damn it, I forgot about that.”

“Forgot what?”

Blake grabbed his brother’s wrist. “Come with me.”

He led Stevie into the family room and pointed at the side table.

Stevie’s eyes went wide. “It’s back. But I watched you throw it in the bin.”

“Yes, you did. Somehow it found its way out.”

“It must’ve been Ricky or Liz.”

Blake nodded. “Call me crazy, but I’d like to find out one way or the other. Part of me is worried the thing made its way back all on its own.”

Stevie surprised him by not laughing at his paranoia. “I should be making fun of you right now,” he said, “but I can’t deny that the thing is pretty creepy.”

“Yeah,” said Blake. “One way or another, it’s going back in the rubbish and staying there.”

Chapter 15

Ricky was playing video games in bed. Blake entered slowly so as not to startle him. “What you playing?” he asked.

“War Duty. Want to play?”

“Not right now. How long you been up?” The Liverpool FC clock on the wall read 10.35AM.

“I dunno. Couple hours. Everyone else was asleep.”

“How’s your leg?”

Ricky didn’t take his eyes off the television and rhythmically tapped buttons on his controller. “It hurts a bit, but not much. It itches mostly.”

“Let me take a look.” Blake inspected his son’s bandage. The wound underneath was sticky, but it seemed to be healing well. “I’ll be up with some fresh bandages later. You sure you’re alright?” Blake pressed the back of his hand against Ricky’s forehead, checking for a temperature. You could never be too sure.

“I’m fine. How’s Mum?”

“She’s still resting. Wasn’t feeling very well last night.”

“She was drunk.”

Blake didn’t have anything to say to that. Ricky was apparently old enough to know that his mother had been more than just ill. “Did you get the picture frame out of the rubbish?” he decided to ask. The mystery was still bugging him.

“Nope.”

“I’m talking about your picture frame we dug up. I threw it in the rubbish.”

Ricky kept his eyes glued to the television. “Why?”

“Because I don’t like it.”

“Okay.” Ricky shrugged.

“Ricky, will you pause your game and look at me for a moment, please?”

Ricky huffed, but did as he was told.

“I thought you liked the picture frame. Don’t you mind that I tried to throw it away?”

“I guess. It’s just a picture frame, though. Bailey and Grandma are dead, we don’t have a kitchen anymore, and Mum is sad. I don’t care about the stupid frame.”

“That’s pretty grown up. So you don’t mind if I get rid of it?”

“No.”

Blake ruffled his son’s hair. “Okay, then. Let me know when you’re hungry and I’ll…well, I guess I’ll have to go out and get something. Just not pizza, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.”

Blake was just about to leave when Ricky spoke again. “Dad?”

“Yes, son?”

“Is Uncle Steven going to stay for a bit longer?”

“Do you want him to?”

“I think so. He’s family, right?”

“Yeah, he is.”

“Then I want to get to know him.”

“Okay. I’ll be up with a fresh bandage.” Blake closed the door quietly and went to check on Liz. He was surprised to find her awake and sitting at her vanity table. She was naked.

“Liz? Are you okay?” He approached her cautiously from behind.

She didn’t reply. She picked up a brush and started untangling her hair, pulling aggressively at her knots. Blake noticed again how thin she was. Her spine showed through her back.

Blake tried to clear the air. “I’m sorry,” he said, “for a lot of things. I’m sorry I whisked us away to this cottage in the middle of nowhere. I’m sorry…for what I let happen to us…what I let happen to you. You’ve been alone and that’s my fault. I’m not sure there’s even time to make it up to you, but I’d like to start trying. I love you Liz. I’ve never not loved you.”

Liz didn’t reply. She continued yanking at her hair.

“Liz? Liz, will you say something, please?”

Blake placed a hand on Liz’s shoulder. She was freezing. “God, Liz, you’re going to catch your death.” He stepped around in front of her. Her eyelids were closed, flickering like she was in a dream.

“Liz…?”

She continued sitting there, brushing her hair. Liz had never been a sleepwalker, but he was pretty sure that that was what she was doing now. The stress of the last two days, mixed with pills and alcohol, had obviously left her fitful and disturbed.

Blake placed both hands on his wife and gently shook her. “Liz. Liz, wake up. You’re sleepwalking.”

Liz’s eyes snapped open. She looked terrified. She began to squirm, to struggle against Blake’s grasp, but he held her firm. “Liz, it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

She blinked and managed to focus on him. “B-Blake? What’s going on?”

He kept eye-contact with her. “You’ve been sleepwalking. At least, I think you have. You’ve been sitting here fast asleep, brushing your hair.”

She looked at him like he was insane, but she didn’t argue. “Really?”

“Yes, are you okay?”

She shook her head. “There was a fire.”

“You remember? It’s all fine. The damage was contained to the kitchen.”

“How did…?”

“The pizza boxes were on the oven. You fell asleep.”

Liz shook her head adamantly. “I...never.”

Blake clenched his fists and felt his stomach knot. “Liz, we need to have a long conversation about a lot of things, but you need to take some responsibility here. You passed out drunk while our son was upstairs. The fire happened on your watch.”

Liz stood and pushed him away. She seemed unaware she was naked because she placed her hands on her hips angrily. “I did not pass out. I had a nap, that’s all.”

“A nap that nobody on Earth could wake you from. The pills might have had something to do with that.”

Liz took a breath and ground her teeth. “There’s no way.”

“I’m not your enemy here, Liz. I have a lot to answer for too, I know that, but I’ve never been your enemy. You’re in pain, I get it. You’ve been abandoned by your husband and pulled away from your life after something dreadful happened, and now your mother has died. I get it, but you’re drinking way too much and last night you endangered our son. That’s on you.”

“I did no such thing. That’s just your opinion and it’s wrong.”

“Perhaps, but why don’t you go talk to Ricky, because one of the first things he asked me this morning was if you were okay. He knew you were drunk. He saw you passed out, Liz. You may not respect my opinion anymore—hell, I don’t blame you—but take a moment to think about Ricky, because right now we’re both letting him down.

Liz pointed her finger at Blake and went to say something, but nothing came out. She put her finger against her trembling lower lip instead. And then her nose began to bleed. She wiped the trickle with the back of her hand and then looked at the red streak it left behind.

Blake shook his head. He moved up close and cupped his wife’s cheek. “Look at you, Liz. You’re falling apart, physically and emotionally. I love you, and when you’re ready, I want to talk about our marriage. I want to be a better husband, but I can’t do that until you let me.”

Before he left, Blake had one more thing to address. “Liz, I’m sorry for asking this, but did you get Ricky’s picture frame out of the bin? Just nod if you did.”

She didn’t nod. She shook her head.

“Okay, I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready” He left Liz alone in the bedroom and headed downstairs. He found Stevie in the family room. He was sitting on one of the recliners with the picture frame lying across his lap. In his other hand he held a partially blackened, slightly melted aluminium meat tenderiser. “Found it in the kitchen,” he said when Blake walked in. “Thought we could make sure the frame goes away for good this time. Did you find out who got it out of the bin?”

Blake shook his head. “According to Ricky and Liz, neither of them.”

Stevie looked down at the picture frame and pulled a face. “I’m not sure I want this thing on me anymore.”

“Don’t worry,” said Blake. “We’re going to take it outside right now and smash it to pieces.”

Stevie stood with the tenderiser in one hand and the picture frame in the other. “You don’t really believe this thing put itself back on the table, do you?”

“No, I think Liz did it and has forgotten. She wasn’t exactly in her right mind last night.”

“No shit, but go easy on her, man. You can’t get through to a drunk with blame. It’s guilt that got them there in the first place.”

Blake frowned. “What does she have to feel guilty about?”

“She probably feels like she ruined everything by letting Richard Heinz into the house, and not being able to stop him from hurting her. If she’d fought him off, the two of you might not have drifted apart. She probably feels like a victim; and victims blame themselves, trust me.”

“I want you to stick around, Stevie. I don’t think I can sort this out without you.”

Stevie smiled. He patted his brother on the arm. “You can and you will. I’ll stay for a while, but this is your life, big bro. Only you can sort it out.”

They left the house and headed for the field round back. “Shall we do it here?” Stevie pointed to a patch of flattened grass. There’d been a bouncy castle there the summer before. Blake considered how sad it was that Ricky had bounced on it alone all summer.

Blake shrugged. “I don’t care where we do it. Let’s just get it over with.”

Stevie threw the frame down hard on the mud. Once again, the glass remained intact, the smudge still across Val’s smiling face. Stevie offered the meat tenderiser to Blake and he took it. He got down on his knees and raised the makeshift hammer over his shoulder.

“Should we say anything first?” asked Stevie.

Blake frowned. “Like what?”

“I dunno, the Last Rites or something. Whatever exorcists say.”

“How about good riddance?”

“Okay. Good riddance…weird evil picture frame thingy.”

Blake swung and landed a blow perfectly on the glass.

The meat tenderiser rebounded back up at him.

He just managed to flinch away in time to avoid cracking his own skull open. He caught a glancing blow that opened up a slit above his left eyebrow.

The picture frame remained intact.

“Shit!” Stevie reached out to his brother. “You okay, man?”

Blake waved a hand. “I’m fine.” He swung the tenderiser again. It rebounded off the glass without leaving so much as a scratch.

Blood dripped from Blake’s eyebrow, spilling over his smiling face in the photograph. It felt like a warning. He dropped the tenderiser onto the mud and glanced up at his brother, blinking through the steady stream of blood. “I don’t think we’re being paranoid anymore. This thing is unnatural.”

Stevie nodded, eyes wide and unblinking. “This is real, isn’t it? I mean, this thing is evil…or cursed…or, I dunno. Shit, are we crazy?”

“I’m not sure.”

“We need help.”

Blake shook his head in desperation. “From where?”

Stevie shrugged. “Google?”

Chapter 16

“What should I search for?” asked Blake as they sat in front of the iMac in his office. After heading upstairs to give Ricky a new bandage, he and Stevie had decided to do a little research.

“Just type in ‘evil picture frame.’”

Blake rolled his eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m bloody serious. Just type it in.”

Blake typed and then hit ‘enter’. “I can’t believe I just searched that,” he muttered.

Stevie shushed him. “Look, there are loads of results.”

His brother was right, there were thousands of hits, but Blake was disappointed a moment later when he saw most of them were website listings trying to sell stuff. Most of the links were flogging ordinary, mass-produced picture frames.

Stevie tutted. “None of that looks any good. We need to try something else.”

Blake thought for a moment, trying to grasp for something useful. He’d spent countless hours in this office researching criminals and police work, but he never thought he’d be looking for the type of answers he was now. “Ricky found the picture frame buried in the field. Maybe it was put there by the previous owner.”

“Can you get the deeds up?” asked Stevie.

“I don’t know, maybe.”

Blake typed in Poe’s Place, along with the address, and was pleased to find the very first listing concerned his house. The hit read: Poe’s Place, Redlake. Furniture maker found…”

Blake clicked the link and waited for the page to load.

Stevie folded his arms. “What are you, on dial up?”

“Welcome to the countryside. We don’t do anything fast.”

“Except ejaculate,” muttered Stevie.

Blake found himself chuckling, but was quieted by the page that appeared onscreen. It was a scan of an old newspaper article.

Redlake Echo: Local Furniture Maker Hangs Self In Home.

Well-known local furniture maker, Harold Killings (63), was found dead Sunday morning by his niece, Sarah Preston (26). He was found hanged from a light fixture in his parlour, where it is thought he committed suicide. It is currently unknown what motivated Mr Killings to take his own life, but he will be missed by the local community of Redlake, where he owned a small workshop. Daniel Cooper, a baker from the shop next door, described Killings as ‘a quiet yet likable fellow.’

Mr Killings was unmarried and mostly kept to himself. His only surviving relative is the niece who found him, daughter of deceased sister, Gladys Preston. It is unclear at this point who will receive control of Mr Killing’s modest estate, as a will is yet to found, but if one fails to materialise, it is likely that Poe’s Place cottage, the home of the deceased, will go to his niece.

—March 18th, 1955

“A man died in my home,” said Blake.

Stevie sighed. “You probably should’ve looked that up before you moved in.”

Blake sighed also. “As much as it creeps me out, it doesn’t really tell us anything.”

“It’s a start, though. Look up the niece…Sarah Preston.”

Redlake Echo: Inheritor Of Dead Man’s Property Drowns Within Weeks Of Moving In.

Sarah Preston (26), niece of recent suicide victim Harold Killings (63), has been found drowned in the bathtub of her new home after what appears to be a freak accident. Contusions found on the back of Miss Preston’s head suggest a slip in the tub, leading to her striking her head and slipping beneath the water. Her home, Poe’s Place cottage, was built with full indoor plumbing, allowing occupants to enjoy a hot bath any time. Unfortunately, that luxury turned deadly when the unmarried Miss Preston fell unconscious while bathing. It is unknown what will become of the rural cottage now that it has claimed the life of two family members in less than a year, but it may end up on the open market. The question is, who would want to live there?

—November 28th, 1955

“Great, that’s two people who’ve died in my home. I’m not sure I want to look any further. Maybe next I’ll find out about a cult that met here and sacrificed babies.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” said Stevie. “It could just be a bad coincidence.”

“You mean like what’s been happening to my family lately? I don’t think I believe in coincidences anymore.”

Stevie nodded. “Good point. Maybe it’s the house that’s cursed.”

“We’ve lived here for three years and been fine. It wasn’t until Ricky dug up the picture frame that our luck changed.”

“Maybe you should look up the reporter.”

Blake sniffed. “Good idea.” He identified the author of the piece as being A.R. Hartley. He entered the name into the search engine along with ‘Redlake Echo.’

They waited for a moment, then Blake flopped back in his chair and grunted. “He died.”

Stevie leant forward and read the information. “Twenty years ago.”

Blake went to X off the screen, dejected and annoyed, but Stevie stopped him. “Hang on a minute.”

“What is it?”

“There’s another article by A.R. Hartley. It’s dated 1991.”

“Must’ve been one of the last stories he wrote before he died. That’s why it’s at the top; it’s the most recent.”

Stevie waved his hand. “Yeah, forget all that. Look at the headline.”

Blake read it aloud. “Reverend Thatcher opens Redlake museum dedicated to town’s bleak and colourful history.”

Stevie patted his brother on the back. “That’s our man, I’m telling you.”

“Yeah,” said Blake. “He just might be.”

Chapter 17

“Should we call first?” asked Stevie. “It’s getting late.”

Blake shook his head. “The website said the museum’s open ‘till eight. We’ll get a better measure of the man if we turn up unexpected. If we call ahead, he might do some research and try to pass himself off as more of an expert than he is.”

“Cynic.”

“I write murder mysteries for a living, I have to see the world that way.”

“Or maybe you write murder mysteries because you already see the world that way.”

“I’m not in the mood to be psychoanalysed.”

Stevie shrugged. “Our hour’s up, anyway.”

Blake grabbed his coat from the entrance hall and checked the pocket for the sackcloth. Once he found it, he slid the picture frame back inside with the bones. He shoved the entire bundle into his brother’s arms and then put on his coat. “Meet me by the car,” he said. “I’m going to check on Ricky and Liz.”

“There’s no need,” said Liz. “We’re both fine.”

Blake found Liz coming down the stairs. She’d freshened up, washed her hair, and even made an effort to leave it down. All in all, she looked a whole lot better.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

Blake was about to explain but then realised he would sound mad, so he lied. “Stevie and I are going to get some food. We can’t exactly cook anything here.”

Liz sighed. “No, right, of course. Can we have a chat first, though?”

Blake cleared his throat. When he saw Stevie nod to him that things could wait, he said, “Okay, shall we go sit in the living room?”

Liz nodded and they headed down the hallway. The open fireplace mocked him with irony. There were two natural fires in Poe’s Place—one in the living room and one in the master bedroom—but it was the modern, recently installed oven that had caught fire.

“Our marriage is finished,” said Liz, just like that. Blake felt like throwing up, but then she continued. “But I want to start a new one. You’re right about my drinking. I knew I had a problem, but I didn’t really care. I felt so alone, so abandoned. I wanted to drink because it made me feel better. I’m sure you, of all people, understand that.”

“I do. I understand completely.”

“Good,” she said. “I was raped, Blake.”

Blake winced.

“I was raped and we lost our baby, but it wasn’t your fault. You were a shitty husband then and you’re a shitty husband now, but it’s not your fault that there’s evil in the world. Heinz could have easily been a nice man, an AIDs worker who cared for sick children in Africa nine months a year, but he wasn’t. He was a violent sex offender. That’s not your fault. I think we both let ourselves become afraid after what happened, and who can blame us? We’ve seen first-hand how wicked the world can be, but we have to stop being afraid, Blake. We have to remind ourselves that evil is a narrow fringe. Most people are good, I truly believe that. I miss people, Blake. I miss the world.”

“I know. I took us all away and—”

“Let me finish.”

Blake shut up.

“I know you’ve been trying to keep us all safe—if I didn’t believe that, I don’t think I’d still be here—and despite everything, I know you’ve always loved me. Behind all the anger and resentment, I still love you too. I want us to give Ricky a happy home, not the one he has now.”

Blake almost gushed. He felt tears begging to come out, and so he let them. “I’m so glad to hear you say that. I’ve failed you both so much for so long. Sometimes I think getting published was the worst thing to ever happen to us.”

“Don’t. Don’t you do that. You’re responsible for your actions, Blake, not anything else.”

“You’re right.”

“And I’m responsible for my behaviour. Last night I let our kitchen burn down and endangered our son. It was a wake-up call. The decision I have to make is whether to love you or leave you, but for Ricky’s sake I’m going to focus on the love I still have for you. I think maybe, if we both change, we can fall in love again. If not, then I want to leave.”

Blake nodded. “I’m ready to fall in love with you again every day.”

“Leave that nonsense for your books,” she said. “Just give me a hug.”

Blake squeezed her so tightly she moaned. Her reply was far limper, but there was intent behind it—a kind of forced affection. It was the first true connection they’d had in years. It made Blake more determined than ever to protect his family, but not by running away. No, he was going to start facing his problems head-on.

“I have to go out,” he said. He didn’t mention where and he hoped she wouldn’t ask.

“Are you dropping Stevie off at the train station?”

“No, he’s staying for a few days.”

Liz sighed, but refrained from anger.

“He’s been clean for a whole year, Liz. It’s the truth.”

Liz raised both eyebrows. “Really? Wow, then I guess he would be a good person to talk to about my own problems.”

Blake grinned. “You mean it?”

“Yes, but if he starts playing up in the slightest…”

“He won’t, but I know what you’re saying.”

“Okay, well I’ll see you both when you get back. I’m going to spend some time with Ricky, if he’ll speak to me.”

“He will. You’re his mother and he loves you.”

Liz smiled wearily and headed upstairs. Blake raced out and met his brother by the car.

“Everything good?” asked Stevie.

Blake nodded. “Better than ever, which is why I need to make absolutely sure my family isn’t in any danger. Come on, let’s go have a chat with this Reverend Thatcher.”

“You best drive,” said Stevie. “I’ve had a drink.”

Blake glared.

“Kidding. I was kidding.”

They hopped into the car and got going.

Chapter 18

By the time they were on the road it was dark and raining. Stevie was staring out the window and smiling, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was more like the smile one wore when thinking of a childhood friend—a happy loss.

“You okay, Stevie?”

“I always loved the rain,” he said. “I don’t want to say anything as cliché as it washes everything clean, but…maybe that’s it.”

Blake thought about it. “I know what you mean, although it’s a bugger when the field floods.”

Stevie chuckled. He had the sackcloth and picture frame on his lap and looked down at it now. “Can you believe we’re doing this?” he said. “We’re heading to see a priest about a curse. Strange way to spend a Monday evening.”

“It’s pretty messed up, and if we end up feeling stupid about the whole thing afterwards, I’ll consider it a good result.”

“Is it wrong to admit I’m kind of enjoying this?” Before Blake could respond, Stevie elaborated. “When I was a little kid I was always heading into the woods or some ruined building to have adventures, and every time I wished my big bro would come with me. The last time we spent time together like this was when Mum and Dad were still alive. I guess I changed after they passed.”

“We both did. We both went down our own dark paths, but we’re okay now. The past is the past. At least it’s going to be, once we get rid of that thing in your lap.”

Stevie huffed. “Yeah.”

Blake stole a quick glance at his brother and saw his eyes flickering with sadness. “What is it, man?”

Stevie coughed into his hand and forced a smile to his lips. “Sorry. It’s just so nice to see you. I get emotional, you know? Especially since I quit the drink.”

“Join the club. I think being overly emotional is something we both get from Dad. He was either flying like a kite or in a puddle of beer and vomit.”

“I loved him, though.”

Blake nodded. “Me too.”

They entered Redlake and passed the abbey beside the lake. The only light came from the moon and a couple of security lamps fixed to the abbey’s walls. Redlake sure did have its sights and history, but Blake wondered if it also had its secrets.

A mile past the lake and they reached the town centre. Redlake’s high street was a modest mix of chain stores and local shops. Blake had never spotted the museum before, but the website’s directions listed it as being next to an OXFAM charity shop.

They parked in front of the town’s Chinese restaurant and Blake switched off the engine. Inside the eatery, idle staff peered through the window expectantly. Blake and Stevie disappointed them by crossing the road and heading in the other direction.

“I see the charity shops ahead,” said Stevie. “I don’t see any museum, though.”

Blake didn’t either. The shop interiors were flooded with shadows and the only lights came from their blinking alarm consoles.

There was a sign on the wall between two of the shops.

Redlake Historical Society: No 9, King Street

TAKE STAIRS

On the left side of the OXFAM store was a set of stone steps which Blake had never noticed before. The alleyway was so narrow that it was hardly surprising he’d missed it.

“Place is pretty hidden, huh?” said Stevie.

“Adds to the charm, I guess. Come on.”

They headed up the steps to a doorway at the top. A handwritten sign above it read: MUSEUM ENTRANCE.

The small atrium inside was lined with black and white photographs of the town throughout various decades. The earliest showed nothing but the abbey and the lake. The town’s charter, along with its motto, was housed inside a glass display case in the centre of the room. ‘Keeping back darkness through light of compassion. Redlake Township, established 1868.’

Blake took a quick look at the charter and learned that Redlake had originally been made of four smaller villages: Shaw, Woodmere Abbey, Craven Hill, and Bodenham.

Stevie touched Blake’s arm lightly and got him moving again. They opened a door to the left side of the atrium and disturbed a wind chime hanging above. It didn’t prompt anybody to appear, though, and Blake and Stevie found themselves alone in a dusty room not much bigger than a double garage. It looked and smelt like a museum. There was the dry, ancient smell of history, coupled with creaky floorboards and scratched furniture.

Stevie wandered around while Blake stayed put, examining an old Saxon axe—or Francisca according to the placard. It’d apparently belonged to a tribal chief, but so much of the iron had worn away that it looked more like a wooden baton than an axe.

“Where’s this Thatcher guy?” asked Stevie. “Does he just leave all this stuff unattended?”

“Who’d want to steal it?”

“Kids’ll take anything if it’s not bolted down.”

“Now who’s the cynic?”

“Hey, look,” said Stevie, his mind already moved on, “a suit of armour. Cool.”

Blake and Stevie crossed to a set of plate mail at the back of the room beside a door marked ‘STAFF ONLY.’ A closed helm sat atop the armour, featuring a pointed visor that gave it the appearance of a duck’s beak.

“How did they move in these things?” asked Blake, examining the thick plates of steel.

The set of armour raised an arm towards Stevie and sent him stumbling backwards, frightened. “It’s not as difficult as you might think,” said a voice from inside the helmet. “The armour has hinges and pivots. While it’s certainly not comfortable by today’s standards, it did the job on the battlefield.” The stranger lifted the visor from the helmet and revealed a pair of grey eyes beneath bushy white eyebrows. The man offered a chainmailed hand. “George Thatcher—no relation. I heard you mention my name. Are you here to see me?”

Blake was at a loss for words. He stared at the old man and found himself quite confused. “I…what…w-what are you doing inside there?”

“Inside of where? Oh, you mean the suit? Well, entire days can go by without a soul coming in here. One has to find ways to amuse oneself.”

Stevie chuckled but was still clutching his chest. “So…you just play around in here all day? Nice gig.”

George Thatcher turned stiffly to face Stevie. The suit of armour squeaked and clonked. “I would much rather this place be busy, but people don’t seem to have much care for the past, tragically.”

“Why bother opening, then?” asked Stevie. “If people aren’t interested, why waste the time?”

Thatcher shook his head slowly, as if deeply disappointed. “I don’t do it for them, I do it for the history. Without someone caring, all these memories just disappear. We owe it to the future to preserve the stories of those who came before, and this town has more history than most.”

“That’s why we’re here,” said Blake.

Thatcher lifted his heavy arm and pointed. “Follow me to my office and we’ll have a chat.”

He clumsily led them through the ‘STAFF ONLY’ door into a small back-office that seemed to be a personal study. There was a blanket over an old rocking chair in the corner and a large crucifix on the rear wall.

“I live in the flat upstairs,” Thatcher explained. “Some nights I don’t make it up there. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a bookworm and some nights I fall asleep at my desk. You must think me strange.”

Blake looked at the old man standing in a full set of armour and decided on honesty. “Yes, I find you very strange. Strange is what led us here, though.”

Thatcher tried to take a seat but found himself unable. “I don’t suppose you gentlemen could help me out of this, could you?”

Blake looked at his brother and frowned, then they both went and helped the old man out of the plate mail. It took a good fifteen minutes.

When Thatcher was finally free, he was sweating and flustered. He was also wearing a cassock and dog collar beneath his bony chin.

“Are you still a priest?” Blake asked him.

Thatcher finally managed to take a seat at his desk. “Reverend. I was Church of England, not Catholic. Not quite as grand but just as good.”

“So you work for the church?” asked Stevie.

“No, not anymore, but I still consider myself a man of God. The cassock reassures people of my intentions. I may not be part of the church anymore, but I am still very much willing to give spiritual guidance and aid to those who need it. I’m still a minister, regardless. It’s not something you give up when you leave the pulpit.”

“Why did you leave?” asked Blake.

Thatcher laced his slender fingers together and leant on his pointed elbows. “Don’t get me wrong, I love the church, but I found it a little too focused on the minutiae. There’s more to God than Jesus and the Bible. Organised religions are often guilty of missing the bigger picture. I serve God in my own way. A church makes no more or less of a man; it is his mind and his actions that interest the Lord.”

Blake always thought of himself as a ‘respectful atheist.’ As much as non-believers liked to mock those with faith, thrusting arguments of science and common-sense at them, the truth was that no one knew for sure. The real truth was that no one would know until they were dead, and by then the time for arguing would be over. By that same token, those with belief had no right to condemn those without.

“Now,” said Thatcher, “what can I help you gentlemen with?”

“I live at Poe’s Place.” There was an almost imperceptible wrinkle that crossed Thatcher’s brow, but the man said nothing, even as Blake waited. “I’ve recently discovered that people have died in my home. I’ve also come into possession of a picture frame that was buried in my field. Since my son dug it up, it’s almost as if…I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but—”

“His family is cursed,” Stevie finished for him. “It sounds crazy, we know, but there has been nothing but shit luck for my brother ever since he dug the ugly thing up.”

Thatcher nodded toward the sackcloth Stevie was holding. “You have it with you, this picture frame?”

Stevie nodded. He placed the sackcloth on the desk. For now, Thatcher left it where it was.

“What’s happened to you?” Thatcher asked Blake.

“What’s happened to me? Where to start…” Blake took a deep breath and then told Thatcher all about the past few days. He finished with the fire in the kitchen. Thatcher remained quiet the whole time, rubbing his hands together and listening intently.

Thatcher nodded as if he understood everything. There was nothing about the man that suggested incredulity of any kind. “You are overwrought by all of this,” he said. “I do not blame you. There are things in this world that are not of God, and that is not just the holy man in me speaking. I have devoted the last twenty years of my life to studying the history and secrets of this town, and of the universe itself. What do you think originally led me to undertake such a task?”

“You’ve encountered something like this before,” guessed Blake.

“A haunted picture frame? No, nothing quite so remarkable. It was the Redlake killings that first shook my faith in the Lord’s ability to protect us.”

Blake frowned. “What do you mean? What killings?”

“This town likes to forget, which is why you’ve probably never heard of it, but in 1993 seven children were found drowned in Woodmere Lake beside the abbey. There were no signs of a struggle and no tracks. The children were all from different families and from different parts of town. Somehow, they each left their beds in the middle of the night and converged upon the lake. There, it appears they went into the water willingly and drowned.”

Stevie covered his mouth. “That’s horrible.”

“Indeed it is. My role in the church exposed me to the grief and suffering of those families on an intimate level. I wanted answers as much as they did, but none ever came. It was then that I left the church and devoted myself to finding those answers. In twenty years I have found many, believe me. This town is not like others.”

“What do you mean?” asked Blake.

“It would take the rest of my life to explain what I know, but trust me when I say that this town is a battleground for forces far beyond our understanding.”

Blake was beginning to doubt Thatcher’s sanity. He needed answers that made sense, not self-indulgent ramblings. “I need to know about my house, Poe’s Place, and the picture frame I found.”

Thatcher nodded. “Of course you do. Allow me a minute to find what you need.” The old man got up and went back into the museum area. The door closed behind him.

Blake and Stevie shot each other awkward glances. Coming here had started to feel like a mistake. Thatcher’s ramblings had left Blake feeling silly, and talk about a curse suddenly seemed childish. Had he really believed he was the victim of anything other than plain bad luck?

Stevie leant forward and grabbed a book from Thatcher’s desk. There was a modern plastic cover wrapped around the faded, original one. “Huh,” he said. “Look at this. The translation says it’s called, The Demise of the Countless Lands. Sounds like a comedy.”

Blake rolled his eyes. “Put it back before he returns and attacks you with an antique sword.”

“He’d need a bastard sword to deal with me.” Stevie laughed and continued leafing through the book. “It’s a picture book,” he explained.

Blake took a quick look. While the words were foreign, possibly Arabic scripture, each page had intricately drawn pictures. One page depicted a legion of animals ripping a man apart; a giant ape stood in the background roaring. Another page showed a graveyard full of dead man rising to their feet and devouring the living. Another image featured a giant metal gate giving birth to an army of frightening monsters pouring through it. The detail was grossly intricate.

Stevie ran his fingers over the pages reverently. “Wonder what all the pictures mean.”

“They’re different ways the world has ended,” said Thatcher, appearing in the doorway behind them. There was another large book in his arms.

“Sorry, did you say the ways the world has ended?”

Thatcher sat back at his desk. “Not this world, but others like it, yes. You see, God is not an island. He has many counterparts — siblings, if you will. While he is the greatest power of all, he is not the only one.”

Stevie frowned. “Did you say you’re Church of England?”

“My title was given to me by the Church of England, yes, but my beliefs have progressed since then. You see, once there was only a single Earth: The Garden of Eden, but that soon became the Garden of Evil as God’s counterparts began to steer humankind away from his divine plan. The lesser gods corrupted mankind and almost destroyed it with a great flood.”

“You’re talking about Noah,” said Blake. “Wasn’t that God’s work?”

“It was a god’s work, but not the God. Anyway, that is not your current burden,” he nodded to the picture book in Stevie’s lap. “And nor is that my own book you’re holding. It belongs to the Imam from the Mosque in town.”

Stevie raised an eyebrow. “You borrowed it from an Imam?”

“Yes, religion isn’t a game of football. It’s okay to fraternise with the other team. The Imam is a good man, who also believes there is more to existence than what is written in the Bible or Quran. He leant me that book from his own archives.”

“What did you lend him in return?” asked Blake.

“The complete DVD box set of Fawlty Towers. Now, let us focus on another book.” Thatcher placed the new book on the desk and turned it towards them, already opened. The dark eyes of a stern gentlemen stared up at them from a black and white photograph.

“Who is it?” asked Blake, examining the middle-aged man with jet black hair and an ill-fitting suit to match.

“The man who built your home, of course: Oscar Boruta, an Austrian immigrant who built the cottage in 1926.”

“I had no idea it was that old,” said Blake.

“The cottage you live in is not. The original burned down in 1938 and was rebuilt on the same foundations a few years later by Harold Killings, a carpenter.”

Blake leant forward. “Yes, and he hung himself in the cottage and left it to his niece.”

“Who also died,” added Thatcher.

“Then you know?”

“I know some things, yes. This picture frame you speak of, I know nothing of specifically.”

Blake deflated. “Well, is it the house that’s cursed or the picture frame?”

“From what I understand, Poe’s Place cottage was lived in happily for many years after the death of Miss Preston and only fell into disrepair ten years ago when it was repossessed by the bank to cover the last owner’s debts. It was eventually bought and renovated by a great mystery writer.”

Blake flinched. “You know who I am?”

“Of course. Who doesn’t know the wonderfully talented Blake Price? You’ve dropped off the radar a little recently, though. When is your next book out? I quite enjoyed the last.”

“I don’t know. Can we just focus, please? What’s so important about this Oscar Boruta? I assumed the picture frame belonged to Harold Killings. He was a carpenter, after all.”

Thatcher shrugged. “Perhaps, but I doubt it. Harold Killings made doors and beds, to my recollection, not picture frames and knick knacks. Oscar Boruta is a far more likely culprit. Boruta brought Pagan beliefs to Redlake and many wisely feared him. He ate raw meat and would often go after women like a lust-crazed beast. His body odour was, by all accounts, most foul.

“Nobody knew where all of the man’s money came from, but Boruta would often sell trinkets from a rickety old cart in the centre of town. Despite people’s distrust of the man, his trinkets were beautiful and often very cheap. These were hard, war-torn times, you understand, and people would get a bargain wherever they could. Boruta’s trinkets were all carved from wood and shared a common design.” Thatcher turned the page of the book, and once Blake saw what was inside, he recoiled.

“That’s it!” he said. “That design with the flowers and the flames. It’s the exact same as the carvings on the picture frame.”

Thatcher smiled. He then finally removed the picture frame from the sackcloth. Sure enough, the flames and flowers were the exact same as in the book. “I thought that might be the case. I just wanted to take an educated guess first, so that you would trust me all the more. Speaking of matters such as these with a stranger is not easy, I know.”

Blake was still staring at the design in the book and hardly listening. “What is this book? How do you have it?”

“It is an heirloom,” said Thatcher, “passed down through generations, though not necessarily via family. It was given to me by a very old man in 1988, a reporter named Andrew Robert Hartley. It was given to his father by one of the last remaining monks at the abbey before it was decommissioned and eventually turned into a museum. There are men and women protecting this town, gentlemen. I am proud to be one of them.”

“What does the pattern mean?” asked Blake. “The flowers, the flames?”

“It represents scorched earth,” said Thatcher. “The flowers represent life, the flames represent destruction. This same design was carved on every single trinket that Boruta sold to the people of Redlake. He worshipped destruction and that is exactly what he sold to the innocent people of this town.”

Stevie shifted in his seat. “How?”

“The trinkets he sold were all cursed, or so my precursor, Mr Heartily, explains in his accounting of it in this book. He was a man of thirty in those days, but the book before you was passed on by his father, who’d raised Andrew to believe in the unnatural. By day, A.R. Hartley was a sceptical news reporter, but by night he was a demonologist and theologian. He believed that Boruta was an agent of the lesser gods.”

Blake was beginning to feel silly again, but he fought to play along. “So these trinkets, how do you know they were cursed?”

“All who possessed them came to ill end. The local butcher purchased a mop bucket from Boruta and slipped on soapy water the very next day, breaking his neck. The local headmistress bought a stepladder that sent her tumbling onto a lit stove as she sought to change a light bulb in her kitchen. There are dozens of such accounts of people meeting their ends soon after purchasing something from Boruta.”

“So what happened?” asked Stevie, perched on the edge of his seat.

“In 1928, the townspeople, led by Andrew Robert Hartley, came together and decided that Boruta was evil, a warlock or demon. They descended upon the man’s home, Poe’s Place, and ransacked it. They found no workshop there, where the man might have created his wares, but they did find the trinkets themselves. They set fire to all of them, and to the cottage itself. Then they found Boruta outside in the field. The man did not run when he saw the baying crowd coming towards him, nor did he fight with the shovel he was holding at the time. As the people of Redlake beat Oscar Boruta to death on his own land, he simply smiled. So they smashed his teeth out with rocks before caving in his skull and burning his body outside his home. Reports say Boruta spoke only a single word during the entire affair. Eligos.”

Blake frowned. “Eligos?”

“Eligos is one of the lesser gods. One who seeks to break down God’s barriers and destroy mankind. He is a tarnished knight, dedicated to the triumph of evil over good. As I said, Andrew Robert Hartley suspected Boruta was an agent of evil, a corrupter; either a man turned wicked or something else from the realm of Heaven itself.”

Stevie frowned. “Heaven? I thought it was a good place.”

“Heaven is a place like any other. It has many inhabitants both good and bad, regions and nations, each with their own leaders and agendas. Whether heavenly or not, Boruta was intent on bringing the town of Redlake to its knees, and he almost succeeded. However, the people of this town know about the things that go bump in the night. They tell their children bedtime stories with just a little bit more flourish than everywhere else. Redlake is one of the battlegrounds where the existence of this Earth will be fought. You made the unfortunate error of moving here.”

Blake had heard enough. One minute he was completely enamoured by Thatcher’s words, the next he felt like a fool. The grander the man’s proselytising the more unbelievable it was. “Okay, I have to get home. The picture frame is evil, I get it. Unless you have some way of helping me, this is getting us nowhere. I need to be at home with my family.”

“I don’t know that I can help you, Mr Price. I’m sorry. You have placed a photograph of your beautiful family inside and one member is already dead, correct? I’m also assuming that you cannot remove the photograph or destroy the frame?”

Blake nodded. “That’s right.”

“The same was true of Boruta’s other trinkets. No one who purchased one lived long enough to see their next birthday. Your family is in peril, but I don’t know a sure way to help you. I fear you are doomed.”

Blake lost his balance for a moment, but Stevie caught him and turned a wicked glance towards Thatcher. “That’s bullshit. What’s the point of devoting your life to this crap if you can’t do anything to help people?”

“I will help as I can. I will keep the picture frame here and ensure it does no further damage.”

Stevie huffed. “But in the meantime, my brother will just have to die? Screw that!” He lunged forward and shoved the picture frame back into the sackcloth, before scooping the whole bundle up into his arms. “We’re taking this back with us and we’ll find a way to destroy it ourselves. Then I’m going to come back and make you eat the bloody thing.”

Thatcher nodded. “I will prepare my appetite.”

Chapter 19

Stevie was chewing on the side of his cheek and shaking his head. He was obviously furious, but Blake only felt numb. All his hopes had been on Thatcher knowing a way to help him, or at the very least having him dismiss the notion of a curse. Instead, Thatcher had confirmed Blake’s fears and then made them even worse. There was no help, no way to destroy Boruta’s frame.

“Thatcher’s insane,” said Stevie. “I mean, all that talk about this town being a battleground for the end of the world… There’s a Nandos over there on the corner. Are we really supposed to believe that the staging ground for the apocalypse will take place in a town with a Nandos? Insanity!”

Blake shook his head and sighed. “I didn’t believe any of that either, but I did believe what he said about the picture frame. The thing is cursed. We’ve tried to destroy it, we’ve tried to remove the photograph. My family’s cursed, Stevie, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“I won’t accept that. Fuck that.”

“Stevie…”

“No, I’m not going to start believing in curses any more than I’m going to believe in the Beast of Bodmin or UFOs. It’s all bullshit.”

Blake looked at his brother and didn’t know what to say.

Stevie breathed deeply, trying to calm down. “Look, it’ll be okay, we’ll figure this out. All that’s actually happened is that your dog got run over and Val died of a heart attack. Well, newsflash: dogs get run over and old ladies die of heart attacks. This is simple paranoia, and I’m sorry I got involved in making it worse.”

Blake patted his brother on the arm. “Come on,” he said. “We should grab dinner from the Chinese and get home. Liz and Ricky will be starving.”

Stevie frowned at him. “Seriously?”

“We’ve still got to eat.”

They headed back towards the car and placed an order with the appreciative staff of the Chinese restaurant. They ordered a coke from the bar while they waited, then took a seat on the bench beside the window. Blake was silent, trying to digest what he’d learnt from the eccentric museum owner. Thatcher was unhinged, certainly, but he’d also provided evidence to support his madness in the way of books and documents. Just because Thatcher was crazy, didn’t mean that he was wrong.

Blake watched a van drive past as he sipped his coke, and wondered if it was the one that’d struck Bailey. There’d be no way of knowing.

He took a careful sip from his drink. If he’d been paying more attention, he may have taken a larger gulp. It was a good thing he didn’t. He lurched forward. Blood spluttered from his mouth and stained the carpet.

Stevie leapt up. “Blake! Shit, man.”

Blake put a hand up to say everything was okay—although he wasn’t entirely sure that it was. He reached into his mouth and plucked out a jagged piece of glass. It’d sliced the side of his mouth, but thank God he hadn’t swallowed it. He held the shard in front of him and examined it while spitting out more blood.

The owner of the restaurant came rushing over and saw what Blake held in his hand. “Oh no, I am sorry.” He hurried to get a rag from the bar and handed it to Blake. “I’m very sorry. Please, food is ready. No charge. Oh no. Oh no oh no.”

Another time and Blake might have been fuming at such deadly negligence, but he suspected this wasn’t the restaurant owner’s fault. “There was part of a broken bulb in my drink,” Blake informed him. “Do you know how it got there?”

The owner chewed at his nails erratically before saying, “Light blow above bar ten minute ago. Light blow.”

Blake wiped his bloody lips with his sleeve and then patted the owner on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault, okay?” The real culprit was a man long dead, Oscar Boruta.

The restaurant owner had gone completely white and handed over their food with a pained grin. “I am very sorry, sir.” He said it over and over again, seeming to find it impossible that Blake wasn’t screaming about a lawsuit.

Stevie took the food and the two of them returned to the car. Once they were inside, Blake turned to his brother. “Still think it’s bullshit? If I’d swallowed that glass I would have choked on my own blood.”

“But you didn’t. It was an almost accident, so how does that count?”

Blake started the engine. “I don’t know. Maybe the picture frame can manipulate events to try and kill me, but can’t guarantee it. Maybe it’ll keep trying until it succeeds.”

“Let it try,” said Stevie. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Where were you with the glass in my drink, then?”

“I wasn’t expecting anything then, but if you won’t relax, I’m going to have to humour you. I’ll watch your back if it makes you feel safer.”

“It doesn’t,” said Blake, “but I appreciate it anyway.”

They headed back home in silence, Blake concentrating hard on the road, expecting a fox to fly out in front of him at every bend. At one point, a mini cooper seemed to veer towards Blake’s Citroen, but it corrected itself at the last second. Blake wondered if the curse had made the driver lose focus for a moment. Another failed attempt, or another coincidence? Suddenly it felt like danger lurked everywhere.

Stevie cleared his throat. “When we get back, we should go back on the Internet. We can look up this Boruta guy. At least Thatcher gave us a couple of leads to follow. Maybe we’ll find the answer ourselves.”

Blake agreed. “Don’t see any harm in looking. Better than sitting around waiting for the ceiling to come down.”

“So, there’s really no doubt in your mind that you’re cursed?”

Blake reached the B-road and brought down his speed, ready to turn into the driveway coming up. “I want to do an experiment. Depending on the outcome, I’ll make my final decision as to what I believe. As of right now, I’m almost certain that digging up that old picture frame was the worst thing that ever happened to my family.”

Blake pulled onto the driveway and stopped a few feet shorter than he usually would. He pulled on the handbrake and put the car in neutral. Then he nodded to the sackcloth in his brother’s lap. “Place it under the front tyre.”

“You’re going to roll over it?”

“Yes.”

Stevie got out and disappeared for a moment as he knelt in front of the bonnet. Then he stood out of the way and gave Blake a thumbs up.

Blake shifted into first and released the handbrake. The car rolled forwards. Blake felt the frame go under the front left wheel, but there was no cracking or tinkling of glass. He let the car continue rolling forward until he felt the back wheel travel over the frame as well. Then he pulled up the handbrake and turned off the engine.

Stevie was already hurrying to pick up the sackcloth, seemingly excited about what they would find. Blake joined him beneath the light of the cottage’s security lamp.

“You ready?” asked Stevie.

“Just get it out and show me.”

“That’s what she said.”

Stevie reached into the sackcloth and grabbed the frame, then, like a magician about to reveal a trick, he slid the frame out.

It was unbroken and without a scratch.

“Half-a-ton rolling over it, and nothing,” said Blake. “The thing is made of wood and glass.”

Stevie’s neck bulged like he was going to be sick. “Okay, okay, maybe I’m not just humouring you anymore. We’re really in the shit here, aren’t we, big bro?”

“No,” said Blake. “Just me, Liz, and Ricky. You’re not in danger.”

“Dad?”

Blake and Stevie turned around to see Ricky limping towards them. His leg was still bandaged, the cloth grubby and wet.

“Ricky? What are you doing out here in your pyjamas?”

“It’s Mum,” he said. “She’s not very well. I think she needs a doctor.”

Blake picked his shivering son up in his arms and headed into the house. “Where is she?”

“In the lounge.”

Blake hurried towards the lounge, and when he stepped inside he once again heard the familiar buzzing.

Blake put Ricky down and shoved him back towards Stevie. He swatted at the flies irritably, but his focus was on Liz. She was lying on the sofa in front of the crackling fireplace. Her breathing was laboured and her eyes were tightly closed. A sheen of sweat coated her forehead and she’d gone the colour of unripe olives, pale green. Despite the fire burning only five-feet away, she was ice cold when he touched her. Flies buzzed everywhere, settling on her skin. Blake cleared them as best he could. “Liz? Liz, wake up.”

Nothing. She was so deeply unconscious that she could be mistaken for comatose. Perhaps she was. Blake asked Stevie for his phone. Stevie handed it over immediately and Blake dialled 999.

“Emergency. Which service?”

“Ambulance. I need an ambulance.”

There was a click followed by another operator speaking. “Ambulance Service. What is your emergency?”

“My wife is sick. She’s really sick. She won’t wake up and she’s pale. I need an ambulance.”

There was an echo on the line, followed by a crackle.

“Are you sure?”

“What? Yes, I’m sure. Send me a goddamn ambulance.”

“Sir, are you making this up?” The voice was terse, almost a shout.

Blake almost dropped the phone. He stared at it for a moment before putting it back to his ear and shouting. “My wife is in critical need of medical assistance. Send a fucking ambulance right now! My address is—”

“I know your address, Mr Price. Poe’s Place.”

Blake didn’t have time to wonder how the woman knew the information; he supposed the network’s computers had brought it up. “Will you send an ambulance?”

“No, Mr Price. No help is coming.”

The line went dead.

Blake immediately redialled, then tried the alternative number, 112, but the line remained silent each time.

“Is help coming?” asked Stevie, Ricky beside him.

Blake stared at the mobile phone and shook his head. Scrolling across the display was one word, which he showed to his brother: ELIGOS. “No, Stevie” he said. “I don’t think help is coming.”

A minute later, Liz woke up coughing. Her nose started to bleed again. Blake held a towel to her face until she fell back into unconsciousness. A man from the nineteen-twenties was killing his wife. Oscar Boruta might have been dead, but his evil was still very much alive.

Chapter 20

Blake left Ricky with Stevie and headed into the family room. He tried the landline on the bar, but it was also dead. He’d have to get Liz in the car and drive her to the hospital in Redlake himself. She needed help and he was going to get it for her, curse be damned.

He stomped outside and headed over to the Citroen, intending to back it up closer to the house. When he made it over to the car he kicked the bodywork in frustration.

All four tyres were torn to shreds. The rubber was ringed with what looked like teeth marks. There was no way a fox could bite through four tyres in only a matter of minutes, but it’d happened. He wouldn’t be driving Liz anywhere.

A light in the distance caught Blake’s attention: a vehicle coming down the B-road. It was still a hundred metres away, but quickly getting close. Blake got moving, hurrying up the driveway as fast he could. In the dark, it was hard to be sure-footed and he almost rolled his ankle twice, but he kept on going. He kept on going until he was only a dozen feet from the side of the road.

He hadn’t seen the fox leap out from the bushes. The animal lunged at Blake from behind, catching the tender flesh at the back of his thigh. He yelled out in agony and stumbled.

The incoming car got closer, only fifty metres away.

Blake kicked out at the snarling fox, catching it under the chin. It tumbled backwards, but leapt at Blake again. It made it as high as Blake’s neck, but he blocked it with his arms, clutching the fox around the haunches. The force knocked Blake backwards and he fell with the snapping beast on top of him.

The incoming car was about to pass the house. Blake needed to flag it down now, to get help for Liz.

Blake rolled and twisted. He was six feet from the road, but lying in the gravel he may as well have been invisible. He tried to bring his knees up beneath the fox, to kick it away, but he couldn’t bend that way. One of his fingers slipped into the animal’s mouth and was immediately clamped between its teeth. The pain made Blake snarl. He tightened his grip and rolled sideways, dragging the fox onto its side. As the animal tried to right itself, Blake did something he thought he’d never do: he snapped its neck.

The fox went limp.

Huffing and puffing, Blake looked at the dead animal with sadness, but no regret.

He heard the growl of an engine and leapt to his feet. “Hey,” he shouted, waving his arms. “Hey! I need help. Stop. Please.”

The car went by without so much as slowing, quickly fading away into the distance.

Blake yelled in fury and almost lost control of himself, but he forced himself to take a deep, long breath. He managed to calm himself, but the feeling didn’t last as he heard more growling. This time the noise wasn’t from a distant car engine or a single fox.

Poe’s Place was surrounded by dozens of foxes. Their eyes shone in the darkness like fireflies hovering above a lake. They studied Blake, their bodies hunched and ready to pounce.

Blake took a slow step towards the B-road. The foxes snarled and came at him.

He stopped and so did the foxes.

Blake took a step towards the house and the foxes moved away, making no attempt to attack him. He took three more steps and the foxes retreated further, their stares still fixed on Blake but their snarls coming a little less. Eventually the foxes all but melted into the shadows, allowing Blake to return home.

One thing was clear: anyone trying to leave Poe’s Place would be ripped apart.

Chapter 21

Blake limped back into the lounge where he found his brother swatting at the few remaining flies with a rolled up newspaper. The window was open and the cold night whistled in. Ricky was wrapped in a blanket on one of the sofas, eating Chinese food and watching a DVD. Liz was still asleep on the opposite sofa.

“I got most of them out,” said Stevie. “Don’t know where they all came from, though.”

“They’re not the first,” said Blake, his tone icy. “There was a swarm in the family room night before last, right before Liz got sick.”

Stevie put down the rolled up newspaper and pulled the window closed. He spoke in a hushed tone, so as not to let Ricky hear. “We need to get her out of here, man. Is the car ready?”

“The car’s not going anywhere.” Stevie waited for an explanation, so Blake sighed and gave one. “There’s a pack of foxes outside. They tore the tyres to pieces and attacked me when I tried to make a break for the road.”

Stevie scratched his head. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m fucking serious. Why would I lie? Liz needs help, but I can’t get any for her. I damn near got ripped apart out there.”

“I tried my phone while you were gone,” said Stevie. “I couldn’t get any signal.”

“I already told you the phones aren’t working. Did you think I was lying?”

“Of course not. I’m just trying to get help for Liz. What’s wrong with you?”

“She’s my wife. Don’t you think I’m doing all I can?”

“Sounds to me like you’re giving up.”

Blake stomped towards his brother with clenched fists. He felt himself losing control.

Stevie backed away, but didn’t look afraid, so much as he did concerned. “Blake, what are you doing, man?” He motioned towards Ricky, who was watching them both from the corner of his eye.

Blake stopped himself and shook his head. “Damnit, I’m sorry. I’m losing it. I’m not giving up, I just don’t know what to do. We can’t call out and we can’t leave. There’re two dozen foxes outside, waiting to rip apart anyone who tries to go for help.”

Stevie was frowning.

“I’m telling you, Stevie. You don’t believe me, go ahead and try to make it out to the road. Go get help.”

“Hey, no, I believe you, Blake. I’ve witnessed nearly as much as you have. I know something is very wrong here. So what do you want to do?”

Blake flapped his arms. “I don’t know, get wasted?”

Stevie didn’t laugh. His expression was stern and once again he seemed like the older brother. “Big bro, that’s not going to help right now, believe me. Don’t think I wouldn’t join you in a second, but we have Liz and Ricky to think about. We need to keep them safe. You have a beautiful family, man—something I envy. You need to fight for them. You need to protect them.”

Blake nodded. “You’re right. Damnit, I know you’re right. I need to man up.”

Stevie raised his fist and shook it encouragingly. “So what do you want to do? What would the hero in one of your books do?”

“Not stop until he found a solution. We’re going to keep watch and figure this out. We can all stay in here, together. Liz is sleeping and Ricky can watch DVD’s until he’s out too. You and I do not leave their sides.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“We still need to figure this thing out. We need to find out more about Boruta and his godforsaken picture frame.”

Stevie grinned. “Google?”

Blake nodded. “My laptop’s in the family room, beneath the bar. Get it for me?”

Stevie obliged. He came back two minutes later with the laptop and plug, as well as the picture frame and sackcloth. “Didn’t want to let it out of our sights,” he explained.

The two sofas were taken, so they set up over by the doorway, on the floor. Blake checked on Liz, but still couldn’t wake her.

“Is she going to be okay?” asked Ricky. He was rubbing at his bandages. Blake didn’t like the look of the wound, but there was no way to get his son a doctor any more than there was Liz. The best use of his time was trying to find a way to destroy the picture frame. “She’s going to be fine, buddy. She’s just got real bad flu and needs to sleep it off.”

“Why are we all staying in here together?”

“So we can be together. Your mum is better off if we don’t disturb her, and your uncle Stevie wants to spend time with us. When we’ve finished working, we’ll come watch a DVD with you.”

Ricky narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but went back to watching TV without further questioning. Blake grabbed the remaining cartons of Chinese food and brought them over to his brother.

“Mind there’s no glass in it,” said Stevie as he booted up the laptop.

Blake went to laugh, but realised it wasn’t a joke and checked the cartons. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he shovelled in a few mouthfuls of Singapore fried rice, before wiping his hands on his shirt and sitting up against the wall beside his brother.

Stevie brought up a search page, but before he typed anything, Blake had a suggestion. “Maybe you should send Cindi an email so she doesn’t worry.”

“She won’t be worried.”

“Of course she will. She’s your wife.”

Stevie smoothed his fingers over the keypad but didn’t press anything. “I don’t think marriage vows mean all that much to her, big bro.”

“What d’you mean?”

Stevie sighed and seemed to battle with something internally. After a moment’s hesitation, he closed the lid on the laptop and looked at Blake. “She’s been sleeping with her boss—douchebag who owns the bar where she works.”

Blake groaned. “Jesus, man. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. Guess an alcoholic letting his wife work at a bar is an accident waiting to happen, huh? Her boss doesn’t have to worry about me dropping in unexpectedly because I avoid the place like the plague.”

“Guess we both have curses on us. That’s why you came here to see me, isn’t it? You should’ve said.”

“You have enough problems of your own. I’m not sure how long it’s been going on, but Cindi and I started drifting apart about a year ago. She’s still a party girl, you know? She likes to have a good time, but her good time involves lots of alcohol. All of a sudden we didn’t like the same things anymore. She goes out to party and I stay home. Guess it was just a matter of time.”

“She could’ve supported you,” said Blake. “Maybe it’s time she grew up, too.”

A tear spilled from Stevie’s eye and he wiped it away immediately. “I caught her on the phone to him one night. I’d gone to bed, but came down in the middle of the night to get a glass of milk. I had heartburn—years of drinking does that.”

Blake nodded.

“Anyway, I overhead their dirty talk and confronted her right then. She didn’t even put the phone down, man. She carried on talking to the douchebag and was actually mad at me, like I’d invaded her privacy or something. Can you believe that? Next day she ordered me out of the house, said I was no fun anymore and that she didn’t love me. I finally get my life in order and I’m still the bad guy. Ain’t irony a bitch?”

“Certainly is. I always wanted to be a famous writer, then it happened and it made my life a thousand times harder. Sometimes success brings its own set of challenges. You’re a good guy, Stevie. I think Cindi married a different guy, a worse guy. You should be proud of that. You’ve changed for the better, but she hasn’t and if she’s incapable then you should move on to better things and never look back.”

“But I love her, man. I really fucking love her.”

Ricky flinched on the sofa, obviously having heard the curse word.

Stevie looked at Blake and winced. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. He’s heard worse from his mother.”

“Huh, I’ll bet. She’s going to be okay, man. We won’t let anything happen to her.”

Blake smiled. His brother’s focus and strength were contagious. Stevie really had become a new man, a better man. “You sure you’re not just humouring me about all this curse stuff until the men in white coats get here?”

“Hey, I called ‘em,” said Stevie, “but they said they didn’t deal with crazy as bad as yours.”

They both chuckled and it felt good, a brief release.

Stevie opened the laptop again. “Let’s get our research on.”

“Type in ‘Oscar Boruta.’”

Stevie typed and hit enter. Immediately, they were met by the same black and white photograph Thatcher had shown them at the museum.

Blake grunted. “That’s him.”

Stevie clicked the first link that wasn’t an ad for Insurance. SERVANTS OF ELIGOS was the title at the top of the page.

Boruta wasn’t the only man featured. There were six others, including two women. Along with Boruta, they were collectively titled: THE 9 SERVANTS OF THE LUNAR KNIGHT. There was a seal at the top of the page, made up of a serpent coiled around a lance. Then came a list of the nine individuals. Each of them looked as stern and humourless as Boruta did—the women even more so. There were no dates or backgrounds for the nine servants, only brief aggrandising statements of their deeds.

One of the female servants, Edith Culsu, had long grey hair and dark, bulbous eyes. She held a pair of scissors against her breast and beneath her name was a single line: Beholde thy gates shall fall, and with them, thy crooked Lord. So sayeth the 6th, breaker of walls.

Blake nudged his brother. “What does it say about Boruta?”

Stevie scrolled down to the passage beneath the photograph of Boruta. It read: Thy craven flesh of man shall boil. So sayeth the 9th, master of wood and beast. Martyred 1928, soon to return.

Stevie huffed. “Martyred. Put down like the animal he was, more like.”

“This tells us nothing.” Blake grunted. “Just some weirdo setting up a website for a bunch of historical lunatics.”

“Nine lunatics,” said Stevie.

“We need to search something else.”

“Okay.” Stevie typed something else: ‘how to break a curse.’ He clicked the first link that came up. It seemed like a website dedicated to witchcraft and magic, juvenile in its black pages and purple fonts. At the top was the picture of a chubby teenager named ‘Amy the Maid.’

“This is just some kid’s site,” said Blake.

Stevie shushed him. “No, wait. Look here.” He pointed at the first line of text on the page and began reading aloud. “The only way to break a curse is to use its own rules against it. For example, you could—”

The laptop screen split across the middle, spitting out sparks. The lights in the room flickered and went off, along with the television. Outside, a streak of lightning split the sky and the heavens opened with the rumble of thunder.

Ricky shot up from the sofa and whimpered.

Blake got up and went to his son. “It’s okay, Ricky. It’s just a storm arriving. You know how temperamental the electrics are in this place.”

But Ricky didn’t buy it. “Something bad’s going on, isn’t it? Is it to do with the picture frame? You said you were going to get rid of it, but Uncle Stevie has it.”

Blake sighed. There was no point lying, not if Ricky was in danger. Better he know the risks. “We think it made your mother sick. We need to look after her until she’s better. In the meantime, it’s getting late, so perhaps you should get comfy on the sofa and go to sleep.”

“Can I play a game for a while? The batteries in my Nintendo should last a couple hours and I’m not tired yet.”

“Okay, but you stay here and I’ll go get it for you. Where is it?”

“In the family room. I left it on the table by the recliners.”

“Okay, Uncle Stevie and I will go get it, but I don’t want you leaving this room, okay?”

Ricky nodded and climbed beneath the blanket on the sofa.

“You think it’s okay leaving them alone?” asked Stevie as they left the room.

“It’s only going to be for a minute,” said Blake. “I need to get some candles from the hallway and I don’t want to walk around alone. This thing is trying to kill me, too.”

Stevie nodded. “Good point. Let’s make it quick.”

They hurried into the family room. It was dark, but the moon was full and coming through the rain-drenched windows. Blake quickly instructed Stevie to find Ricky’s games console, but it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Stevie found it sitting on top of the bar instead and, as he shoved it in his pocket, he paused and stared at a line of measuring optics on the wall.

Blake stepped towards his brother. “Stevie?”

Stevie seemed to snap out of a daze. He looked at Blake and smiled glumly. “Being sober isn’t so hard day-to-day when you’re on autopilot, you know? Times like these, though, it gets a shitload harder.”

“I know, but I need you now, Stevie. One of the big things I regret in my life is losing you to alcohol. I finally got you back, so stay with me.”

“I’m right here, brother.”

Blake gathered up the candles and they hurried back to the lounge. Ricky was where they’d left him, and he started playing his game as soon as he got hold of it. Blake realised his son was trying to occupy himself. He knew something was going on, but could do nothing about it—the curse of being a child. Escaping was something Blake and Stevie had done often when they were children, blotting out the sound of their parents fighting by engaging themselves in comic books and board games. Blake had eventually turned to anxiety pills while Stevie had turned to booze. If Ricky’s vice was videogames, things were looking up for the future generation of Prices.

Blake lit the candles then sat beside Liz. He picked up a bottle of water he’d ordered from the Chinese and managed to get her to take a few sips. She murmured weakly but never opened her eyes. There was a bloody crust beneath each nostril. Eventually, Blake couldn’t bear looking at her and rejoined his brother on the floor.

“Power-cut really did a number on your laptop,” said Stevie. “Hope there was nothing important on there.”

“It’s all backed up. Besides, I think it’s only the screen that’s broken.”

“Seems like shit luck to me. We finally find a website with some solid advice and the power goes off.”

“We both know luck has nothing to do with it.”

“So we just sit here and wait?” asked Stevie.

“At least until morning. Maybe then we can try to get help. Maybe the foxes will be gone during the day.”

“What’s the deal with them, anyway? You said there were two dozen that attacked you?”

“At least. They must’ve come from miles around.”

Stevie scratched at the scruffy stubble on his chin. “That weird dedication site said something about Boruta being the master of wood and beast. Maybe his spirit, or whatever, is leading them here.”

“But why and how? The man is dead. How could he be doing anything like that?”

Stevie shrugged. “Maybe the photo frame is tied to him. Thatcher said they found Boruta with a shovel in his hand. You dug the picture frame up. He must’ve buried it the day he died.”

“He knew they were coming,” said Blake.

“Yeah, so maybe he worked some freaky-deaky on the frame. Maybe it’s a way for him to return. Maybe once the curse does its work, it’ll bring him back.”

Blake saw a flaw. “The first picture we put in it was of Bailey and she died. Isn’t that job done?”

“Bailey was a dog. Maybe only people count.”

Blake shook his head. “We’re straying into crazy territory again here and I can’t operate there. All I know is that this picture frame is evil and we need to find a way to destroy it, or get my family’s photograph out.”

Stevie raised an eyebrow and gave Blake a lopsided grin. “Maybe we can swap it for another one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Amy the Maid said we have to play by the curse’s own rules. It wants to kill somebody, but maybe it doesn’t care who.”

“So we should try to put a different picture in? Of whom?”

“I have an idea.” Stevie’s eyes were watery and heavy bags yanked his lids to show the blood vessels in his whites. Blake understood then how much his brother was suffering. He really did love Cindi, and he really had got sober.

Stevie pulled out his wallet and held it over the laptop. He removed the picture of the suited gentleman and the posh car Blake had spotted yesterday. “Took it on my phone the day before I came here,” he said. “My first inclination was to visit the old dive I used to drink at and ask a favour from a few of my more unsavoury former drinking associates—the photograph was so they would get the right guy. I decided against it in the end, but not completely, which is why I kept the photograph.”

Blake spoke in a soft whisper that he hoped convey the love he felt for his brother. “Violence won’t solve the problem. If your marriage is broken, it would’ve just been some other guy, if not him.”

Stevie nodded. “Maybe—but a decent guy would’ve said no to a married woman, wouldn’t he? Like I said, this guy is a douchebag, and I’d rather see him die than my big brother or my nephew.” Stevie grabbed the picture frame out of the sackcloth and started forcing the photograph of his wife’s lover against the top edge where the glass met the wood. After a moment he started to grind his teeth with frustration. He had a tear in his eye, and when he looked at Blake he seemed deflated. “Sorry, man. I really thought it would—”

“It’s for the best,” said Blake. “We can’t pass the curse on to someone else. It’s wrong.”

There was a tearing sound and Stevie flinched back against the wall, dropping the picture frame onto his lap. The photograph of his wife’s lover was missing from his hand and he looked around for it. Blake quickly spotted it.

Stevie picked the frame up off his lap. As he did so, something fluttered out from the bottom. It was part of Blake’s family photograph, a piece torn away and released from the frame. Blake picked it up and saw that it was the part of the photograph that featured Ricky. His son was no longer inside the picture frame. Instead, nestled between Liz and Val, was Cindi’s lover. The new picture had folded at the edges so that it didn’t cover anymore of the original photograph than just Ricky. It now looked like a family snapshot of Blake, Liz, a stranger, and Val.

Stevie looked at Blake with a conflicted grin on his face. “I think we just saved Ricky.”

Blake nodded. Inside he almost melted with relief, but he couldn’t help thinking, but at what price?

Chapter 22

Blake woke with the dawn. It was still raining heavily but the moonlight had been usurped by the sun and the droplets on the window now sparkled all the colours of the rainbow. It wasn’t the dawn that woke Blake, however, but an electronic chirping.

Stevie stirred next to him, then shot up into a sitting position. He patted himself down as the electronic chirping continued. He managed to locate his phone in his jean pocket. When he looked at it his eyes went wide.

He tapped at the screen before placing the handset to his ear. “Cindi? Are you okay? I’m glad to hear—

“What? No, I…

“That isn’t…I…

“Cindi, I don’t know anything about that. I don’t, I swear. I’m sorry. Look, don’t do anything stupid. I’m coming home. No, I don’t care. It’s my home too and I’m coming to see you. Cindi? Cindi, are you there?” Stevie pulled the phone from his ear and looked at it like it was going to explode.

Blake nudged him. “What’s happened?”

Stevie looked around in a daze until he indicated that he would like to leave the room to talk in private. Blake got up and straightened his legs, wincing as his knees cracked, then followed his brother into the hallway where they spoke in hushed whispers. It was clear that Stevie was frantic about something.

“He’s dead. He’s fucking dead.”

Blake folded his arms and felt himself shiver against the cold. “Who is?”

“The hell you think? The guy that Cindi was seeing. His name was David, and he’s dead.”

Blake suddenly remembered what they’d done last night. They’d replaced the image of Ricky with a photograph Stevie had taken of his wife’s lover. “No…it can’t be.”

“Of course it can! This is exactly what we expected. He’s dead because of me.”

“I thought that was what you wanted.”

“Are you kidding me? I was upset and angry. I didn’t want to kill the guy. I didn’t even expect it to work. I was just…I don’t know. I was just hurting, you know, didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Seemed like you did to me.”

Stevie gritted his teeth, but said nothing.

Blake was unsure how he felt about it. Had they really killed a man? Was the consequence that Ricky was safe? If it was, Blake couldn’t help feeling relieved.

“I need to leave,” said Stevie.

“What about us?” asked Blake, knowing it was selfish, but too worried to act otherwise. “We haven’t destroyed the picture frame yet.”

Stevie shook his head. “I showed you how to save your family. You just have to become a murderer like me.”

“You’re not a murderer.”

“Really? David was stabbed to death in a multi-storey car park before the attacker drove away in his car. Cindi was with him when it happened. They’d been out to dinner. She just called me, certain I had something to do with it. She thinks I got my old friends at the bar to murder him, just like I’d originally planned to. Fuck, maybe I did and I’ve lost my mind and forgotten about it.”

“You’re not crazy,” said Blake. “Neither of us are.”

“I don’t know, Blake. I feel pretty crazy. Cindi sounded off her head—on drink, on drugs, I don’t know. I need to go home. I need to make her understand and make sure she’s okay.”

“You’re going to tell her about the picture frame?”

“Yes. I need her to understand that I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t really want to kill David. She needs to know how much I still love her.”

If Stevie told his wife about the picture frame, she’d have him committed, if not arrested for admitting that he had something to do with the murder, supernatural or otherwise. Part of Blake couldn’t believe Stevie was running back to the woman who’d cheated on him and was currently grieving for the man she’d done it with, but when he thought about how much he loved Liz, he understood. “Okay,” he said. “You should go, but if those foxes are still out there…”

“Let them come. I’m walking down this driveway and not even God himself, the supreme lord of whatever screwed up Heaven is up there, will stop me.”

Stevie shoved past Blake so hard that Blake wondered if his brother was mad at him. He’d dragged Stevie into his problems when he’d obviously had enough of his own. Blake just hoped all of this didn’t drive Stevie back to the false friendship of booze.

Or to a jail cell.

Blake followed his brother through the house until they were standing at the front door. Stevie had his mobile phone in his hand and was frowning at it. “Still no signal,” he said. “I don’t get it. How did Cindi get through to me?”

Blake shrugged. He had no answer.

The driveway outside seemed clear, with only the wounded Citroen in view. The rain fell like gunfire on the gravel, exploding like tiny mortar shells as it hit the ground. The sky was dark, but the sun was fighting its way through the clouds valiantly. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

“Looks safe out there,” said Blake. “Aside from the weather.”

“Yep.” Stevie spoke in a flat, emotionless voice as he put on his coat. “You going to be okay here on your own, Blake?”

“I…don’t know.”

“I got family of my own, you know? I have to go.”

Blake hated to see his brother leave, but he understood. Maybe they were responsible for killing a man. Did that make them as evil as Boruta? “Just do what you got to do,” said Blake, “but please send help.”

Stevie nodded. “You can count on it.”

Blake disarmed the alarm and unlocked the front door. He remained standing on the doorstep whilst his brother stepped into the rain. Stevie made it ten feet before the snarling foxes appeared from the bushes.

Blake waved his arms. “Quick! Get back in the house.”

Stevie turned around, already soaked through and wet hair spilling into his eyes. “I can’t,” he said. “Cindi needs me every bit as much as Liz needs you.”

Blake had no reply, so he just nodded.

The foxes emerged from the bushes and padded onto the waterlogged driveway. They snarled at Stevie but made no attempt to attack him. He headed towards the road, taking each step tentatively.

The foxes remained where they were.

Stevie glanced back at Blake but kept on walking. Blake wanted his brother to return, but was afraid to shout out and say so, lest he startle the foxes into attacking.

Stevie took several more steps. The foxes took a couple of cautious steps in his direction, their eyes boring into him, but they kept their distance.

Blake held his breath.

Stevie disappeared around the front of the cottage, towards the road.

Blake waited for the foxes to give chase, but instead they slunk back into the bushes. He heard no screams from his brother, nor any sound of struggle. Stevie must have made it to the road safely. Blake missed him already.

Thunder rumbled loud enough to shake the house.

Chapter 23

Ricky’s leg had stopped festering and was well on its way to healing. Blake wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that Stevie had managed to replace Ricky’s picture in the photograph with the man who’d died last night. He was almost positive it did.

Liz, on the other hand, was getting worse. Her skin was pale, but her eyelids had turned almost black. Her lips cracked and bled, while her nose gushed blood periodically. Blake knew his brother would send for help, but it might not do any good. The reason for Liz’s sickness wasn’t part of modern medicine.

“Is she going to die?” asked Ricky.

Blake chewed at the flesh inside his cheek. His son wanted an answer he didn’t know how to give. “I’m going to do everything I can to not let that happen.”

“She needs a doctor.”

“I know she does, son. Your uncle went to find one.”

“I wish I’d never found that picture frame. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I think it is. I’m going to find a way to destroy it and then everything will be back to normal.”

“Maybe we should bury it back where we found it.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, but there was no certainty that burying the frame would do any good, and that was if they could even reach the field without encountering the foxes. “It’s not safe to go outside, Ricky,” said Blake.

“Because of the foxes?”

“You know about them?”

Ricky nodded. “I’ve seen them out the windows, sneaking about. They’re everywhere. I think they want the picture frame.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because they’re surrounding the house.”

“Maybe you’re right, but they might be here to keep us trapped inside. We can’t trust the foxes. They’re bad.”

Ricky sighed. “My game batteries are dead. I have nothing to do now.”

Blake had an idea. He picked up a candle from the windowsill. “Come with me.”

He led his son upstairs, into the master bedroom. Usually Ricky wasn’t allowed in—it was Blake and Liz’s private space—but he looked around now reverently.

Blake went over to the bed and knelt beside it. He felt beneath the wooden frame until his hand knocked against what he was searching for. He set the heavy case down on the bed and lifted the lid.

Ricky stared curiously. “What are they?”

“They’re my Beano and Dandy comics. Stevie and I used to collect them when we were kids. They used to be in black and white, but eventually they were all in colour. They have all kinds of characters: Dennis the Menace, Desperate Dan, Korky the Cat, Ivy the Terrible, the Bash Street Kids. Stevie and I used to stay up late reading them together and laughing. I was planning to give them to you one day, but…well, I guess kids don’t really like comic strips anymore.”

Ricky shook his head. “No, they’re really cool. I can have them?”

Blake placed the box in his son’s arms. “There’s another three boxes in the garage, but these are all my favourites. Yours now.”

Ricky was grinning from ear to ear. “Wow, thanks Dad. Is it okay if I read them in my room?”

Blake was about to object, not wanting to let his son out of his sight, but when he considered the curse on Ricky was apparently broken, he saw no reason to argue. “Okay, but if you head anyplace else, you let me know, okay? You’ll have to take a candle with you.”

Ricky nodded, then raced across the landing with his box of comics. Blake hoped he enjoyed them as much as he had. Blake’s own love of story-telling started with a 1979 Beano Book he’d received on his ninth birthday, the best present his dad ever bought him. Maybe Ricky would end up being a writer too, if not the footballer he currently dreamed of being.

Blake was more determined than ever to watch his son grow up. Stevie had shown him there was hope—ways to break the curse. Blake could save himself and Liz if he found two other people to take their place. He would need a photograph of two substitutes.

But who? Who could Blake willingly kill to save his own skin? Could he commit murder, which was what it would amount to? If the picture frame made its kill quota, would that mean the reappearance of Boruta?

While Blake mulled over the ramifications, he went to check on Liz. She hadn’t stirred all morning and her breathing was getting shallower. She looked like a corpse, and Blake longed for her to wake up so he could tell her what she meant to him. Before she’d been struck by this mysterious malady, they’d finally turned a corner in their marriage. Would they ever get that opportunity now?

Blake bent down and kissed Liz on the forehead. It left an ashen taste on his lips. “I’m going to save you,” he told her. “Then I’m going to make you fall in love with me all over again and not let you down.”

Before Blake left, he picked up the sackcloth and picture frame from the floor. He wouldn’t feel safe leaving it unattended. Then he headed to the study. At first Blake didn’t know what he wanted, but once he was standing inside his creative sanctuary, his brain shifted up a gear. The power was off, so there would be no way to print a picture of Putin or Piers Morgan, so Blake would have to find something already in his home.

It came to him in an instant, and it was perfect.

A few years ago, Blake had written a thriller novel about a criminal profiler at Scotland Yard. During his initial research for the character, he’d studied and catalogued hundreds of serial killers, including many still alive. Blake dove into his filing cabinet and started leafing through the contents. A bulging manila folder contained all of his research for The Knife Edge and he dumped it onto the desk now. The assorted printouts brought back grim memories. Looking into the life and crimes of sadistic killers had been a disturbing and lonely process. By the time Blake had finished writing the book, his view of humanity was tainted and he realised that even adults never truly lost their naivety of what the world’s underbelly was really like. He’d wondered how much of himself he’d sacrificed to being a writer, and whether it was too much.

Blake spread out the contents of the folder and searched through the various documents. Many were photos he’d printed from the net or scanned from other books—the wicked scowls of men like Ted Bundy, Fred West, Richard Ramirez, Albert Fish, and Jeffrey Dahmer—but those killers were all dead. Blake needed someone alive, so he kept searching until he’d gathered a small pile of still-living sociopaths: Dennis Rader, the BTK Killer; Gary Ridgeway, The Green River Killer; Rose West; Karla Homolka; Peter Sutcliffe; Russell Williams; and Ian Brady. All evil, living predators.

Blake found a certain poetic justice in choosing the two he felt were most violent to women. They would die to save Liz. Blake chose Gary Ridgeway, killer of up to ninety people, mostly prostitutes, and Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. Few men deserved to die as much as he did.

Blake placed the sackcloth on top of the files and slid the picture frame free. His eyes immediately fell on the man who’d been stabbed to death last night—David. Stevie had killed Cindi’s lover with only a candid snapshot. The world was a different place than it had been a week ago.

Blake held the photographs of Rader and Sutcliffe and inspected them. He wanted to double-check there was no one else in the picture who would be harmed, but each was a mug shot taken upon their initial arrests. The classic image of a serial killer.

“Well, Mr Rader, Mr Sutcliffe, may you burn in Hell and have your crimes haunt you forever, but I thank you for giving your lives for my wife and me.”

Blake lined the printed photographs up with the frame and started to slide them beneath the glass. The slit was narrow and it was no easy task. Each time he tried to slide the mug shots down, they crumpled at the bottom and refused to go in. Blake got more and more frustrated as he fought with the frame, trying to get the glass to part with the wood. He even switched to photographs of other killers, seeing if they’d work instead, but it was no use. Whatever Stevie had managed to do last night, Blake could not replicate. It made no sense.

Blake might have broken down weeping then, if not for the doorbell ringing. He flinched and dropped the photographs, leaving them to spill back onto the pile on his desk.

The doorbell rang again.

Stevie had got help like he promised, thought Blake. He raced down the hall to the front door and sure enough there was someone standing outside in the rain. The downpour hitting the windowpane made it impossible to identify the stranger, but when Blake opened the door, he was surprised by who it was. He’d expected a paramedic or a police officer, but instead…

“Thatcher? What are you doing here?”

“Your brother swung by on his way to the train station. He said you needed help.”

“I needed help last night, but you didn’t have any.”

“Well,” said Thatcher, “that was before your brother told me what happened to his wife’s lover. Your son, Ricky. He is safe now, yes? I’m here to get him to safety.”

Chapter 24

Blake took Thatcher into the living room to see Liz. When the old man saw the state of her, he covered his mouth. “Dear Lord. She doesn’t have long left, I fear.”

“How could this happen?” asked Blake. “How could a stupid picture frame make Liz so sick?”

Thatcher took a seat on the vacant sofa and leant forward onto his knees. “Most curses cannot be so bold as to act directly on a person. They must instead conspire to create bad luck that will eventually lead to the victim’s ruin or death. It is easier for evil to manipulate than to control. The evil does not wish to make itself known directly, lest it be extinguished. Forgive me for saying, Mr Price, but I can only assume that your wife was in a compromised state of mind when she succumbed to this illness. Was she depressed or mentally ill?”

Blake didn’t get angry, there was no point. “She was…unhappy, drinking a lot—too much.”

Thatcher nodded knowingly. “A Bishop I once knew used to say that booze was the devil’s strongest tool. He might’ve been right on that account. Your wife’s diminished mental faculties allowed Boruta’s evil to invade her. She is dying from within, tainted by the evil inside of her.”

“How do I save her?”

Thatcher shook his head. “Your brother told me that you passed the curse from your son to a man. That man is now dead?”

Blake nodded. “It was late last night, right after we changed the picture.”

Thatcher laced his fingers together. “Interesting. From what I understand about curses, once unleashed they are a force of nature, no different to heat or velocity. They cannot be stopped or extinguished, only transferred or converted. Last night I believe that is exactly what happened. Your brother killed a man to save your son. While murder is inherently wrong, I would’ve been most saddened to see your young boy die. The situation is not ideal, but it is perhaps bordering on ethical. I just hope that this man was as immoral as your brother described him.”

“I don’t know,” said Blake. “To be honest, I don’t care. I only care that Ricky’s safe. He is safe, right?”

“I believe so, yes. That is why I am here, to take him away from this place. Your brother told me that accidents are beginning to converge upon you and that wild beasts surround the house.”

“Foxes.”

“Yes, foxes. Those bones you said you found with the picture frame, I believe they belonged to a fox. Boruta had some degree of dominion over beasts, it appears. When he buried the frame, he must have bound a fox’s spirit to it. The foxes surrounding this house are the bloodline descendants of that original fox—several generations. They are all bound to protect the frame and see that its work is done.”

“Will the curse bring Boruta back?”

“I do not know, but if that is the case, we are powerless to stop it. I will be here, to oppose whatever may come.”

Blake shook his head in disgust. “You’re not here to help me, are you? You’re not going to help Liz?”

“The truth is that nobody can help your wife. Her soul is sick and no doctor in the world could help her. I am here because your son is in danger. The curse cannot act on you directly, so it will seek to bring about your peril. There can often be collateral damage in such things. Ricky is no longer cursed. He should be free to leave, as was your brother.”

“That’s why the foxes attacked me and not him?”

Thatcher nodded. “The picture frame seeks only those who are within its grasp, or threaten it directly.”

“You have to help me!” Blake realised he was yelling. “You’re a man of God.”

“Yes, I most certainly am, but I cannot break a curse that cannot be broken.”

“But you can help me pass it on. Please, come with me.” Blake led Thatcher to the study and showed him the photos of Rader and the other murderers. “These men are evil. I’ve been trying to get them inside the picture frame, to take the place of Liz and me, but—”

“But you cannot. I know.” Thatcher picked up the photograph of Rader and examined it. “You cannot transfer the curse because you are the subject of it. Your brother was able to save your son because the picture frame has no power over him, but you cannot uncurse yourself. Believe me, evil does not make things easy for good men.”

“You can do it,” said Blake. “You can swap the photos for me.”

Thatcher bore into him with his steely-grey eyes. “I will not.”

“Why? These men are all evil. They deserve to die.”

“That is for God to decide.”

“God isn’t here. How can anything be his decision?”

Thatcher looked wounded. “I will not commit murder, regardless of the intended victim. Blood tarnishes a man’s soul irreparably and one day we will all be judged.”

Blake felt like spitting in the man’s face. “Then you condemn me and my wife to death.”

“A death with a clean conscience is a valuable commodity, Mr Price. The universe is in turmoil, but I believe we still go somewhere after we die and that our final destination will mirror the lives we lead. If I pre-meditatively help you kill a man, no matter how deserving, I would fear for my soul. You should also consider your final actions, for they may condemn you. The way to save yourself is not by taking the life of another. I will not help you with it.”

“Then get the hell out of my house. You came all this way to once again give me nothing. You act like you’re this servant of good, but you’re totally benign. You study the lives of others and do nothing yourself. If you were a character in one of my books, I could cut you without changing the plot in the slightest.”

“Not all of us are meant to be heroes, Mr Price. Some of us are just here to take notes so that future generations don’t forget.”

Blake shook his head. He had nothing to say to this old man who thought he was a modern day Homer. “You need to go now, Mr Thatcher.”

“Do you not see that your son is in danger? The cottage could burn down, or Boruta himself might appear. Do you want Ricky here if that happens?”

Blake wavered. What if something did happen to him while Ricky was watching? Would he ever get the image out of his young mind? Would he be collateral damage, as Thatcher suggested? What if Boruta’s return was real? Would he hurt Ricky?

“I don’t know you,” said Blake, thrusting a pointing finger at Thatcher, “and I sure as hell don’t trust you.”

“But I am all you have. Let me take your boy to my museum. Your brother left me his number. I will call him the moment we arrive. My car is parked out on the road.”

Blake stamped. “There must be something I can do.”

“Perhaps,” said Thatcher, “but if there isn’t, the only thing you can do is get your son away from here. Your brother killed a man to save him. Don’t let that be in vain. I am an old man, Mr Price. If your son were in any danger with me, he would no doubt be able to escape with the greatest of ease.”

Blake thought about how athletic his son was and how frail Thatcher looked. “I swear to God, if you hurt him—”

Thatcher smiled glumly. “There is little point swearing to God, but I understand your threat and I take it seriously. Now, get your son before it is too late. That thunderstorm outside begins and ends at your property.”

Blake watched the sheets of rain falling down the windows for a second and then turned to Thatcher. “What?”

“The sun is shining in the town of Redlake only two miles away. The rain is over Poe’s Place and Poe’s Place alone. I believe the evil in this place has corrupted the very air itself.”

Blake went to get Ricky. Five minutes later they were all standing in the hallway, helping Ricky into his coat. “Now,” said Blake. “Mr Thatcher here is going to take you to his museum. You know it’s not safe here, don’t you?”

Ricky nodded. “I want to stay and help you and Mum.”

“You can’t. It’s too dangerous. The best thing you can do right now is go with Mr Thatcher so I know that you’re safe. I know you’re worried, but I need to figure this out on my own, okay? Uncle Stevie will come and get you the first chance he gets.”

Ricky didn’t look happy about it, but he nodded. Thatcher patted the boy on his back, which made Blake flinch with uncertainty.

Thatcher seemed to sense his doubt. “He’ll be fine, Mr Price, I promise. If I find anything to help you and your wife, I will come back. That, I also promise.”

Blake nodded and opened the front door. The rain flew in sideways and hammered his face. The air felt thick in his nostrils and thunder rumbled overhead, warning him to stay inside.

Ricky stepped out, followed by Thatcher. Despite the danger of doing so, Blake went with them. The foxes peered out from the waterlogged bushes.

“Please, Mr Price, you must go back inside.”

“I’m walking you up the drive. If these foxes want to come at me, then let them. I’m not going anywhere until I know Ricky is safely out of here.”

“Mr Price, please.”

Ricky pulled away from Thatcher and crept towards the bushes. The foxes snarled at him from the shadows.

“Ricky, get back here,” shouted Blake.

Ricky turned back and nodded, but before he did, he pointed at one of the foxes. “You hurt my Mum and Dad and I’ll be back with the men in red coats to hunt you all down.”

Thatcher gathered Ricky back to his side and the two of them started up the driveway towards an old mini metro parked at the side of the road. “If I can find a way to help you, Mr Price, I will be back. Just try to hold on until—”

There was a sudden crack, like the snap of a whip. The gloomy day lit up for a split second with blinding white light. Sparks and flames filled the air as lightning struck the oak trees overhanging the driveway.

“Ricky!” Blake ran towards his son, but was headed off by the foxes springing from their hiding spaces.

The treetops ignited.

A large oak branch came loose and fell onto the driveway. Thatcher shoved Ricky aside, where he fell and skidded face-down on the wet gravel. Screaming, Blake managed to leap on top of his son and shield him.

The tree limb came down on Thatcher. Hearing the old man’s screams was a terror in itself, but Blake was more concerned by the foxes immediately converging on the wounded reverend.

“Get back,” Blake shouted at the animals while still covering his son. “Get back!”

Thatcher bellowed in agony. The heavy tree limb lay across his legs, pinning him to the driveway.

The foxes snapped and snarled. Blake sprung to his feet and kicked out at them, trying to keep them back. Thatcher was losing consciousness, his cries of agony quickly becoming incoherent whimpers. He reached out to Blake but didn’t seem to understand who he was.

Blake fought foxes off on all sides, kicking and shouting at them, but there were too many. Thatcher could not move and Blake was already growing tired. He kicked out again but rolled his ankle. He yelped in pain and fell to one knee. The foxes surrounded him.

“Hey, I warned you.” Ricky suddenly clobbered one of the foxes with a flying kick. The stunned animal hit the ground and rolled a full turn, yowling in pain. Another fox tried to circle behind Ricky, but received a hefty boot to the muzzle for its efforts. Several more foxes tried to attack, but none even came close. Eventually they all backed away, snarling.

“Get up, Dad.” Ricky helped Blake to his feet.

“We need to get him inside,” said Blake, pointing to Thatcher. He and Ricky grabbed a hold on the tree limb and frantically tried to shift it. They pushed their whole bodies against it. Thatcher regained consciousness and yelled with renewed agony.

Blake grunted with effort. “Ricky…when I say go, I want you…to pull Thatcher’s legs out.”

Ricky nodded.

Blake leant against the limb and took some deep breaths. Then: “One…two…three—naaagh.”

The tree limb began to move. Thatcher screamed louder. Then his legs came free and he whimpered with relief. Ricky dragged him aside.

The foxes were coming back, regrouped and refocused.

“Ricky, help me get him in the house.”

They grabbed Thatcher beneath the arms and dragged him towards the house. The puddles underfoot sucked at their feet with every step and Blake’s twisted ankle was already swelling. The foxes closed in on them, forming an impenetrable wall.

However, they did not attack. They wanted Blake back inside the house, and that’s where he was headed.

The question on his mind was: why hadn’t they let Thatch leave?

Chapter 25

They got Thatcher inside the house and dragged him into the family room, dumping him on one of the recliners. Blake inspected the damage to his legs and winced. The left shinbone was sticking out through Thatcher’s trousers and there was a lot of blood.

Ricky looked like he was going to faint. Blake patted him on the shoulder and looked at him. “You did good. If you hadn’t fought the foxes off…”

“They don’t want me,” said Ricky. “They want you and Thatcher.”

Blake nodded. The foxes had seemed to want Thatcher, but they’d wanted nothing to do with Ricky. The tree limb had been intended for Thatcher and Thatcher alone.

The thunder outside boomed and charcoal clouds drifted in front of the sun. The world grew dark.

“Ricky, get some candles from the hallway and light them. There should be some matches under the bar.”

Ricky looked relieved to have a reason to get away from Thatcher’s sickening wound and got moving immediately.

Thatcher started to murmur. He shivered and whimpered every few seconds, as the pain continued to wrack him, but he managed to talk. “You…you have to push down on it.”

Blake frowned. “Push down on it?”

“The…the bone. It’ll restrict my blood flow if you don’t set it back in place.”

Blake looked at the jutting bone and didn’t think he was able to do what he was being asked.

“Trust me,” said Thatcher. “I was an Army Chaplain for nine years. You need to push down on it. Just do it quick, with both hands.”

Blake swallowed a lump in his throat. He let both of his palms hover over the jutting shin bone and closed his eyes. His breathing was rushed and shallow; he was beginning to panic.

“Come on, Price.” Thatcher let out a pained growl. “You write about murder for a living, so this should be child’s play. Just…just think of it as research for all the books you’re going to write after this is all over.”

Blake pushed down hard with both palms like he was pressing a buzzer in some bizarre quiz show. An anguished moan escaped his lips, like he was the one in pain.

Thatcher yelled so loudly that his face bulged and went red. Just when it seemed he was going to burst a blood vessel, he fell unconscious.

Ricky returned with the candles and quickly lit some of them. His face was grazed and bleeding, but he didn’t complain. “Is he okay, Dad?”

“Yeah, he just passed out.” Blake took one of the candles and held it over Thatcher’s leg. The shin bone was no longer sticking out and the bleeding had stopped. The old man was so out of it that he’d started snoring.

“Stay here with him,” Blake instructed Ricky. “I’m going to go check on your mum.”

Liz was still on the living room sofa in front of the fire. Blake threw another log into the flames to keep them going.

“Blake?”

Blake spun around in shock. Liz was awake. “Liz? Are you okay?” He could see that she wasn’t. Her eyes were bloody and her hair was falling away in clumps. She looked like a zombie.

“I don’t feel well,” she said.

“I know you don’t, honey. You need to rest.” Blake knelt on the floor and passed Liz the bottle of water. She drank from it thirstily and when she had finished she gasped. “Thank you. Is Ricky okay?”

“Ricky’s fine. He’s…playing. Do you remember anything?”

“Just that we were going to talk, sort things out.”

Blake leant forward and gave his wife a kiss on her cold, sweaty forehead. “Everything’s going to be just fine,” he told her. “We’ll talk about everything once you’re better. I’m going to start looking after you more, I promise. No more hiding away.”

“And I’m going to stick to water from now on.” Liz managed a chuckle. Blake laughed too. He was glad Liz still had a sense of humour, despite how bad she looked. Maybe there was still time to help her.

Liz leapt to her feet and stood awkwardly, like a marionette with a broken string. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she vomited blood down her chest.

“Jesus!” Blake grabbed Liz by the shoulders and tried to ease her back onto the sofa, but she resisted firmly.

“Jesus can’t help you.” Liz spoke in a serpentine hiss that wasn’t her own. “The Lord and his sycophants are doomed and this world will fall. Eligos is coming.”

Blake snarled. “Boruta.”

Liz stared at Blake malevolently, a crooked smile across her bloody face. “Your death will be my beginning. Your tomb will be my birthplace.”

“We’ll see about that. I’m going to find a way to stop you, send you to Hell where you belong.”

“Humanity. Is. Hell.”

Liz seized, her body flailing. Blake grabbed her and felt the strength leave her body. He managed to get her back on the sofa safely and waited for the seizure to pass. Once it had, Liz fell into a deep sleep. Thatcher had said Boruta’s evil was inside of her, making her ill. What just happened proved it. Boruta’s spirit had come back to Poe’s Place and it was hollowing Liz from the inside out. Soon there would be nothing left of her.

The idea crossed Blake’s mind that Ricky might be able to change the picture inside the frame. He was no longer cursed by it and thus no longer under its control. Yet, the thought of Ricky committing murder was unpalatable, especially with what Thatcher had suggested it would do to his eternal soul.

A light appeared at the back of the room. “Ricky? How’s Thatcher doing?”

“Asleep. His leg looks better, but he’s soaking wet and shivering. I don’t think we can move him. Did I hear Mum talking?”

“No, just me. Come on, let’s find some blankets to keep warm. We’ll carry your mother into the family room where we can all stay together. It’s going to be a long night, but we’re going to get through it together.”

“We’ll be okay, dad. This is our home.”

Blake nodded. “Yes, it is.”

Chapter 26

Everyone was asleep except for Blake. Thatcher had remained unconscious and so had Liz. Ricky scratched at the healing wound on his ankle for a while and then succumbed to slumber, too.

Blake’s watch said it was 3AM, but it was hard to tell for sure. The windows of the family room had been dark since late afternoon and the only time they lit up was whenever lightning split the darkness. The rain had gotten so fierce that it felt like the house was under siege. Blake wondered what it had been like when the people of Redlake converged on Poe’s Place eighty years ago to kill Boruta. The evil man hadn’t cowered inside, he’d strolled into the field to bury a picture frame that would eventually be dug up by a young boy generations later. Maybe Boruta had never feared his death; perhaps he always knew he would be back one day.

It was about two hours later when Liz went into a coma. It started with a seizure. Ricky snapped awake and helped keep her steady. Once it passed, Liz went completely still, her breathing irregular. Blake tried everything he could to get her to respond, but she was completely un-responsive, even when he placed her palm over one of the lit candles. Her body was limp, her pupils were fixed—Blake knew the signs from his research. He was as sure as he could be that Liz wasn’t going to wake up. She’d passed into a coma and would die in her sleep.

Ricky retreated to the corner of the room and sat in darkness, sobbing quietly into his arms. Thatcher stirred briefly to drink some water, but was gone again soon after. It was at that point that Blake went behind the bar and picked up a bottle of Scotch. He poured himself two fingers and held the slightly warm glass in his hands.

He wanted to down the contents and follow it with ten more. His life was over. Liz would be dead soon and so would he. Ricky would be an orphan, placed into the care of an unreliable uncle. Stevie had come a long way in just a year, but alcoholics had a way of taking two steps back after every one forward. Their parents’ death had begun Stevie’s initial downward spiral. Would Blake’s death send him into a new one, not to mention the guilt Stevie held over possibly killing Cindi’s lover? Cindi herself was a train wreck. What kind of mother would she make?

Blake raised the glass to his lips and felt his saliva glands open, but he didn’t drink. Here he was, criticising his brother, and he was about to give in to the same weaknesses. How was Stevie any less a man than he? The only thing that really separated them was good fortune. Blake was a bestselling author, Stevie was not. Were they so different otherwise?

More lightning lit up the sky, giving Blake a brief glimpse of the field outside—the place where this whole nightmare had begun. Boruta’s evil had been buried deep down, but Blake had given his son the means to dig it up.

He snarled, slammed the Scotch down on the bar, and winced as it shattered in his hand. A large gash opened up on his wrist and began to bleed. He quickly grabbed a bar cloth and held it firmly against the wound, hissing at the pain. After a few seconds he took a glance at the injury and was relieved to see he hadn’t nicked an artery, although it had been close. A dark blue vein throbbed only millimetres away from where the glass had sliced. Another attempt by the curse to off him, no doubt.

Thatcher had said the curse could only get at him by manipulating circumstance. ‘Bad luck’ was what he’d called it. Liz had been too weak-minded to resist the curse from taking her over directly, but Blake was apparently strong enough to resist. It was surprising because he’d always felt like the vulnerable one. He was the one who needed pills to cope, who’d rushed them all away to the countryside. Liz had always been the strong one, but he’d forced her to crumble. The great Blake Price had destroyed his wife’s confidence, not Richard Heinz.

Blake had to make this right, but he couldn’t. There was no way, so he decided to go out like a man, without his son having to watch. He slid out from behind the bar and crept across the room. He was glad to see Ricky had fallen back asleep, huddled beneath the side table full of pictures. There was one picture frame that was missing and Blake retrieved it from the office. He plucked it from atop the stack of serial killer mug shots and placed it back inside the sackcloth. When he did so, he noticed that the fox bones were missing—the ones he’d originally mistaken as having belonged to a chicken. Had Stevie taken them? What was their significance, anyway? Were they what bound the foxes to the frame? If the bones were crushed, would the animals leave?

It didn’t matter now. If Stevie had pocketed the bones and forgotten about them, Blake wasn’t going to get them back. He was going to bury the picture frame where they’d originally found it. The hole would still be there, he just needed to fill it in. Perhaps burying it would break the curse? It was the only idea he had, and it was the only way he could think to be proactive. If he died going into the storm, at least he would go out facing Boruta’s evil instead of cowering from it. It was nearing dawn. The sun should have started to rise, but there was only darkness.

Opening the front door was like opening the gates to Hell. The rain fell in vertical rivers. The rhythmic thunder was deafening. The electricity in the air seemed to hum.

The foxes were still out there, their eyes glowing in the shadows.

Blake clutched the sackcloth firmly and stepped out into the maelstrom. The wind buffeted his face so stiffly that it was like being punched. He had to lean forward just to put one foot in front of the other.

A fox came up on Blake’s flank and snapped at him, managing to nip the flesh on his hip. He swung the picture frame like a weapon, knowing it was unbreakable. It cracked against the fox’s skull and sent it scarpering. He was ready for the next fox, too. He swung his foot and connected a kick Ricky would’ve been proud of.

The snarling animals were everywhere, spilling from the bushes and bounding through puddles. Blake’s visibility was so poor that he didn’t see them until they were already lunging from the shadows. He was bitten so hard on his right thigh that he broke into tears. The fox retreated before he could clobber it, and as he staggered, another fox leapt up and tore at his shoulder. He tumbled to his knees, breathless and in pain. When a particularly large beast leapt up and took a chunk from his cheek, he knew it was over. Blake prayed Thatcher was able to get Ricky to safety, and that Liz would pass peacefully and join him in whatever life came next.

He let the picture frame slip from his grasp and into the puddles at his knees. Then he slumped forward onto his hands and enjoyed the cold rain on the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and waited as the foxes surrounded him.

He opened them again as the sky lit up with another burst of lightning. Something exploded overhead. Blake glanced upwards to see the cottage’s roof give way. Bits of thatch and brickwork flew into the air as the chimney imploded. The large chunk of brickwork slipped from its base and tumbled down the roof towards the driveway.

Blake knew the chimney was plummeting right towards him, but he was too broken and battered to move away in time. This was his end. He bowed his head and waited for the last split seconds of his life to be over.

The impact threw him sideways. His mouth filled with water and dirt and he spluttered. There was a weight on his back, but it wasn’t as heavy as the chimney should’ve been, nor had it caved in his skull.

Blake rolled onto his back and wiped the mud from his eyes. He blinked and tried to make out what was happening in the darkness. Someone was standing over him.

“Stevie…?”

“I take it help didn’t arrive, then?”

“No, it didn’t.”

Stevie yanked Blake to his wobbly feet. “I’m getting you back inside, then I’m getting this goddamn curse off of you.”

“You can’t,” said Blake weakly, fighting to stay on his feet.

Stevie kicked at a nearby fox, but it was clear they were going to allow Blake to return to the house. It was where they wanted him. “I wouldn’t be so sure, big bro. I think I know a way.”

Chapter 27

Stevie threw his brother down on the recliner next to Thatcher and shook his head in disgust. “They really did a number on you, man.”

Blake didn’t disagree. His body cried out and every movement hurt. His wet clothes clung to his back and made him shiver. “I…I feel like shit. You should have let me die.”

“You’re not dying and neither is Liz.”

“Dad, what happened?” Ricky’s expression was one of absolute terror. Blake looked at himself in the candlelight and saw that his entire body was leaking blood.

Thatcher was staring in half-awake shock and confusion. “W-what?”

Stevie turned to Thatcher and glared. “You promised me you’d bring help.”

“I…I couldn’t. No one can break the curse. It would’ve been false hope to get the authorities involved. I couldn’t risk Blake telling his story and having the picture frame fall into the wrong hands. I’m here to take it away, to keep it from doing further harm. I know you both think I’m cold, but I’m not. I want to save lives. I want to prepare for the upcoming trials and try to keep back the coming darkness, but I have seen enough to know when a battle can’t be won.”

“I already saved my nephew,” barked Stevie.

“By killing another. You did not break the curse, you just passed it on. That is not God’s way.”

“Who the hell cares?”

“God sees everything and we will all be judged.”

Stevie hissed. “What happened to you, man? You’re willing to let people die rather than risk making your buddy, Christ, mad. Well, screw Christ. I only care about my family, and if that means I’m destined for hell, then I just hope they have weekly AA meetings.”

Blake reached a hand to Ricky who approached cautiously. It hurt to hug his son, but it was worth the pain. “Stevie’s going to take you out of here, Ricky. He came back for you.”

“No, I didn’t. I came back for the frame.”

Blake shook his head in confusion. “What are you talking about? Have you found something out?”

“Cindi’s dead. When I got back she’d taken enough pills to stock a chemist. She was still alive for a while, but in the hospital she just…flatlined.” There were tears in Stevie’s eyes as he spoke but he kept them from falling. “She’d already phoned the police, said I was behind David’s death. They’re probably out looking for me right now. She also wrote a note which said she loved me and that David’s death was as much her fault as mine. She also said I needed to take responsibility for killing a man, or it will eat me up inside. She’s right, but the police will never link me to David’s death because I had nothing to do with the stabbing.”

“You’ll be okay, then,” said Blake. “Just take Ricky out of here. Go.”

“What if the foxes don’t let us leave?” asked Ricky meekly. He’d finally lost his youthful ability to cope and looked terrified.

“Thatcher tried to get Ricky out of here earlier,” said Blake, “but he couldn’t leave.”

“Because I have the fox bones,” said Thatcher. “I took them when you put the sackcloth on my desk at the museum. They are tied to Boruta. I hoped to use them against him if he were to return. When I tried to leave, Boruta’s spirit prevented me. He is strong enough now to sense my intentions. He will not let me leave while the curse is still active.”

Blake was angry at Thatcher’s deception, but there was no time to air grievances. “Once the curse is finished, Boruta will return, right?”

“That is my understanding. He will take the lives of those in the frame to reignite his spirit. The curse must run to its conclusion. Boruta needs the final two deaths.”

“Well, he isn’t getting ‘em,” said Stevie. “A curse can only be dealt with by using its own rules against it. Amy the Maid taught me that.” Stevie raced out of the room without disclosing why.

“Ricky, stay with Mr Thatcher.” Blake had no idea what his brother was up to, but he intended to find out. He got to his feet—wincing in agony—and hobbled across the room. With each step he was able to ignore the pain a little more.

Stevie had headed into the hallway and was now standing by the front door. Before Blake could stop him, Stevie stepped out onto the driveway and headed over to the picture frame, still lying on the gravel where Blake had dropped it.

Thunder grumbled overhead.

“Stevie, what are you doing?”

Stevie stood up and turned around with the picture frame clutched tightly to his chest. “I’m making things right, big bro. Hopefully this will make up for all the years I brought you down. Love you, man. Always have.”

“I love you, too, Stevie. I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

The foxes converged on Stevie, but he made no attempt to fight or flee them. He backed along the driveway, heading for the back of the cottage rather than the road. The foxes followed cautiously, as if they were afraid to attack. The thunder roared so loudly that the very air itself seemed to vibrate.

Then the lightning started.

The first fork struck the trees over the driveway once again, bringing down more branches. The next bolt struck the driveway, sending worm-like sparks along the wet ground.

The third bolt struck Stevie in the centre of his chest. It sent him rigid, stretching him out on his tiptoes. In the blinding white light, Blake saw his brother’s neck muscles bulge and his teeth clamp down on his tongue. The lightning struck for less than a second, but it engulfed Stevie completely.

Blake sprinted through the rain as his brother’s body flopped lifelessly to the ground. “Stevie! Stevie, no!”

Blake didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand how Boruta’s evil had targeted Stevie when Stevie wasn’t cursed. It made no sense. What had his brother been trying to do?

Then he saw the picture frame and it all made sense.

The picture frame lay across Stevie’s chest. The photograph of Blake and Liz had been replaced. A torn photograph from Stevie’s wedding to Cindi now sat inside the frame. Pictures of Stevie and Cindi now covered the area where Blake and Liz had once been. Blake found the two scraps of the original photograph in his brother’s scorched fist. Liz and Blake’s images had been released, their smiling faces finally free from the curse. Stevie had taken the burden on himself.

The thunder boomed again, louder than ever. The foxes howled, not in anger, but in what sounded more like anguish. Blake watched the animals snapping at one another irritably, or running away with their tails between their legs. The rain, too, was retreating and the darkness began to clear as the sun fought its way back through the clouds. The moon slipped away beneath the horizon as the image of a slender grey figure seemed to appear briefly in the mist, before disappearing completely.

Blake looked down at his dead brother and wished he could say goodbye. He could never repay Stevie for what he’d done. He’d said a curse could be dealt with by using its own rules against it, and that was what he’d done. Gradually Blake made sense of what had happened.

The curse required anyone placed inside the picture frame to die, but Cindi was already dead. The curse was broken by its own logic. You couldn’t kill what was already dead, and so the curse could not run to its conclusion. It was simple and obvious, but the great mystery writer, Blake Price, had been stumped by it. It was his no-good brother who had saved the day. If Blake wrote a book with that ending, his editors would be pissed, but Blake kind of liked it. In fact, he liked it a lot. He knelt down over his brother and kissed his forehead. “You’re a fool, Stevie; but you died sober and loved. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for my family.”

Then Blake collapsed on top of his dead brother and sobbed until his throat ached.

Chapter 28

It had been eight days since Steven Price had been struck by lightning and died. Authorities found it difficult to believe, as the weather had been clear that day, but the autopsy categorically confirmed that a lightning strike was the only thing that could have caused the death. The Police had been intrigued as to why local historian, George Thatcher, was present at the scene with two broken legs, but they declined to delve too deeply into the matter. Blake suspected the authorities of Redlake were used to the unexplainable. The town wasn’t like others.

Blake stood with Ricky and Liz at the edge of Stevie’s grave. They each had tears in their eyes, but Blake also wore a slight smile, for he knew how courageous his brother had been in his final acts. They were all standing there because of him.

Blake and Liz had spoken at length about the future, and had decided to sell Poe’s Place in order to buy somewhere closer to town. Liz was going to go back to her career and Blake was going to go back to writing. They were all going to begin again and do what was best for Ricky—they’d come so close to losing him.

For now they all stood together, side by side, and said their goodbyes to a man they loved; a man who had been deeply flawed, yet deeply good. Blake would forever aspire to live up to Stevie’s memory.

The Church of England minister finished The Committal part of the funeral. Solemnly standing beside Stevie’s gravestone, he finished:

“We have entrusted our brother Steven to God’s mercy,
and we now commit his body to be cremated:

earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust:

in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life
through our Lord Jesus Christ,
who will transform our frail bodies
that they may be conformed to his glorious body,
who died, was buried, and rose again for us.

To him be glory for ever.

All

Amen.”

Everyone repeated ‘amen’ but Blake said it loudest. If there was any justice at all, his brother would be somewhere pleasant right now, looking down on them with a mischievous grin.

Blake also hoped that Boruta was burning in whatever Hell he was deserved. The wicked monster had appeared briefly in the mist, but the curse had been broken by then. Blake had felt the man’s sickening presence for only a moment, a supernatural fury flooding the air for a single second. It made Blake realise that evil as a force existed, but by giving into fear he was only letting that evil thrive. Good, happy people were the antidote to evil. Misery led a man down the dark alleyways of anger, envy, and spite. Blake would be sure to wear a smile for whatever was left of his days. His happiness had spread to Liz and Ricky, too, and each of them were now united in their grief, their hope, and their strength.

“You okay?” Liz asked Blake.

“I will be.”

“Want us to give you a minute?”

Blake smiled. “That would be nice. Thanks.”

Liz gave him a peck on the cheek.

Ricky stepped up to the grave. “See ya, Uncle Stevie.” Then he and Liz left Blake alone.

Blake had the sackcloth in his hands, with the bones and picture frame inside. All of the photographs had fallen out and it was now empty; but it was also still dangerous. If someone activated it again, Boruta would get another chance to return. “I’ll never forget what you did, little bro,” he said. “My son is going to grow up with a father, thanks to you. I promise you that Liz and I will do a better job than Mum and Dad did for us. He’ll grow up and make you proud. I’m glad he got to meet you properly before you left us. Truth is that sober you made a better man than I did. It’s not very often a big brother looks up to his kid brother, but I’m going to try to be as good as you were. It should’ve been me sacrificing myself for my family, but it took you to show me how. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for teaching me that. I’m going to miss you.”

Blake wiped his wet eyes with his forearm and then threw the picture frame into the open grave. He went over to a tall pile of dirt nearby and scooped several handfuls down on top of it. Boruta’s evil was going to be buried again, and this time it would stay buried.

Blake went and joined his family. Stevie’s wake was being held beside the Lake. No alcohol would be served, only good food, fun times, and happy memories. Any bad memories could be buried along with Boruta’s picture frame where they could never hurt anybody again.

* * *

“Come on, let’s get this done and dusted.” Ted started shovelling dirt into the grave.

Graeme frowned. “Hold on a sec?”

“Why?”

Graeme stared down into the grave and spotted something. There was a couple handfuls of dirt already on top of the coffin, and it looked like something was partially buried. The corner of something stuck out of the loose soil.

“There’s something down there.” Graeme hopped down into the grave and landed on the coffin with his heavy boots. He felt the lid crack slightly under his weight, but didn’t care. The thing would be underground soon.

“What is it?” Ted asked.

“Hang on.” Graeme reached down and grabbed the corner of some sort of material. When he yanked it free he saw that it was an old sack cloth. What turned out to be inside was a wooden picture frame. “Huh? Wonder why this is in here?”

“Who knows,” said Ted. “Just leave it where it is.

“We’re not supposed to bury things with the coffin. The Rev will want us to hand it in.”

“Let’s have a quick butchers. I may want it for the wife.” Graeme showed his partner the picture but was met with a grimace. “Second thought, you can give it to the Rev. Thing’s uglier than my sister.”

Graeme shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He pulled himself up out of the grave. “Let’s just get this filled in. I’d like to get down the boozer before happy hour ends.”

The two of them quickly filled in the grave and then headed back up the hill towards St Martin’s church with a sweat on. It was getting late, cold and dark; a pint down the boozer would be divine on a night like tonight, Graeme thought. There was no better way to keep the cockles warm. His shoulders had a good ache in them and he deserved to relax. The woman would have to keep his supper warm for a couple hours.

Reverend Todd was standing in the arched doorway of the church, greedily counting the notes and coins in the tithe bowl.

“Hey, Rev. We’re knocking off. The fresh one’s covered and the ground’s clear.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t call them that, Graeme.”

“Sorry, Rev. Anyway, we’re off.”

“Okay, fine. Thank you, both. I’ll see you on Tuesday. Oh, what’s that you have?”

Graeme looked down at the sack in his hands. “Oh, yeah. Someone left this for donation. Can I give it to you?”

“Of course. I’ll put it in the charity box. Thank you.”

Graeme nodded. “Alright, cheers. See you at the next one, Rev.”

“God bless you.”

* * *

“What’s that you have, Jeffrey?”

Reverend Todd turned to his wife and grinned excitedly. “Why, it’s a lovely old picture frame. Look at how finely carved it is. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Martha pulled a face. “Bit ugly if you ask me.”

“Oh, come now, dear. Ugliness is an opinion. Nothing is truly ugly but our sins. I thought it would go wonderfully in my vestry.”

“The church vestry,” corrected Martha.

Jeffrey kissed his wife on the cheek. You’re right. My pride would get the better of me if you weren’t here to keep me humble. Come now, let us find just the right picture to go inside my new frame.”

They headed into the vestry and Jeffrey set the frame down on his desk. Then he opened up one of his drawers and brought out a thick wad of photographs.

“We really should get more of these on display,” said Martha. “We have so many.”

“Too many,” said Jeffrey. “I don’t have the wall space to display every parishioner in town. They just end up taking up space. Some photos are wonderful, though, like…this one, here. That’s it. This is just perfect for the frame.”

“Let’s see?” said Martha.

Jeffrey handed her a photograph of the current church choir, twenty-six people from ages eight to eighty. It was a wonderful photo to look at during the long hours studying in his vestry. He loved his choir, having assembled it himself. Jeffrey was in the foreground, leading his angels in divine worship of Christ through song.

Jeffrey had a big grin on his face as he slid the photograph behind the glass. “There,” he said, setting the frame on his desk and admiring it. “If I ever need to remember how blessed I am, this picture will remind me. What a lucky find.”

Plea From the Author

Hey, Reader. So you got to the end of my book. I hope that means you enjoyed it. Whether or not you did, I would just like to thank you for giving me your valuable time to try and entertain you. I am truly blessed to have such a fulfilling job, but I only have that job because of people like you; people kind enough to give my books a chance and spend their hard-earned money buying them.  For that I am eternally grateful.

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Iain Rob Wright is one of the UK's most successful horror and suspense writers, with novels including the critically acclaimed, THE FINAL WINTER; the disturbing bestseller, ASBO; and the wicked screamfest, THE HOUSEMATES.

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Copyright © 2016 by Iain Rob Wright

Cover Artwork by Stephen Bryant at SRB Productions

Editing by Bree Crowder

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