X: A Collection of Horror
Author: C. M. Saunders
Date: 2014-02-13 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Anthologies
Description: Ten slices of dark fiction, including three stories exclusive to this collection, plus an introduction and extensive notes. List of Contents: Introduction: That's Entertainment A Hell of my Own Creation A Thin Disguise Monkey Man The Awful Truth Mr. C Fame / Infamy: A Deconstruction Another False Dawn The Night Everything Changed The Devil & Jim Rosenthal Club Culture Afterword
Publisher: DeadPixel Publications

X

By C.M. Saunders

© This work of fiction is copyright of the author. No part of the text or artwork may be reproduced in any form without permission.

Acknowledgements

A Hell of my Own Creation was first published in Tales of the Grotesque & Arabesque (1999) and later as The Art of Lucid Dreaming in the anthology Torn Realities (2012)

A Thin Disguise was first published in Raw Nerve (1998) and later in the anthology The Best of Raw Nerve (2002)

Monkey Man (Revised). Original version published in Cambrensis (1997)

Another False Dawn was first published in Screams of Terror (2009)

Mr. C was first published in The Asphalt Jungle (1998) and later in the anthology The Best of the Asphalt Jungle (1999)

The Devil & Jim Rosenthal was first published in Roadworks (2000) and the anthology D.O.A: Extreme Horror (2010)

Club Culture was first published in Shallow Graves (2009)

The Awful Truth, The Night Everything Changed, and Fame/Infamy: A Deconstruction are previously unpublished.

Contents

Introduction: That's Entertainment

A Thin Disguise

A Hell of my Own Creation

Monkey Man

The Awful Truth

Mr. C

Fame / Infamy: A Deconstruction

Another False Dawn

The Night Everything Changed

The Devil & Jim Rosenthal

Club Culture

Afterword

Introduction:

That's Entertainment

I know what you're thinking...

Did he fire six shots or only five?

Am I the only person here old enough to remember that line?

You're thinking... what makes this guy think he's written anything worth reading?

And why the fuck is he banging on about Dirty Harry?

He isn't going to say anything interesting. He's neither going to inform or entertain me. I'm bored already...

That's what I would be thinking if I were you.

Ah... endearing false modesty.

I'm not kidding myself. Or you. I'm trying to earn your respect. That way, we can build a rapport. Even a relationship of sorts. We can connect. If you are giving me your attention right now, then you've already won massive amounts of my respect. Kudos. I appreciate your time and patience, and I will try not to disappoint.

I won't mess you around any more, either. Promise.

Well, maybe just a little...

I could do this for a long time. Do different things to keep you reading, throwing you little bones. The mere fact that you are still there tells me I'm doing my job.

So far.

This little introduction is intended to be supplementary material. In other words, you don't have to read it if you don't want to. Feel free to skip it and get to the meaty stuff. I just wanted to give you something extra. This should be more personal than me just telling you a bunch of stories. If I can't impart some nugget of life-changing wisdom, and I seriously doubt I can, then I should at least endeavour to open my heart just a crack and let you take a peak at what's inside. Show you a glimpse of my inner workings.

No problem.

Enter.

Welcome!

I like the weird stuff. I have a fascination with the paranormal. Unsolved mysteries, ghosts, vampires, monsters, killer clowns, bring it on.

I am not a religious man, but there are certain things I believe. Primarily, I believe in the power of rock n roll and positive thinking. I also believe there is a science to everything. A logic. The universe isn't the gloriously chaotic realm of randomness some of us imagine it to be. There are hidden forces at work, binding all our crazy lives together. There is evidence of it everywhere, if you look. I like to believe in a kind of incorruptible karma, a foolproof cosmic judging system that always ensures the good get rewarded and the bad get punished.

Sadly, the older I get, the more this romantic daydream of mine reeks of bullshit. This world in which we live is a fucked up place, with many more questions than answers.

The name of the game here is entertainment, and as long as we're both having fun, it's all good. We may share a giggle, or a little shudder.

Maybe both at the same time.

Wouldn't that be weird?

Weird but cool, I reckon.

Words are like weapons. They can be used to lull you into a false sense of security, transport you to a different place and a different time, or they can be used to batter you into bloody submission.

We're not friends yet, but we've been introduced. Briefly. And right now we're getting to know each other. We may even hit it off, who knows?

I might even tell you a dirty secret.

I might tell you that I've killed somebody. Spill all the gory details. Maybe I'll even tell you where I buried the body. If I buried it. Maybe I chopped it up with a meat cleaver and stored it in my freezer instead. Enough good meat there to last a while!

Maybe I made all that up.

You probably did.

Maybe I'm a compulsive liar.

You probably are.

But in that case, maybe I was lying when I told you I was lying about being a murdering cannibal.

Or I could be telling the truth.

You just don't know. That's the beauty of it.

That's entertainment.

Don't you love it when something you see or hear forces you to think of something in a slightly different way? Sometimes there isn't even a eureka moment, there's a little shift, the smallest change in perception that skews reality just enough so it cracks open to allow something different to enter your life. A little nugget you can take something from, that can maybe benefit you in some way in the future. The future is a big place. Anything can happen. You never know what tools you might need.

But right now, I have your attention. I should do something with it. Turn the screw. Keep you interested.

Keep you reading.

I could change the pace at any time.

To do that you just use shorter sentences. Like this.

Even shorter paragraphs.

Blam.

This technique probably wouldn't be we welcomed in the traditional print form. All that wasted paper. Paper is expensive. But here, now, in the modern age, it doesn't really matter about paper any more.

I find the odd expletive also works well.

Fuck.

Like that.

To really emphasise the point I could add an exclamation mark!

Fuck!

Or italics.

EVEN BLOCK CAPITALS.

BLOCK CAPITALS AND EXCLAMATION MARK!

ITALICS, BLOCK CAPITALS AND EXCLAMATION MARK!

You get the point. For as long as I have your attention, you are mine. And I am yours.

But I digress.

Now, on to business...

What you are reading is the first of my X books. I hope there will be many more. It's called X mainly because it contains ten stories. Ten little slices of dark fiction. But also because of the mysterious connotations conjured up by the figure X, the unknown quantity.

The X Factor.

I wanted to call this book the X-Files. But of course, that's been done already.

So has the X Factor, unfortunately.

The X books are intended to be a loose record of my short stories, in roughly chronological order. The stories in this first volume are among the first I ever wrote. Some I wrote, re-wrote and re-wrote again, obsessively, for years. Knowing what I know now, I can say all that polishing was probably a result of low confidence, rather than a form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I didn't rate myself very highly as a writer. How could I? I was far too young to write well. I didn't know enough about the world with all its exotic pleasures and harsh realities. I lacked life experience.

I was also afraid of rejection. I didn't want anyone else to look at my shiny little diamonds and tell me they were shitty lumps of clouded glass. Receiving a rejection slip is the literary equivalent of someone looking at your child and telling you its butt ugly. I've since learned not to take it so personally. Sometimes, it's best to just let go. Let your little birds fly, and move on. If nothing else, for the sake of your own sanity.

I've also learned not to worry too much about what other people think or say about my creative exploits. I dance to my own fiddle, and don't need anyone's approval. It's fantastic if it comes, but if it doesn't I won't lose any sleep. If I was a recording artist, X wouldn't be a greatest hits collection. It would be more like one of those compilations of early releases and obscure b-sides underground punk bands often put out. Like Goodbye Blue & White by Less Than Jake. Therein lies a different kind of value.

I hope the X books chart my progress both as a writer, and as a person. As their careers progress, many writers develop a selective memory and choose to ignore much of their earlier, less-polished work. This is understandable, as writing is a skill that takes a lifetime to hone, and even then it will never be perfect. You can only ever hope to be a slightly better writer than you were the day before. It's not an exact science.

Some of these stories have been lost over the years, and then found again. Some were lost before they were even written. The imagination is a tricky thing. Ideas come and go, sometimes too quickly to get a handle on them. They show themselves for a fraction of a second, then they are gone forever. Others stick around like bad smells, steadfastly refusing to dissipate.

There are a few bits and pieces that didn't make the X grade, didn't make the grade anywhere in fact, and probably never will. In the interests of quality control some of my scribblings will forever lie dormant, gathering virtual dust on my hard drive. For the most part though, I want to lay everything bare. Figuratively speaking.

Most of these stories have been published before, mainly in long-defunct small press magazines that flourished in the late 1990's. Most of those magazines have since been obliterated by the internet. Which means the rights revert back to me. Yay. Full details about their previous homes, where applicable, can be found elsewhere in this book. I don't want to get side-tracked right now. We're on a roll.

Also included are a few stories that slipped through the cracks. I believe honesty is a virtue, so I'll come clean and tell you that no editor I submitted them to liked these poor homeless vagrants enough to publish them. Either that, or for one reason or another I didn't even try to get them published.

These stories are not linked in any way, but some may be connected by common threads, or were written in the same time frame. Throughout, you will undoubtedly be able to identify my slightly sardonic sense of humour and gravitational pull toward the dark side.

There are several ongoing themes in this little collection. If you are one of those people who have a burning desire to know where all the ideas came from, or if you want to know the publishing histories behind the individual stories, fast-forward to the notes at the back.

I have resisted the urge to make wholesale changes, though some of the stories had been edited or revised slightly to bring them up to date. Like having a tattoo touched-up. The original design is kept intact, but I've tried to make the colours slightly clearer and more vivid.

One last thing, after their inclusion in this collection, all the stories contained herein will be officially retired. It's time to move on, I think. But I hope there will be more X books in the future.

Thanks for reading. Now, on with the show.

C. M. Saunders

13th February 2014

A Thin Disguise

It had been just another day for Marcus Lewis. Nine tedious, stress-filled hours trapped in a stuffy office cubicle sorting out other people’s petty financial problems. All the while his pretentious prick of a boss breathing down his neck like a viper waiting to strike. Throwing deadline after deadline at him, pressurising him, bullying him, increasing his workload daily to almost unmanageable levels.

And this was quite possibly Marcus' most despised part of the day; the endless crawl home across town in rush hour traffic, back aching, eyelids drooping and head pounding. Full to bursting point with strings of names and numbers.

Momentarily, he experienced a waking vision of sickening clarity. His weary head finally admitted defeat and actually exploded, spraying a vile mixture of blood, tissue, skull fragments and fleshy brain matter all over the train compartment and his startled fellow commuters. Most horrifying of all was the fact that in addition to the gore, there were numbers everywhere - sickly, obscene, throbbing numbers which looked as if they were made out of gristle dancing in the air to an unheard tune, blood-soaked and frenzied.

Marcus' eyes snapped open and he shook his head violently. Couldn't fall asleep, not yet. Not on a train full of strangers. Potentially violent, dangerous strangers.

The soothing rhythmic clattering of the train seemed to be hypnotising him, making it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open, never mind focus them. His head was swimming. Oh, how he longed to be safely home so he could take off this suffocating mask and strip himself of the thin disguise that enveloped him, suffocating in its closeness.

It was almost dark when Marcus finally inserted the key into his front door. By now he was sweating profusely, simultaneously panting and quivering with excitement. It seemed like a lifetime since he was last home, warm, safe and secure. The heavy wooden door swung inward with a welcoming creak.

Once inside, he stood motionless for a few minutes, breathing heavily and savouring the moment. Then he slowly peeled off his overcoat and removed his tie, then his shoes. Gradually, the speed of his actions increased until he was gripped by a feverish, almost sexual urgency. He hastily clawed at his shirt, ripping off a button but barely noticing. His trousers followed, then his socks, cotton vest, and finally his slightly soiled underpants.

The finale of this strange, frenetic and borderline ritualistic striptease was the careful removal of his gold watch, St. Christopher's medal, and chunky signet ring which he wore to the office. For Marcus, this signified the stripping of the last remaining trinkets linking him to his other (daytime) life. He placed the jewellery in a pewter dish on a small, functional oak coffee table in the lounge, the entire ritual carried out in eerie silence as Marcus possessed no television, DVD player, or computer. To him it was all useless, non-essential electronic crap designed to keep people too busy to see the big picture.

Undressed, he made his way to the bathroom where he showered for over an hour, rubbing furiously at his pale, pimpled body with soap, sponges and flannels. When at last he was satisfied that no lingering trace of dirt or grime contaminated his slick, naked body, he dabbed himself dry with the pinkest, fluffiest of towels, and made his way casually to the bedroom. This was his favourite place in the whole world, and he showed his pleasure by humming softly and admiring himself at every opportunity along the way. He even let out the odd feline purr.

Inside the bedroom, Marcus sat at his dressing table, studying himself in detail in the gloriously huge mirror. He ran his fingers over the velvet smooth skin of his chest and caressed his pert, pink nipples, gasping with satisfaction. Suddenly, his eyes widened.

STUBBLE!

It couldn't be!

No, not stubble.

Relieved, he realised that a single, solitary hair protruded cheekily from his skin, just beneath the left nipple. God only knew how long that little transgressor had been hiding out there. He gripped it between his thumb and forefinger and plucked sharply, wincing even though he actually liked the delicate stab of pain and the resultant warm tingle.

Marcus was very fussy about his chest. And his arms. And legs. In fact, he absolutely detested body hair of all description, especially that tangled and messy clump down below, forever seeking to obscure his most favourable feature. That was why he spent literally hours every week systematically shaving and plucking every square inch of his body.

Every. Square. Inch.

Except, of course, the unkempt ginger growth which covered his throat and lower face. Although keeping his body free of unsightly hair had become something of a compulsion, Marcus absolutely loved his beard. It was a feeble last line of defence against the outside world, offering at least partial protection. A final barrier to hide behind.

Marcus opened a drawer in the dressing table and took out his prized make-up set. With a certain amount of anguish (nothing seemed to exactly match his skin tone) he selected the necessary nail varnish, lipstick, eye shadow and mascara. Then he applied them, skilfully and with a sense of purpose of which any professional would be proud, revelling in this act of indulgence and guided in his work by the trusty hand of experience.

While he worked on his face, Marcus continued to hum soft tunes to himself and let his mind wander. All thoughts of numbers thankfully departed. Instead, his mind turned to madness. The nature of the beast.

He thought about that subject quite a lot.

They say that a true madman is not aware of his condition, as the line between fiction and reality becomes increasingly blurred. He knew his actions were not those of a normal person. But he decided a long time ago that he wasn't insane, for the simple fact that if he was, he wouldn't know it. He was just a little different to other men, that was all.

Very different.

Unique, even.

In the worst possible scenario, he saw life as a single, infinitely long path winding its way gracefully through a dark, dense forest. Occasionally, he would leave the well-travelled path and venture, of his own accord, into the surrounding black wilderness where he would stumble around for a few hours exploring, before locating (admittedly, he sometimes had difficulty doing this) and rejoining the path.

He knew it was risky. There was always a danger of getting lost in the brush and losing sight of the path forever. But he was full of admiration for his own strength and courage. Besides, if he didn't explore, he would definitely lose his marbles. As all the negative news reports suggested, being part of the stifling rat race had already proved too much for a lot of people. Momentary release was the answer, the key to a happy life. Release and self-indulgence.

Marcus wished, above all else, that society would allow individuals to be individual. He was sick and tired of being bound by unseen social restraints, every day growing tighter until they left you used and suffocated, a mere shadow of your true self.

But deep down, he knew that his dream would never be permitted to come to fruition. The anonymous powers-that-be would never allow it. Modern society was far too concerned with public image, maintaining a front. Every individual persecuted by thoughts of how their reputation could suffer if their friends or colleagues saw them do something a little less than ordinary. Everyone was bound by the same stifling societal rules.

One day Marcus would show them all the right way to live by going to work without his daytime disguise. That would get the tongues wagging around the office, wouldn't it?

Who knows, maybe some of the more courageous people out there would follow his example. Then he would be a pioneer, a hero! People would remember his name forever, write it on the walls of public toilets in pink lipstick.

Now it was high time for a well-earned spot of pure self indulgence. He had worked himself up into a real state. Oh dear!

Marcus opened a second drawer in the dressing table and took out his sewing kit, one of his most treasured items.

Selecting an especially long, sharp needle, he proceeded to pierce his hairless, ivory white left thigh. Once, twice, three times, each thrust slightly harder than the last, driving the point of the needle ever deeper into the flesh. Blood trickled down his baby-smooth leg and onto his twitching foot. He smiled and moaned. The sensation made him feel so alive, so liberated, so powerful.

All too soon, enough was enough.

Still stark naked, Marcus got up from the dressing table. He felt weak and groggy, and his make-up was in danger of being completely ruined by his watering eyes. He made his way unsteadily back to the bathroom where he showered once more, gently rinsing away the congealing blood and patchy, smeared make-up. Cleanliness was important.

When, at last he had finished, he made a mockery of his daily routine by going back to the dressing table. It was late, he should get to bed, but the mere thought of having to once more don his fake exterior in the morning was simply too much for him to handle.

He cocked his head to one side and stared at himself in the mirror, soon becoming lost in his own bottomless, dark brown eyes.

His wounded leg had started to bleed again, but Marcus was oblivious. The bleeding would stop soon, and the wound would scab over like all the others. Now would be the perfect time to make his stand, to reveal himself to the world. He had been in hiding for far too long. It just wasn't healthy.

Suddenly, Marcus came to a conclusion.

No, not a conclusion.

A revelation.

No more.

Tonight, it ends.

Never again shall he fear the ridicule or snide remarks of his peers. Why should he? It was just as much his world as it was theirs. How did they know that it was he who was strange, it could well be that they were the abnormal ones, not least for continuously suppressing their desires and ignoring their true vocations in life. Sad fucks.

He couldn't remain hidden away within these four bare walls forever, drowning in his own pitiful existence.

Quivering with excitement and anticipation, he went to bed with Leon, his special friend.

Oh, Leon. You are so warm!

The next morning, Marcus was awake bright and early. Today was the big day and he was feeling suitably refreshed. Invigorated, even. So much so that he spent over two hours in front of the mirror, checking for body hair and carefully applying layer after layer of bright, garish make-up.

Of course, he couldn't resist the odd stab with his precious needle.

Perhaps he over did it slightly, the occasion getting to him, because soon his flesh was peppered with tiny hole, pin pricks and blood covered his body in a pink sheen.

A hundred pin pricks, a thousand. What did it even matter?

It was time to go to work.

On this red letter day, Marcus couldn't be bothered with the train. Instead, he hailed a taxi and stood silently at the front door waiting for that impatient bleep of a car horn with blood oozing from tiny wounds scattered all over his body. The needle itself protruded from his bloody naval like a miniature flag pole.

He felt faint, and occasionally had to lean against the wall to avoid collapsing in a heap, smearing it with a sticky maroon pattern. He was frightened and apprehensive, but he knew he must be strong. He must set an example for everyone else to follow. This was the day that changed everything. The day they would talk about for year to come.

It was very early in the morning so there weren't many people around.

Yet.

Anyway, he had his ginger beard for protection, and in one hand as a precautionary measure he held Leon, his special friend.

To most people, Leon was just a Teddy bear with patchy brown fur matted with dried blood and other bodily fluids. Other people didn't know the relationship Marcus and Leon shared. They had been very special friends for thirty-five years or more. In his teenage years, before Marcus began finding outlets for the rage that threatened to consume him from within, Leon was the only person in the world who understood.

In the other clenched fist, Marcus held an eight-inch stainless steel carving knife. That was for any interfering cunt who gave him a hard time. Or even so much as a funny look.

Today was the day he would make his mark.

A Hell of My Own Creation

The dreams started over a year ago. At first I dismissed them as some curious bi-product of my over-fertile imagination, but as time passed I became convinced that there was some higher purpose to it all. The dreams were always virtually identical in both length and content, the only discernible difference being their intensity. Each one was stronger, more vivid, and more visionary than its predecessor.

That was the most worrying thing of all.

The dreams themselves were quite tame, as nightmares go. There were no terrible monsters, no madmen brandishing axes, no blood or gore. In fact there was absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing except a stark, empty world devoid of all activity and life of any kind. No people, no animals, no cars. Completely silent. In my haunted nocturnal escapades I was in perpetual limbo, wandering aimlessly through deserted streets from empty house to empty house, frantically searching for the smallest fragment of recognisable life. Always searching, but finding nothing.

Worse than the dreadful apocalyptic dreams was the feeling I was left with when I finally tore myself away from the black abyss of sleep. I seldom felt refreshed as one should after eight hours or more of uninterrupted sleep. Instead, I was filled with a sickening feeling of loss, remorse and dread. It was such an unbearably heavy sensation of loneliness and desolation that I awoke on more than one occasion to find white-hot tears streaming down my face. I felt worthless and insignificant, as if my entire existence meant nothing.

These awful feelings soon passed however, leaving me drained and, ironically, badly in need of more sleep.

And then the cycle would begin again.

In time, my work suffered. It wasn't long before I found myself with no appetite what-so-ever for food, exercise, or anything else. I was disappearing inside myself, being sucked into my own subconscious, piece by piece. I longed for sleep, yet feared the inevitable dreams and it grew harder and harder to distinguish them from reality.

Eventually, I reached the conclusion that I must confront these dreams of mine and conquer them. For the sake of my sanity, if nothing else.

So I began to study books, websites and papers on the subjects of sleep and dreams. Everything from ancient lore to scientific studies of sleep patterns. I was surprised to learn that for all our biological and technological advancement, all mankind's wonderful achievements, we still had no idea what dreams actually were or what purpose they served. There were a million theories. But that was all they were. Theories.

Working under the assumption that everything in nature has a purpose or else it wouldn't exist, I set about further investigating the obscure logic behind my nightly forays into that lifeless realm.

In one particular book, I was fortunate enough to chance upon a highly interesting chapter on something called 'Lucid Dreaming.' The art of training oneself to gather one's senses enough to 'wake up' whilst still within a dream and taking control of it, thereby being in a position to live out your every fantasy. At first I was sceptical, finding the concept difficult to grasp. But I forced myself to understand. If nothing else, it was a captivating possibility.

The basic technique involved adopting an habitual cue, something you do on a regular basis in your everyday life. Looking at your watch or running a hand through your hair, for example. Apparently it was possible to train yourself to 'check your reality,' and determine whether you were asleep or awake every time you involuntarily performed the cue. In theory, one day you would look at your watch or run a hand through your hair and, and through sheer force of habit, check your reality and realise you were dreaming. The indefinable power of your imagination would then be at your disposal...

Over the following months I practised and perfected the technique, using sneezing as my cue. It was the height of summer and, me being a hay fever sufferer, I sneezed quite a lot at the time. Every time I sneezed I would mentally check myself, and immediately and enthusiastically determine whether I was asleep or awake. Knowing that in the fantastic world of dreams, we mimic our everyday actions performing a perverse parody of life, I decided that it could only be a matter of time before an opportunity presented itself.

And all the while, the dreams themselves, the root of my anxiety, were getting steadily worse. They were becoming ever-more vivid, and so disturbing that I arrived at the pathetic point of actually dreading the onset of nightfall, the time when every man on earth was forced into a lonely confrontation with his own personal demons. In daylight hours you can run, you can hide, you can distract yourself with menial tasks to hold your demons at bay.

But there is no hiding at night. The demons will always find you under cover of darkness.

I visited that washed-out empty wasteland almost every night, and even with my new-found knowledge of lucid dreaming, I sometimes had difficulty distinguishing the dream from reality. Also, despite my hatred and primal fear of the dark, I found myself sleeping more and more, spending every spare moment within the warm confines of my bed. My own bed became my prison.

Shortly, my whole attitude changed completely. I began to view the recurring dream as if it were simply an alternative reality. At one point I actually thought of myself as lucky, being the only person on the face of the planet who knew exactly where he was going when the lights went out and the mind took over.

I practised faithfully the lost art of dream control, and patiently waited for the dawn of understanding when I would finally break the shackles of consciousness and set myself free to roam the sparse netherworld in search of answers.

I don't remember the trigger event, the sneeze, at all. I can't even be sure that there even was a sneeze, or if my expanding mind had somehow found another gateway to the land of dreams. However I got there, the sensation I felt on arrival will stay with me forever. It can only be described as returning to your senses after a long, enforced absence, and being astounded by the sudden explosion of light, sound and colour.

It could only be compared with being born. Or re-born.

In fact, it was all rather too close for comfort to a profound religious experience for my liking. In short, I felt enlightenment of the highest and purest order.

When I came to my senses, still locked in the dream, I was alone as usual. This time I was in an unfamiliar, apparently deserted house when suddenly, with effortless ease, I simply woke up. I felt fresh, revitalised, and more acutely aware of my familiar yet unfamiliar surroundings than ever before.

It came as no great surprise to discover that I was trapped in the same, all too familiar nightmare.

Once again I was visiting that sad, deserted shadow land where nobody lived and nothing stirred. There was only one perceivable difference; this time, I was awake and fully in command of my senses.

Did this now mean that my strange other realm was somehow real and tangible? As real as the waking world?

I shuddered with excitement as the realisation threatened to overwhelm me, forcing me back inside myself and into oblivion. That could not happen. I had to take control.

I seemed to be on the ground floor of an old, dusty house. I was slightly disorientated, and swayed on my feet as I clawed desperately at the surface of my mind, trying in vain to uncover some clue as to my whereabouts.

Was it a forgotten relic of my past or some new invention?

Did it even matter?

Vaguely, the flickering images fading fast, I remembered looking for something in the dream. The object of my misguided search, however, eluded me. I tried manfully to remember, but the answer to my question danced agonisingly just beyond my reach. Beyond my comprehension, perhaps.

And there was something else. A nagging sense of urgency. Whatever 'it' was, I had to find it. It was vitally important.

But what, exactly, was vitally important? To whom was it important, and why?

The confusing dream within a dream was soon forgotten as the last lingering images gradually faded into obscurity.

Then the thrill of it all seized me, and refused to let go. The heightened awareness, the confidence, and the strength flooding through my veins was similar to being under the influence of a powerful, mind-altering drug. I had a sudden overwhelming urge to explore this strange new world I had stumbled upon.

I instinctively knew that it was either dusk or dawn. The place had a gloomy, semi-dark feel about it. Turning full circle, I scanned my surroundings and noted that I was standing on bare wooden floorboards, littered with debris and covered with a thick film of dust. There was no sign of any furniture, and faded wallpaper hung from the walls in strips, revealing the naked plasterboard beneath. There were no visible doors, just gaping empty holes marking the places where they used to be. A heavy, damp odour hung in the air. This place, whatever it was, hadn't been occupied for a very long time.

Then, there came a soft clunk. A small, insignificant noise which non-the-less shattered the foreboding atmosphere that had settled over the building.

What was that?

I stood still, not even breathing, straining to hear above the deafening silence.

On another level to that of which I was used to functioning, I instinctively knew I was not alone. I also knew that whatever was sharing this experience with me was a key part of the puzzle.

Through one of the gaping holes in the wall, I could see a staircase. Cautiously, I crossed the room, stepped over the threshold, and started climbing the ancient, creaking stairs.

Heart thudding in my chest, I decided to search each room systematically, but found only more examples of disrepair and crumbling neglect. There was no sign of life.

Reluctantly, I admitted to myself that the mysterious noise I had heard must have existed only in my mind, a mind which had become accustomed to a relentless onslaught of abuse and could not recognise the luxury of pure silence.

Regardless, I decided to take my quest further afield.

Turning to make my way back down the staircase, I was suddenly taken by an insatiable urge to do something reckless, dangerous even. I had not experienced such a sensation since my teens, an inexplicable yearning to do the unexpected, the irresponsible. Just for the hell of it. A religious fanatic would call such feelings the work of Satan, but on reflection of my troubled teenage years, I think that they are little more than desperate cries for recognition. The desire to be noticed and acknowledged as an individual, and not just one of the pack.

Before I knew what I was doing, I was upstairs and standing before a large bay window. I wanted to leap through it and spiral through the air like a deranged Hollywood stuntman. The only thing stopping me was the possible implications of my actions.

What if I was awake after all?

Or sleepwalking?

I could expect a few broken bones at the very least least. And what if the old wives tale tale that said if you died in your dreams then you died in real life was actually true?

But then that wicked little voice that lies buried deep within us all over-ruled my sensible half. I pushed the nagging doubts and clouds of uncertainty aside, and with a strangled cry of defiance, away I went.

I felt an amazing rush of adrenaline coupled with a strong feeling of disbelief as the window glass splintered and shattered all around me. Falling helplessly through the heavy air induced a panicky sense of mortality.

I became convinced that I had made a terrible mistake, one that was going to cost me dearly. I had what seemed like an age to contemplate all I had done in my life up to that point, an existence culminating in this one fatal error of judgement. This one final act of reckless stupidity.

It's true what they say. As if I was drowning, parts of my life flashed before my eyes in an abstract sequence of flickering memories. Childhood events that had shaped my future, dead pets, forgotten friendships, lost lovers...

Then, I hit the ground.

I braced myself for that sickening blast of pain, but it never came. Gingerly, I got to my feet and examined myself for injury. Incredibly, it seemed I hadn't even caught a stray splinter of glass on the way through the window.

I stood in the overgrown garden, gathering my thoughts for a few moments. I suddenly found it ironic that for months I had strived to train my mind in anticipation of this day, and when the day came, I didn't know what to do with myself.

I studied the deserted streets and neglected buildings, the wonderful feeling of enlightenment gone to be replaced by an eerie sense of foreboding. Try as I might, I could not recapture my earlier mood, and I knew perfectly well why. I was lost. Utterly lost.

It was while I was mulling over my predicament that a second noise shattered the silence. This time I was able to recognise it. The unmistakable clatter of a tin can being hurled or kicked against concrete. I held my breath and listened intently, but there was no repeat performance. Uncertainty and fear seeped through my veins. I was not alone after all. There was someone, or something else here with me.

I was still plagued by a nagging sense of urgency. I must find what I was looking for. And quickly. I was certain that my very life depended on it. But how can you search for something when you don't even know what it is?

Like a frightened child I began to wander the barren streets. Time lost all meaning as I explored the forgotten multitude of derelict buildings, the greyness of it all sucking the life from me.

All the while, there was something with me.

It never showed itself, but it made its presence known with a series of deliberate audible signals. A soft footstep here, a menacing scrape on concrete there.

I didn't know what it was or what it wanted, but I got the impression that for the time being it just wanted to play with me, see me squirm, frighten me. I kept thinking about poltergeists. Ghosts. Things that were there but couldn't be seen.

Or was it all just a trick of my subconscious mind?

Was this the dream?

Eventually, my journey came to an abrupt end in an old long-abandoned playground. Here, I sat on a wooden bench and rested my weary legs. Absurd as it may sound, I think I actually slept for a while. There were no dreams this time, only merciful blackness.

When I awoke from my exhausted slumber, I was amazed to find I was still locked in the dream. The emptiness was all around, suffocating me, and again I was faced with the familiar burden of guilt and remorse that so often awaited me on the waking side of sleep. The playground, presumably the scene of so much laughter and happiness, then bore witness to such a pitiful display of gut-wrenching grief that by the end, when the uncontrollable sobbing finally subsided, I was lying in the foetal position on the cold, grey, unforgiving tarmac, which was now sodden with tears of despair.

The sun is neither rising nor setting. I have lost count of all the derelict buildings in varying stages of terminal decay I have explored in my fruitless search for life. It appears that I really am completely alone in this barren wasteland, save for my tyrannical anonymous pursuer. But surely, if it was going to attack it would have by now. It has had ample opportunity. Yet it chooses to stay hidden in the shadows, tormenting me from a distance.

The only thing from which I can draw any comfort is the fact that now I know what I spent so long searching for. I was looking for signs of life.

I also know the cause of that terrible burden of guilt and loss I had so often endured. I was grieving for the life I lost. My real one. Now, I am able to understand that this is the true nightmare in all its desolate glory. I am trapped alone in this dead twilight world, tracked by a mysterious unseen adversary and it's all my own doing. A self-induced punishment, a hell of my own creation. If I thought it would do me any good, I would scream.

It seems as though I have been here for an eternity. It has occurred to me that all this is but another tremendously vivid dream, the space-time continuum hopelessly distorted and my strained and persecuted mind manipulating my darkest fears. But if so, how long can it go on?

I cannot survive in this lonely chamber of horrors much longer. I fear that I will be driven to madness, if I haven't already. Or maybe I will just melt into the grey surroundings, become part of them.

I don't even know if I am awake or asleep. Alive or dead. Surely it is only a question of time before I wake and am returned once more to my bed in the blessed land of the living.

Isn't it?

Monkey Man

“And they all lived happily ever after...”

Toby's mother closed the book and gazed down at her petrified son with a look of compassion only a mother could give. She knew he was scared. She could feel it. Since the moment he came home from school the fear had been slowly building, and as the afternoon marched relentlessly on towards night, he became increasingly jumpy.

Toby wouldn't tell her what the problem was. Throughout the evening she had gently poked and prodded at his defences trying to make him open up, but he remained tight-lipped. He was a stubborn little so-and-so, just like his dad.

She leaned in closer to her son and planted a delicate kiss on his forehead. “Okay?” she asked.

The boy nodded a little too emphatically.

He was tying to hide his fear, probably for her sake. But she could almost smell it coming off him in waves. It was in his voice, his eyes, his movements, like a dense black cloud threatening to engulf everything.

As a last resort, she decided on the direct approach. “Toby, what's wrong, love?”

The boy remained silent, but the expression on his face spoke a thousand words.

“Monsters?” she asked, tentatively. “Is it the dark? The Bogeyman? Did someone at school say something? What is it?” She fought to keep her voice from rising. Not in anger, but in pure frustration. “Do you wan to sleep with the light on? Would that help at all? For Goodness sake, just tell me what you're so scared of!”

Uncomfortable silence.

She was getting ready to give up when Toby finally spoke, quietly and deliberately, as if worried about who or what else may be listening. “I'm not scared of the Bogeyman. I'm not a kid. I know it's not real.”

“Then what is it, honey?”

“The Monkey Man. I'm scared of him, because he's real.”

Toby's mother was momentarily stunned into silence.

The what?

What a strange thing for a six-year old to say! In all her years she had never even heard of anything called the Monkey Man before, but decided that it must be some variation of the time-honoured Bogeyman theme.

Adopting her softest, most understanding tone, she met his eyes and tried to look sincere. “Toby, listen,” she began. “Nothing and nobody is going to hurt you, okay? I promise. Not the Bogeyman, the Monkey Man, or any other kind of stupid man. Or woman. Do you trust me? Do you trust mummy?”

Toby nodded again, as if he had known all along such creatures didn't exist. But he didn't look entirely convinced. There was more than a shred of doubt lingering on his face, and that shred of doubt was causing all the problems. But what more could she do?

With a sigh she stood and went to the door, then turned to look back at her son. She didn't want to leave him alone like this but it was getting late, and surely this was the best way? She remembered reading an article about good parenting in the Daily Mail. Left to his own devices he would confront his fears, win the battle, and be all the stronger for it. It was a necessary stage of development.

“Remember, Toby,” she said. “Monster's aren't real. I promise. They only exist on television, and in your mind. So don't you be afraid, okay?”

“Okay, mum,” Toby's voice was small and weak.

“Right, then. I'll leave the landing light on until you drop off. If you want me, just call out. I'll hear you and come running.”

“Okay, mum.”

“Goodnight then, love.”

“G'night, mum.”

Alone in the semi-darkness, Toby lay still, listening. The old terraced house creaked and groaned around him and the muffled voices of his parents drifted up the stairs, but he was oblivious to them. His ears were cocked, his heart thudded in his chest, and every nerve was wound tighter than a spring. He had everything planned. At the first sign of trouble, he was going to run for it. Out of the door, across the landing and down the stairs.

There was such a thing as a Monkey Man. Adam Yates had told him so at school. And Adam Yates had a cousin who had actually SEEN it with his own eyes! He said when it was dark, the Monkey Man climbed up the drainpipe of little boy's houses, quietly opened their bedroom window, crept in, scooped up the boy, and carried him off as he slept.

Adam said after that, he did unspeakable things to them, and they were never seen again. Toby wasn't exactly sure what unspeakable meant, but it didn't sound good.

He secretly suspected that Adam Yates didn't know what the Monkey Man did to little boys either, and tried to disguise the fact by using words nobody else could understand. It was probably a made-up word, anyway.

Unspeakable.

Suddenly, there was a noise outside the window.

A scrape.

He was coming! The Monkey Man!

Instead of running for it as planned, Toby buried his head beneath the bedsheets. In his mind's eye, he saw the exterior of the house. A shapeless black mass, barely visible amidst the crawling shadows, clung to the drainpipe just below the upstairs windowsill.

For the first time, Toby noticed that his parents had fitted his bedroom with rather a large window, easily big enough for the sly Monkey Man to squeeze through. And was it off the latch?

Mum had left the landing light on!

How stupid!

She was advertising him like a fresh lamb chop in a butcher's window.

Did Mum want him to get taken away and have unspeakable things done on him? But why would she want that? He had been good. Well, mainly. He had only been six for two weeks and already he hated it. There was so much about the world he didn't know. It was so BIG. And weird! Anything could happen.

He just wanted to hide. Maybe then the Monkey Man would move along down the street in search of another, easier victim. But his body was frozen. He couldn't move a muscle.

Maybe the landing light being on was a good thing. At least he would see the thing coming. Without the light, there would be only darkness, and he would be defenceless.

Maybe, if he lay still, the Monkey Man wouldn't see him. He would climb up the drainpipe, take a sneaky peak through the window and see only an unkempt, unmade bed.

The seconds ticked by, agonizingly slowly.

Surely, if the Monkey Man planned to come in he would have by now. It had been a long time since he heard that single scrape, and he hadn't heard any other suspicious noises since. All was quiet now...

After a seemingly impossible amount of time passed, Toby found himself growing weary. His breathing slowed and his eyelids began to droop. Maybe mum was right, after all. Maybe the Monkey Man isn't real. She had promised, and mum never broke a promise. She always told him it was very naughty to break a promise. What was more, she would never let anything happen to him. He was safe.

Safe.

Adam Yates had been lying. That was naughty, too. He had been caught lying in school before. He thought telling fibs made him sound clever, or made other people like him more or something. He was a saddo.

Now he was awfully tired. He could barely keep his eyes open. He was surprised to realise that he no longer cared about the Monkey Man. All he cared about was sleep. Glorious, peaceful sleep.

He allowed his lids to close over his grainy eyeballs, and almost immediately succumbed to the great dark abyss.

The house was completely still. Nothing stirred, and the only sounds to be heard were the soft snores emanating from the master bedroom. Toby was in a different world now, a world of magnificent adventure and colourful dreamscapes.

Nobody heard the strange, stealthy noises coming from just outside; the scrape of boot against brick, or the creak of the drainpipe as it struggled to bear a weight it was never designed for. Nobody heard the soft click as Toby's bedroom window was tentatively pushed open.

The Awful Truth

YES DEAR...

The words blinked on the screen. Stephen Doyle, one of the finest software engineers in the country, leaned back in his chair, bathed in ethereal green light from the monitor, and smiled. He had been working on this particular program for six months, ten or twelve hours a day. Now, at last, it was nearing completion. Stephen had never felt so satisfied, so proud, or so important in his whole life.

He had been a computer geek since childhood, when he had received a second-hand Atari games console for Christmas one year. He was hooked instantly. Within a few years he had graduated to a Commodore 64 and had been upgrading his personal hardware and software to the latest specs ever since. Now he was the proud owner of over thirty thousand pounds worth of equipment. This was in itself quite an achievement for a twenty-four year old.

Of course, Stephen's social life suffered greatly due to his unhealthy fascination with computers. While other thirteen-year old's were hanging around bus stops talking about football and girls, he had been alone in his bedroom playing on the PC. While other eighteen-year old's were sitting around smoking dope and talking about girls, he was on the PC. And while other twenty-four year old's were going out clubbing or talking about girls, Stephen was still on the PC.

It got frustrating sometimes. And lonely. But Stephen had always believed that each individual should follow their own paths, regardless of outside influences. Sometimes your path would cross the path of another, sometimes it wouldn't. It just so happened that Stephen's chosen path veered off the beaten track to such an extent that the only people he interacted with on a regular basis were clients, people requesting his services for various reasons. Usually selfish ones.

By the letter of the law, what he was usually involved in amounted to industrial espionage. He would be contacted by the executive factions of major companies and paid huge sums of money to either gain access to and extract specified information from rival's computer systems, or to design and insert a virus which would render the entire system useless in minutes. Using these methods Stephen could ruin any business in the world, large or small. For a price.

Occasionally, Stephen would be offered more interesting assignments. One of the most bizarre concerned an extremely rich German bachelor who requested that Stephen use his skills to make an image of "the perfect woman." He then planned to circulate the image among selected dating agencies around the world until he found a rough match. The lucky lady would then be expected to undergo reconstructive plastic surgery until she further resembled his perfect woman.

The task proved easier than expected. Stephen simply doctored a publicity picture of Mila Kunis in photo shop to give her blonde hair, blue eyes and larger breasts. The whole project took less than a hour, for which the German bachelor was glad to pay more than ten grand. Easy money.

Stephen advertised his services on selected websites and in several choice international trade publications, but was very choosy about the projects he undertook. Most of his trade came via word of mouth. After doing a small job for a large Italian-based clothes manufacturer he was contacted by a multi-national oil company planning a new mega-bucks venture in the Middle East to prepare a feasibility report.

The company appreciated his thoroughness, and tried to reel him in permanently. But Stephen was reluctant to tie himself to any one arrangement, preferring to remain strictly freelance. And very much in demand. This angered the company, who weren't used to not getting what they wanted. For a time, Stephen feared reprisals. He even went so far as to acquire a handgun for his own protection. But after only one half-hearted threat it soon blew over and he never heard from the oil company, nor their 'representatives' again. The gun sat in his desk drawer, loaded but thankfully untouched.

However, it wasn't all work and no play. Everyone knew that made Jack a dull boy. Stephen did allow himself the occasional foray into the complicated world of intimate human relationships, if only to appease his curiosity. It wasn't difficult. Money talks, and most girls were shallow enough to listen to it. The trouble was that for this reason, every relationship he entered into seemed doomed to failure, making him more eager than ever to return to his organised, self-imposed computer dominated exile.

In his limited experience, the fairer sex desired only material things. What you could give or do for them, what they could see and touch, and what they could flaunt before the envious eyes of their peers. This, and in most cases a vindictive streak a mile wide, combined to make Stephen overly cautious when it came to women. He just didn't have time for sexual politics. Computers were readable, predictable, programmable. They did what they were told. Women were a mystery.

One relationship, however, had lasted for over a decade. Well, perhaps 'relationship' was too strong a word. They had just known each other a long time, that was all. Her name was Yasmin. Yaz for short. She and Stephen had become friends when they were thrown together in mixed ability sets during the early stages of comprehensive school. Stephen had always fancied her like mad, but would never dream of revealing his true feelings for fear of rejection. What would she see in a geek like him? Instead, he settled on a platonic friendship.

At fifteen Yaz discovered her sexuality. And how. The opposite sex had always found her desirable with her shapely figure, hazel brown eyes, and long auburn hair. In the beginning, Yaz was sensible and strong enough to keep a safe distance. With Stephen, her unofficial guardian, always lurking in the background to tell her what those boys who seemed so nice were really thinking, and what they were really saying when they got together, she could do no wrong.

Then, Yaz experienced an awakening of sorts. She and Stephen drifted apart, and their friendship disintegrated into a bitter slanging match as scores of casual boyfriends were driven between them like human wedges. Stephen still did his best to look after her, offering advice and giving endless lectures on respect, morals, responsibility and the merits of practising safe sex - all of which were largely ignored. To his dismay, Yaz became keen to offer herself to anyone who showed the slightest bit of interest in her.

Stephen suspected that at the time she was suffering from an inferiority complex of some kind, or a desire to feel wanted. That, she most certainly was.

The situation culminated one afternoon in an almighty row, and Stephen always remembered the last hurtful words he said to her; “When your heart's been broken into a million pieces and your lady bits are crawling with diseases, don't come crying to me!”

But that was exactly what she did.

They hadn't spoken for five years or more when, one wet and windy Tuesday afternoon, Yaz turned up on his doorstep unannounced. She had argued with her latest boyfriend and was desperate for somewhere to spend a few hours. But that wasn't why she was almost hysterical with grief. The dreaded test results had came back.

She was positive.

HIV.

Every young person’s nightmare. A slow-acting, crippling parasite of a virus that eventually reduced the victim to a pathetic wretch capable only of praying for merciful release, which threatened to bring society crashing down around our ears. A disease spread during the primal act of lovemaking, one of mankind's principal urges. Oh, the irony.

When she told him, Stephen wept for the first time in living memory.

He had developed his own theory about HIV and AIDS. He had an idea that it was a man-made, government endorsed virus designed primarily to keep the population level down, which had been wilfully induced into certain sections of the general public. The undesirables, like the ethnic minorities and homosexuals to begin with. But then it had taken hold, and spread like wildfire.

There were drugs on the market to control it, of course. Expensive drugs that only prolonged the suffering and delayed the inevitable, while the fat cats in charge of the pharmaceutical companies got rich through despair. The grand plan probably included a miracle cure which would be discovered as soon as the problem became too large and available at a price.

Surely though, it would arrive too late to save Yaz.

Some people claimed the rich and powerful had probably already been inoculated against it, knowingly or otherwise, leaving the working classes to play a souped-up version of Russian roulette every time they had unprotected sex.

He had always found conspiracy theories most interesting. The internet was alive with them.

Whenever a new relationship loomed, everyone with the faintest sense of responsibility would be haunted by that burrowing maggot of doubt.

Could this be the one that infects me? Am I the next pitiful victim to be taken gently by the hand and led straight from the bedroom to the slaughter house?

When she told him of her condition that afternoon, Stephen and Yaz embraced. Then they kissed. All Stephen's buried feelings came raging back to the surface, and he was suddenly faced with a revelation - he could no longer blame adolescent lust for his devotion to her. He was older now. Old enough to know better. And he still wanted her. At that moment he wanted her more than anything else in the world, and that could only mean one thing. Love. Or some twisted, bastardised version of it.

He knew she could never love him back. She probably didn't even fancy him, she was just dealing with the trauma the only way she knew how. By giving herself away, the way she always had.

She requested, then pleaded, that Stephen use a condom. He declined, then refused. Some would call it stupidity. Others would call it potential suicide. But Stephen knew exactly what he was doing.

The Sex Pistols were right, there was no future.

No future other than the synthetic, two-dimensional existence he had carved out for himself. An life devoid of emotion, empty of love and worse still, totally missing any form of fulfilling sexual gratification. It had to change, whatever the cost.

When they had finished, Yaz made her excuses and left, no doubt straight into the arms of another, but Stephen was content. He didn't ask her to stay. It had been a welcome interlude from the virtual reality monotony to which he had become accustomed. And that was all. He had just wanted to feel... something.

Something real.

But the experience was not what he had hoped it would be. The love they made was awkward, false and passionless. They tried, but it lacked even the slightest animalistic urge.

Stephen's job sometimes made him privy to certain sensitive and top secret information. As luck would have it, only a few months after Yaz's visit he had carried out a top secret assignment for the Ministry Of Defence and was granted, for a short time, unlimited security clearance. He was permitted to stroll at his leisure through the massed ranks of highly classified computerised files summarizing the entire recorded history of the human race.

It made for shocking reading.

After a little digging in the right places he discovered he was right about the AIDS virus. Or at least, partially so. It was indeed a creation of man. But that was nothing compared to the whole picture.

The awful truth was difficult even for him to comprehend. There were so many plots and sub-plots, twists and turns, that Stephen became overawed by the sheer vastness of it. He used all his sanctioned time to wander through countless encrypted files, secret documents and government charts. Some of it merely confirmed his suspicions, some of it took him by surprise, and some of it horrified him to the core.

For decades, all the world's major governments have been experimenting with the hidden powers of the mind... the prophet Nostradamus had mastered the art centuries before and used it to foresee the destruction of our planet... When THEY return. The beings from other worlds. The ancient Gods. The upper echelons of the governments of the world all knew the truth, but kept it from the public for fear of causing a global panic. To acknowledge alien life would change everything. Every mainstream religion would take a hit, and the entire belief system of the human race would be spun on its axis.

The evidence was undeniable. It was there in black and white - or a shimmering bluish-green. The more he delved, the more information he extracted, the lower his heart sank. Human history was positively riddled with manipulation and tainted with the stench of corruption. The futility of it all was crushing.

Was the destiny of mankind really mapped out in the stars?

YES DEAR...

The words still blinked on the computer screen. The client had wanted a password that was easy to remember, dismissive yet significant. It was ironic really that the two words should bring to mind a timid, elderly gentleman agreeing to make a cup of tea for his over-bearing spouse or something when they were, in fact, the key with which to unleash the Age of Terror.

It was a simple command-plus-acronym format.

Yes... Destroy Everything, All Resistance.

A fitting moniker for the largest and most advanced guided weapon system in the world. All his client had to do was key in the magic combination of letters and hit return, rather than a comically oversized flashing red button.

When in motion, the system could not be de-activated. Within seconds, every major super-power in the world would flex their military muscles and retaliate using their own awesome array of gloriously expensive fire power. Such a glut of released energy would surely mean the end of the world as we knew it. Millions upon millions of people would at last meet their makers, and finally get to know the answer to all the question that had plagued mankind since its conception.

What happens when we die?

Except, of course, none of them would meet God.

Not a single soul would be allowed through heaven's golden gate, and not one will be cast down below. Because it's all a lie.

There is no God.

Religion in all its guises, and every bastard derivative of it, is nothing more than a worldwide, age-old lie. It, like everything else, has evolved so far from it's origins that every trace of it's original meaning has been twisted and distorted beyond all recognition by the ravaging, merciless winds of time.

Religion had morphed into little more than a control mechanism.

Don't do that! God wouldn't like it!

How could mankind be so gullible and so self-important as to actually take any form of modern religion seriously? All the opposing factions each doggedly following their chosen route were reminiscent of a mythical spider web, branching out from the nucleus of creation and into whatever differing views the individual religion approved of.

The only true religion is the ancient one. Some of it is written in the bible, but is taken completely out of context.

Stephen shuddered as once more he prepared himself to face the awful, yet painfully obvious truth. The truth that now dominated not only his every waking thought, but also his dreams.

Thousands of years ago, when men were little more than primates, the earth was invaded by a highly advanced alien race. They were not hostile, but friendly, and stayed for centuries, teaching us many things - some of the most important of which we have since forgotten. They also modified our gene structure to make our species increasingly more sophisticated and intelligent. Apparently they were, or still are, in the habit of interference.

Seeing this powerful, all-knowing alien race as superior beings, mankind's ancient ancestors looked to the alien beings for guidance and soon started to revere them. This started the ball rolling. They were the first, and only true Gods.

When their work among us was done, the alien race simply left. Quietly, and with the minimum of fuss. They left some structures and artefacts for us to ponder, but only later did we grow intelligent enough to make any records of their visit. By that time, the encounters were heavily romanticized distant memories handed down through countless generations via word-of-mouth. Hence, the abstract and often confusing nature of the bible. The only true account of our ancient history, believed to have been left by the aliens themselves, is concealed in a secret chamber beneath the Great Pyramid of Egypt. It still lies there today, assuming it can be deciphered.

Have you had enough yet? Is your mind swimming?

But wait, that's not all.

Under the principal law of nature, there must be a reason for everything or else it would not exist. So why did the alien race take such an interest in us?

The answer is profound, yet terrifyingly simple.

They did not help us out of the kindness of their hearts. Why would they? We were a potential future threat to their existence if we evolved far enough.

No, they just wanted to play with us. They wanted test subjects, and a breeding ground for diseases and biological threats which were a big concern to them. In their world, they must constantly strive to find new ways of combating the multitude of ever-mutating viruses that contaminate the reaches of outer space. They also carried out mass psychological and genetic experiments on a frightening scale, which might go some way to explaining the number of mysterious disappearances that litter history.

The final straw, the knockout punch, is that the aliens never left us completely.

Instead, they chose to study and scrutinise us from a distance, housed in the relative safety of immense structures buried deep in space, just beyond our solar system. An easily commutable distance for them. Occasionally, they would return to earth to carry out yet more experiments or deliver new instructions to their earth-dwelling allies, of which there are many. But they were very rarely seen, benefiting greatly from the smoke-screen of UFO related disinformation fed to us by governments and greedily consumed by the ignorant public. One of the first rules of media dictates that the truth can easily be buried in plain sight, if you shovel enough shit on top of it.

It was they who first introduced the AIDS virus to our planet, apparently to enable them to study the effect of internal conflict in the psyche - the innate need to reproduce versus the desire for self-preservation. Which would prevail? This horrendous global experiment was performed under the supervision of the NWO, the New World Order, which was set up by the alien race before they retreated into the sky and included amongst their numbers representatives of every major power in the world. The NWO have operatives in every conceivable position of power, in every country and in every walk of life. It is easily able to weed out and deal with potential trouble-makers. The enemy within. And the enemy all around.

The human race has become far too inquisitive for the so-called God's liking, and is teetering on the brink of a colossal revelation. Before long, something will have to be done to set us back a few centuries. A new dark age with non-existent communication links would be ideal. Something similar to what would surely rise from the smouldering ashes of an all-out nuclear war...

So, the awful truth is that we have no future.

We are mere pawns in a cosmic game of trickery. We put our faith in fabricated Gods and puppet leaders who conspire amongst themselves to wipe us all out. All that has ever been, all that is, and all that will ever be is meaningless, contrived and sterile. The things we think are so important; love, happiness, work, life, death...

None of it really matters.

It's all just manufactured emotion based on our primitive survival instincts, a hangover from our club-wielding Neanderthal days. The only part of us that is truly our own.

Stephen thought long and hard, considering his options. At first, it seemed like he had so many - go public and tell the world what he knew, forget all about it and hope it goes away, try and muscle his way into some powerful global corporation and use his influence fight from the inside, or use his knowledge for the purposes of bribery. He could even use the YES DEAR software he designed to trigger a World War of his own, if he so wished.

But what was the point?

And who was he to decide the fate of others?

The sense of responsibility was crushing.

His own fate, however, had already been decided thanks to the brief interlude with Yaz. It was only a matter of time before his insignificant, worthless life was ruthlessly snuffed out. And even that could be a blessing. Who wanted to exist in this horribly twisted world?

It was as if a veil had been removed from his eyes. He only had one real option. Better a quick death than a slow, painful one...

He reached into a hidden draw in his desk and removed the handgun he had acquired for his protection some time ago. It was already loaded. He switched off the safety catch, and put the cold steel barrel in his mouth.

As he pulled the trigger, he thought about history.

Hundreds of miles away, the man in the black suit put down the telephone receiver and turned to face his colleague.

“Mission accomplished. The target blew his brains out thirty minutes ago.”

“Good. What do you think finally tipped him over the edge?”

“Who knows? We laid it on pretty thick.”

“Do you think he believed all that stuff? All the documents we mocked up and filled that website with?”

“It doesn't matter. It just goes to prove my point, if you mess with a man's mind enough, he'll snap in the end. And more often than not, he'll take his own life and save us the trouble. If he hadn't, he'd probably be in a padded cell by now, babbling some nonsense about aliens, a New World Order, AIDS and conspiracies. Every inch the raving paranoid schizophrenic, his promising career in tatters. He would have been finished one way or the other.”

“Bringing the girl in was a master-stroke, though.”

“I agree. We're just lucky that she could be bought so easily. The things some people will say and do for money. It's a shame really. That man could have been brilliant.”

“That man was brilliant, there are no two ways about it. The thing is, we couldn't have him being brilliant for the opposition, could we? You'd better contact company HQ and let them know that the plan worked...”

“Yes, Sir.”

Mr. C

Mr. C has a lot of money – more than most. Hand-in-hand with money comes an abundance of power and popularity. Mr. C is in his mid-twenties. Tall, well-built and good-looking. He oozes charm, is the envy of his peers, and has scores of wanton females falling at his feet.

He carries both a smart phone and a tablet, owns a plush three-bed apartment fitted with every conceivable mod-con and boy's toy, and wears nothing but the best designer labels and most expensive jewellery. He drives a BMW. Second-hand and six years old, but a Beamer all the same. It's good for the image.

Everywhere he goes, Mr. C demands respect and has the sophisticated demeanour of a successful, upwardly-mobile young executive. To all intents and purposes, he is sorted. Yet every other Wednesday morning, he cashes his unemployment benefit cheque at the local post office.

The truth is he has no job, nor any need of one. Because Mr .C is just your average run-of-the-mill petty drug dealer.

In the same pocket as his smart phone, loaded with coded lists of suppliers, contacts and customers, there are two polythene zip-lock bags. One containing ecstasy in tablet form, and the other containing pre-cut and weighed wraps of cocaine. He has long since abandoned dealing weed, which by comparison was high-turnover and low-profit, and turned to the designer drugs. He cleared several hundred pounds a day, more on weekends and holidays, and his outgoings were minimal. The social paid for his flat.

I live in a small town with a population of no more than two thousand. In the past three years there have been three drug-related deaths, two suicides and two murders. I knew all the victims. And the victim's families. Kids as young as ten save up their pocket money to buy a lump of hash on the weekend, at my old comprehensive school the pupils are regularly searched by police for weapons and drugs.

On my way home from work the other week, I quite literally stumbled across a teenage boy curled up in the foetal position in the gutter. He was so wasted he couldn't talk, never mind stand up unaided. He probably wouldn't thank me for it, but I think I did him a personal favour by calling the Boys in Blue.

The drug situation in South Wales is escalating with frightening pace. Since the coal pits closed in the eighties, most of the country has spiralled into poverty and despair. There are very few well-paying jobs. Ambition is dead. And it's not only us. There are people like Mr. C in every town and city in the UK, not just the deprived areas the middle classes look down their noses at.

The dealers bring relief. A break from the day-to-day monotony. They are the new messiahs. Worshipped, adored.

This particular example, however, is going away for a while...

Despite taking every conceivable precaution, Mr. C was found guilty of possessing with intent to supply class A drugs for the second time, and is going to do a stretch at Her Majesty's leisure.

But he is far from stupid.

Whilst inside, he will continue to ply his trade, making new acquaintances and working on his business model. In three to five years, sooner if he is lucky, he will be released. A little older, a little wiser, and a lot richer.

Before his incarceration he passed control of his booming empire to a trusted lieutenant, showed him the ropes, wished him luck and waved goodbye. They are partners in crime, everything split right down the middle. The trustee will oversea Mr. C's business affairs while he is behind bars, building up a nice little trust fund. Something to look forward to on his release. And when he gets out, Mr. C will pick up right where he left off.

Fame / Infamy: A Deconstruction

Brian often let his mind wander while he was driving. It helped him relax, and concentrate on the matter at hand. He drove a lot, it was his job, so he found he had a lot of time to let his mind wander.

Sometimes he thought about the past; sifting through old memories like dusty books in a library. Other times, he thought about the future; making up various possible scenarios, playing them out and imagining how he would react in each one.

A kind of daydreaming.

Other times, he just plucked a subject out of thin air and devoted however much time was needed to de-constructing it and breaking it down into easily-digestible chunks. Topical issues, usually. Sometimes, when reassembled, the subject had a slightly different meaning to Brian.

Today, he was driving down the motorway thinking about fame.

A funny thing, fame. It was all relative, of course. But even a modest degree of fame would be life-changing for those lucky enough to experience it. The concept was crucial to our existence. People needed other people to be famous. It gave them someone to look up to, something to aspire to. And everyone loved a rags to riches story, didn't they?

It was strange how a sequence of random events could coincide to alter the course of history and make an individual famous overnight.

Right place, right time.

A patent on a great invention, perhaps. Something as simple as a cocktail umbrella. Or a spot in a band that suddenly captured the mood of a nation, and with it a huge recording contract and instant riches.

The Sex Pistols, for example.

No one could accuse those accidental revolutionaries of seventies disaffection of having much musical talent, or business sense, but thanks to the efforts of their wily manager Malcolm McLaren, they changed the face of popular culture virtually overnight. Even now, thirty-odd years later, they are still remembered and named among the influences of today's great rock bands. That is success.

That is fame.

But how do you measure it? By the amount of riches or adulation you accumulate? Or by the amount of people that know your name or what you did?

Now there was a question.

There was a thin line between fame and infamy, but did it really matter?

Were the Pistols famous or infamous?

Were they famous just for being infamous?

That just depended on who you asked.

John F Kennedy was probably one of the most famous men in history, one of the sharpest political minds the world had ever known. And the man who (allegedly) shot him, Lee Harvey Oswald, had, through the consequence of his actions, become just as famous. Or infamous.

John Lennon and Mark Chapman was another example.

Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger.

The book Chapman was clinging to when he blew the ex-Beatle away.

Who do people remember most?

Who has spawned the most column inches?

In reality, they are neck-and-neck. You can’t have a conversation about one without bringing in the other. Two men who never even met in the flesh had together become forever entwined together in the annals of history. JFK had never even known the man who cut short his life. How was that for irony?

And what about the new Cult of Celebrity, fuelled by endless reality TV programs and gossip columns?

These were the worst of all.

Most of these people didn’t have a molecule of talent and were famous just for being famous. The media, manipulated by those who could afford to buy chunks of it, created the illusion that the general public actually gave a shit, and devoted endless time to their relationship problems, family backgrounds, choice of holidays, diet, toiletry habits, and anything else they could get their grubby, greedy little hands on. Pretty soon these false celebrities started believing their own hype, and convinced themselves that they actually deserved all the adulation they were receiving.

What was it that Andy Warhol once said?

Everyone is famous for fifteen minutes.

Maybe.

Fame. Infamy. What was the difference?

The end result was the same. Notoriety.

It was a thin line of separation, if there even was a line. As long as people remembered your name, and remembered who you were after you were dead, who cared why they remembered it? That was an interesting concept...

With a final shrug of the shoulders, Brian spun the steering wheel through his meaty hands, sending his vehicle careering across two motorway lanes, over the central reservation, and into the path of the oncoming traffic.

The twenty-seven passengers on the bus screamed and cried out in unison…

Fame.

Infamy.

Everyone was famous for fifteen minutes.

This was his time.

Another False Dawn

Kenneth always tried to be nice. He had been brought up to believe that politeness and respect generally invoked a far better response from people than malice and obnoxiousness, so he went out of his way to be kind and courteous at all times. Besides, it sort of came with the job. He worked in a government-funded ‘resource centre.’ In other words, he was a librarian.

The job suited him very well. Kenneth liked nothing better than being cocooned within the book-encased walls, far removed from the horrific, cruel world outside. He read about the sins of the world in newspapers and on the Internet, and had grown to despise the fundamentally violent nature of modern life. He dreaded 5.30pm when he would be forced to leave the quiet sanctuary of the resource centre and venture out onto the filthy, crime-ridden streets outside.

The routine was always the same. A nervous dash to the bus stop on the main road, followed by five minutes or so cowering in a shelter trying desperately to avoid all contact with the hoody-wearing brigade. Then it was ten minutes on the bus, trundling through the outer reaches of this hate-filled, graffiti-daubed ghetto of a city, and another five or six minutes scurrying rodent-like through the network of grimy residential streets and deserted alleyways before he arrived at his building. Then it was straight through the main doors and up the dusty, decaying skeleton of a staircase before finally reaching the sweet refuge of home.

Phew.

The whole journey took less than thirty minutes. But by the time he arrived home, Kenneth was invariably exhausted and drained, not to mention terrified. It was so dangerous outside. Sometimes it seemed like the whole world had gone insane. Everywhere he looked there was war and famine, crime and corruption, while on his doorstep brewed a hopeless concoction of poverty, anger, hopelessness and despair.

Call it human nature, call it the way of the world. Call it what you wanted, but the simple truth of the matter was that people just didn’t care any more. Everyone seemed to have a chip on their shoulder, or a point to prove. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that before long, the human race would be reduced to a collection of bloodthirsty savages consumed by hatred and selfishness, stripped of all dignity and compassion, and hell bent on self-destruction. A genuine smile, especially from a stranger, was as rare as a blood diamond.

In spite of everything, Kenneth was content with his modest existence. He liked his job, his cosy little flat, and the handful of friends he had made since moving to the neighborhood. He felt accepted, and hoped against hope that it would stay that way and wouldn’t all just suddenly end like it had so often before.

Not another false dawn, please.

He was ready to put down some roots, and this was the place he wanted to do it. It just felt right.

He should have known such feelings of comfort and well-being weren't for the likes of him.

This particular day started much like any other. Kenneth got out of bed, washed, got dressed and had breakfast, then underwent the excruciating ordeal of getting to work and home again, tired but satisfied with the days work, and thankful for another safe return. Nothing out of the ordinary happened.

He got all the way home, and turned the key in the lock of the door before things took a drastic turn for the worse.

So near, yet so far…

He knew instinctively that something was wrong. He sensed it in some deep, primal fashion. He had been in this position before, and could recognize the signs.

Had there been a break in?

Something inside him withered in terror, and he shrank away from the beckoning front door even as it swung open, clutching weakly at his chest in morbid anticipation of what lay beyond.

No, not a break in. Something else.

On closer examination, both the door and its frame appeared to be undamaged. Being on the fourth floor of the block, the front door represented the only entrance to the apartment. And the only exit. It wasn’t impossible for a burglar to gain access via the fire escape, if he was industrious and especially determined, but it was highly unlikely. The words ‘industrious’ and ‘determined’ alone would seem to rule out most petty criminals. If they had just a few ounces of industry and determination they would have their own fucking jobs, instead of leaching off those who did.

Then something registered in his mind, and Kenneth's attention shifted to the apartment next door.

The door had been left slightly ajar, darkness spilled ominously out of the room onto the grubby brown carpet that lined the corridor. If something hadn’t happened in there already, it would soon enough. Leaving your front door open like that was just asking for trouble. Heart in mouth, Kenneth approached.

The flat belonged to a woman. An attractive woman in her late-twenties or early-thirties who, judging by her toned physique and permatan, obviously liked to look after herself. A divorcee Kenneth guessed. What was her name again? Veronica? Valerie?

He almost laughed out loud at his own stupidity.

Here he was, about to risk his life, everything, for someone he had exchanged forced pleasantries with maybe a dozen times. He didn't even know her fucking name. But such was his disposition. He thought of himself as a genuine nice guy, and wouldn’t be able to rest until he had made sure everything was as its place and as it should be.

There was a murmur from within the darkened flat, and the furtive sound of movement.

Momentarily, Kenneth blushed. What if she was with her boyfriend? What if, in the heat of the moment, they had simply forgotten to close the door after them, and were now engaged in some sordid sex act? He knew there was a boyfriend because Veronica or Valerie could sometimes be heard moaning and even screaming. The walls were very thin in this place. Too thin.

But at 6pm?

Call him traditional, but it was a bit early for that kind of thing. Even in this decadent age. If Kenneth was found lurking around outside their flat, the woman and her bloke could quite understandably get the wrong idea and label him a pervert. A peeping Tom. He couldn’t have that. He had a reputation to maintain.

Suddenly a little embarrassed, he turned sharply in the direction of his own apartment and cursed his naivety. He would just go home and relax. None of his business, anyway.

But then he heard more noise; sorrowful whimpering, now barely audible as if the source had retreated further into the damp bowels of the building.

Something was wrong in there. The sobs just confirmed it. The least he could do was check. Curiosity aroused like never before, he summoned every last drop of courage he had, reached out, and rapped loudly on his neighbour's front door.

After what seemed like an age, a husky female voice replied, “Yes? Who is it? What do you want?”

Kenneth’s mind went blank. What did he want? He had been expecting burglars. When faced with a reasonable question, he didn’t know what to say. Voice trembling, he replied, “Erm, it’s Kenneth. From next door? Is everything okay? I thought I heard… I mean, I saw your front door open and… you know... I wondered…”

His voice trailed off into an uncertain silence that lasted so long Kenneth thought about knocking the door again. Or just going home. He began to turn away, but then that small voice came again…

“Come in…”

Wary, yet anxious to investigate, Kenneth needed no further encouragement. Cautiously, he pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold.

As he did so, he was filled with the overwhelming sensation that from this point forth, there could be no turning back. This was the point of no return.

Once inside, he scanned his new surroundings in search of the owner of the voice.

He didn’t have to look very far.

Sitting on a badly scuffed light grey leather sofa in what was presumably the living room. was a woman. Obviously upset, she held her head in her hands, obscuring her face.

As Kenneth entered the room, the woman looked up.

It was the neighbour, all right. Valerie or Veronica. She was a good few years younger than Kenneth. Petite, with high, well-defined cheekbones, a pert little nose, and deep, sad eyes, reddened with sorrow, which seemed to not just look at him, but into him. Her lush hair cascaded over her hunched shoulders like a shower of molten gold, and a generous helping of fake tan-enhanced enhanced her striking features.

Somehow, Kenneth had failed to notice her beauty before. More fool him. To see her in such a distressed state brought a lump to his throat, and he had to fight an overwhelming urge to run to her, console her, protect her.

The only thing holding him back were those eyes, which bore into him with such intense ferocity that it almost made his head spin. Suddenly, he realized that before this woman, his soul was stripped bare. It would be impossible to ever hide anything from her, so he never wanted to try. Instead, he tried to meet her gaze head-on. Fire on fire.

Momentarily, they connected on a plain far higher than he had previously thought possible, before Kenneth’s nerves got the better of him and he looked away in embarrassment. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally felt capable of speaking again, but was reluctant to do so for fear of breaking the spell and shattering forever the unseen bond that joined them.

“I'm... Kenneth from next door.”

“Vera,” came the wavering reply.

Shit. Valarie, Veronica, he had known it was something like that.

“What happened, Vera?” Kenneth asked in the most comforting, soothing voice he could muster.

“I had an argument with my boyfriend. I’m okay now, really…”

Her voice was delectably husky. It floated on the air like a magical tune, rising and falling subtly in pitch with just a hint of an Irish accent. It was the pure, hypnotic voice of an angel. As if to emphasize her words, Vera flashed him a brief, reassuring smile, revealing an immaculate set of brilliant white teeth. Maybe her vulnerability appealed to Kenneth’s sensitive and caring side, but in his eyes this woman was perfection personified.

However, experience had taught him not to be too forward. Better not announce his undying love just yet. A few well-chosen words of comfort would suffice.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure it’ll all turn out for the best. These things generally do. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Vera looked him squarely in the eye. “Actually, yes. You can do something to help. You can stay with me for a while. I could do with a chat, and maybe a shoulder to cry on. If you're not, you know, busy or anything... ”

Something in the look she gave him belied the innocent facade. Something playful danced in her eyes, and the invitation shocked Kenneth. He had only just regained full control of his senses, and now found himself wondering is she harbored feelings for him. Could she?

Would she?

He immediately gave himself a psychological slap across the face.

Grow up!

Of course she wasn’t interested in him. Why on earth would she be? He was reading too much into the situation. The woman was upset and in need of a shoulder to cry on, that was all. Anything else he perceived was just a figment of his over-active imagination.

Now it was Kenneth who was trembling. His mind was in turmoil. Beads of sweat started to form on the leathery skin of his forehead. He felt his heartbeat increase and his breath now came in short, shallow gasps.

“Erm, okay fine,” he replied. “No, I’m not busy at all. Of course, I can stay for a chat. What would you like to talk about?”

He knew it lacked imagination, and probably sounded hopelessly desperate. If he was any kind of Lothario he would take the opportunity to go on a charm offensive, but he wasn’t very practiced in the art of seduction. His discomfort was betrayed by a slight wavering in his voice, but even in hindsight, he was unable to think of anything more appropriate to say.

Her reply was short and to the point, “Talk later, shoulder first.”

The words, unbidden and so simple yet so full of meaning, surprised Kenneth, and a warm glow began to spread through his body.

Then, something changed. Her eyes, once so innocent and childlike, suddenly developed an unsavory glint. Momentarily, she seemed to leer at him, exposing an underlying predatory quality. It was the same look a black widow spider might give her unfortunate mate moments before pouncing and mercilessly ripping him apart.

Kenneth was transfixed. He could do nothing but watch her.

Then, with their eyes interlocked, she seemed to glide towards him like a ghost. He took her in his arms and they embraced. A pleasant, light-headed sensation washed over him. It was intoxicating. For a while he became lost in her sweet scent, and the intimacy of the moment.

Kenneth could scarcely begin to comprehend what happened next. Her right hand slid down his chest, over his middle-aged slightly rounded stomach and, unbelievably, down to his swelling crotch where she squeezed gently. It was exquisite. His breath hitched in his throat. It had to be a dream, a wonderfully erotic dream. Any moment now he would wake up alone in bed with an enormous, insatiable erection, drenched in sweat and in the grip of frustration.

Ever so slowly, savoring each glorious second, Kenneth ran his hands down her back to find Vera's firm, rounded rump. Then they kissed, softly at first, but then wildly, passionately.

Vera flicked her sweet wet tongue expertly around his sour-tasting mouth. He had never been kissed like that before. Kenneth tried to resist, even tried to push her off. This was all moving too fast. But he found himself fighting a losing battle, and he was more than happy to concede defeat.

They began clawing at each others clothing as a selfish, primal urge took Kenneth’s hands all over her gorgeous body; probing, caressing, pinching. All the time, she kissed and moaned softly into his mouth. The desire was almost palpable, as together they were swept away on a tide of euphoria.

The next thing he knew she was on the floor, naked from the waste down and legs spread invitingly. Discarded clothes lay strewn all around her. She looked up at him longingly with those beautiful blue eyes, now wide with lust, and implored him down on her.

Kenneth knelt like a priest at an alter ready to worship the alter of the flesh, the mere act of which made her moan in anticipation. Clumsily, he lowered himself on top of her, carefully maneuvering his position he took his full weight on his hands, splaying his palms on the plush carpet either side of her head. She gasped sharply as he penetrated her and he almost climaxed immediately. He shuddered on the brink of ecstasy, then pulled himself back with every nerve and muscle in his withered body tightening, and started again.

Lost in the carnal pleasures of the flesh, neither party was aware of a third party entering the room through the open front door until a voice bellowed through the air, “Christ, Vera, what the fuck are you doing?”

Kenneth and Vera both leaped to their feet, simultaneously scrambling for their clothes and turning to face the intruder. Framed in the doorway was a huge mountain of a man, so large he actually physically blocked the only escape route. He was unshaven and rugged-looking, his face glowing red with rage and his oversized hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The boyfriend. Or ex-boyfriend.

Soon, he recovered from the initial shock of finding his girlfriend (or ex-girlfriend) screwing another man on the living room floor and, rather ominously, prepared to inflict some damage. His eyes settled on Kenneth, and a low growling emanated from the back of his throat. He was about to snap.

Kenneth’s first thoughts were for Vera. If this nutter went on the rampage, she would likely be the object of his aggression. Kenneth would have to protect her. Didn’t he say he would? Didn't he promise? This could be his chance to prove it. Prove that he wasn’t just talking rubbish and telling her whatever she wanted to hear, like so many other men probably had in the poor woman’s miserable life. He meant it.

She stood to his left, cheeks flushed, still trying frantically to arrange her clothing to preserve her modesty, for what it was worth. Their eyes met fleetingly, and Kenneth was taken by the turmoil of raw emotion on display. Fear and panic merged seamlessly with shame and guilt, and was that a single, brutal shard of hatred? The merest damning flicker of deceit?

Somehow, Kenneth knew what she was going to say before a single word had passed her lips…

“Clive… help me. He just busted in here. I couldn’t stop him. He pushed me onto the floor and tried to make me… he made me…”

She threw Kenneth a fleeting glance, a glance so full of absolute contempt that it turned his blood to ice, and then ploughed on…

“He’s mad, Clive! He stormed in just after you left, shouting and swearing at me, calling me names. He made me do things, Clive! Terrible, terrible things!”

Her words, each spiteful, vitriolic syllable exasperated by an impressive range of false vocal hysterics that would make any actress on the planet proud, cut him like a knife.

Why was she doing this?

Kenneth thought they had a bond, but he had been wrong.

Vera’s words deteriorated into a flurry of abuse, and Kenneth looked on despairingly. He would not, could not argue with her. What would be the point? The man-called-Clive wouldn’t believe a word. Why would he? And besides, no words could be said to describe how betrayed he felt. The last tattered shreds of faith he had in human nature were being slowly, painfully ripped away.

Vera was now in the protective circle of Clive's arms, clinging to his beefy, tattooed neck like a frightened child, and doing a very convincing impression of a rape victim. The big lummox just stood there, staring and lapping up every vindictive lie she fed him, while Kenneth tucked his shirt into his trousers and self-consciously did up his fly.

Despite himself, Kenneth understood Vera in some superficial way. The woman must be absolutely terrified. She had been upset to begin with, and now this. Her main priority was self-preservation, as is most people’s if they are brutally honest about it, and her self-defense mechanism had simply kicked in. The physical safety of her elderly neighbours came a poor second.

Absurdly, his cheeks flushed with shame.

In a way it was all his fault. If only he hadn’t been so nosy in the first place, so damn eager to help, then he wouldn’t even be in this mess.

Kenneth was dimly aware of the thug of a boyfriend moving Vera gently to one side and advancing towards him, full of murderous intent. It was like seeing him move through water.

But no, damn it! He would not take this lying down. The bitch was lying! It was all her fault!

It had been her who seduced him. She had been the instigator; he had come here only to offer his assistance. Because he was worried. Concerned. He was just being a good neighbour!

Kenneth felt the rage welling up inside him like an uncontrollable torrent. He didn’t try to fight it, he knew it was useless now. The woman’s attitude was just fucking typical. You try to help someone out of a tight spot, and you end up getting fucked in the ass. People in this day and age just didn’t care. Everyone was out for themselves, no one played by the rules anymore.

Well, he had had enough! No more betrayal, no more manipulation. This time he was going to fight back. He was going to make a stand.

Kenneth, now a slave to his anger, flew at the boyfriend, surprising him, and unleashed a vicious barrage of blows, most of which connected, driving his would-be assailant to the floor. He shrieked in delight, which turned into a triumphant, animalistic howl as the look of stark surprise on the man’s face morphed into a look of fear, then alarm, horror, and finally acceptance as the life was smashed mercilessly out of him.

Kenneth found that once he had started, he couldn’t stop. It was a release. All that pent up frustration. At last, he had an outlet.

He punched and pummeled until his shoulders were too stiff to move, and then he started kicking. It had always been Kenneth’s problem. Knowing when to stop. It was his temper that did it. It was almost as if at certain times, someone or something else took over his body, leaving Kenneth little more than an interested spectator.

Pretty soon the beefy boyfriend lay in a crumpled heap, a pool of congealing blood forming around his battered head. He was making gurgling sounds, like a baby, and blood was coming out of his mouth, nose and ears.

After a while, he stopped gurgling.

It was then that the first scream echoed around the flat.

Vera. In all the excitement, Kenneth had forgotten all about her. Until that moment, she must have been struck dumb with shock, what with seeing the man in her life getting kicked to death in front of her. Then she snapped out of it. Now, she was crouching in a corner, howling and screeching like a wounded animal.

That would not do. That would not do at all. All that screaming would surely attract attention. Thankfully, screams were not uncommon in areas like this, so they were often dismissed. People just didn’t want to get involved. But still, better safe than sorry…

One hard kick from his gore-splattered boot put a stop to all the bothersome screaming and crying. Then he scooped the unconscious woman up in his arms, and carried her through to the kitchen as if he was a groom carrying his new bride over the threshold of their new home. There, he lay her on her back on the wooden kitchen table. She murmured quietly, still unconscious.

Finding an impressive range of utensils in the kitchen drawers, Kenneth lay them out on the table around Vera’s prone form, expertly, deliberately. Then, he went to work.

First, he slit her throat with one measured slice of a carving knife. Then, he started to slice away at her shapely thighs. She had such sublime legs! Falsely browned and a little freckly, and she could perhaps do with a waxing, but sublime non-the-less.

The succulent flesh which came away from the bone could grace the tables of royalty. If, of course, they shared Kenneth’s taste.

At one point, while he was hard at work making cutlets, Vera stirred and awoke with a start. Damn, he had assumed she was dead. The cut to the throat had evidently not been fatal. She opened her eyes and gazed up at him questioningly. Then she tried to sit up. Of course, this was a big mistake. Kenneth supposed it was quite difficult to assume a sitting position when you are missing most of your rump and legs.

A bemused expression spread across her face, and Vera looked down at her ruined body. Her eyes widened in terror, and for a moment Kenneth thought he may have to sock her over the head again. But then she slumped back without so much as another whimper. Maybe she was really dead this time, or maybe she just fainted away in a state of shock. Who knew? Who cared? It would all be over soon enough.

There had been no need to betray him like that. It was plain malicious. Unforgivable. It was a matter of principal…

All these thoughts and a multitude of others tumbled around in Kenneth’s broken mind as he slowly cooked Valerie’s flesh in a frying pan with some vegetable oil, delicately seasoning as he went with some dried parsley and basil flakes he found in one of the cupboards. It smelled delicious, but Kenneth had mixed feelings. As a rule he only ate people he liked. He had to feel that connection with someone, and then cement it by ingesting then digesting them. He wanted to make them a part of him, so he could carry them with him forever.

However, Vera had turned out to be one of the most vile and vindictive women he had ever met, and he had met more than a few. God only knew how many hearts Vera had broken on her selfish crusade. Or how many dreams she had crushed. All that pain and suffering. The world would be a better place without her.

Kenneth wasn’t keen on the boyfriend, either, and didn’t exactly relish the thought of slicing and dicing his tough, sinewy frame. The poor bastard was probably under Vera’s spell, another victim of deceit to add to her collection. Even so, Kenneth had taken an instant dislike to the bloke. He was too confrontational, and just plain rude. No doubt he thought bullying his way through life was the only way to achieve anything.

As soon as he finished eating, Kenneth would have to pack his meager belongings and move on again for the third time this year. Shame, he was just beginning to settle here. He would probably have to change his identity again as well, and that was getting expensive. Another sign of the times. Maybe he would move to the country, city life didn’t really appeal to him. He had some money saved, and would take what he could from Vera and her boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend, before he doused the place with petrol and torched it.

Shit. If only he’d had enough time to properly assess the situation. Then he could have been better prepared, maybe formulated a plan. He could have made what happened today look like a home invasion, or murder-suicide.

Yes, that was it.

He’d done it before.

It was easier and a lot less risky than finding himself in a situation like the one he now found himself in. Backed into a corner with his options limited. He could have called the local constabulary to report a domestic incident that really sounded very nasty, officer.

Anonymously, of course.

Not that being anonymous mattered. His name was fake, anyway. His whole existence was fake. In fact, Kenneth couldn’t even remember his real name anymore. It had been so long since he had used it.

The police would simply assume it had been a crime of passion, they had fallen for similar tricks before. They would make some inquiries, and get confirmation of the couple's volatile relationship history. The lazy bastards always made the most convenient and obvious conclusions. If they were more astute and better at their jobs, they would have made the necessary connections years ago, tying him to dozens of suspicious deaths all over Britain. And Greece, Spain, France and Italy. But evidently, even the boys in blue, our sworn protectors, had given up the ghost and become resigned to watching society crumble around their ears.

As he put the finishing touches to the meal, Kenneth felt the first twinge of guilt. He was a nice guy, really he was.

Well, he tried to be. He tried very hard, thank you very much.

It was just that he was tired of being a victim, and had developed a very short fuse over the years.

Vera had been pretty as well.

What a shame.

At least she tasted nice...

The Night Everything Changed

Harvey lay awake in his bed. It was late, but he knew that sleep was impossible now. His racing mind and pumping heart simply would not allow it. He felt small and insignificant. Helpless and vulnerable. More than anything, he was scared.

He buried his head beneath the covers like a child attempting to block out the night, all the while knowing it was useless. The dreaded cacophony of sounds would easily penetrate this flimsy protective coating and once again set him on a path to torment and personal terror. Trying desperately to control his breathing, he waited.

Soon, as expected, the noises came. If the weather happened to be rainy or windy, they were much harder to hear clearly. But on a still, quiet night such as this, the noises seemed to fill the world.

The soft, disembodied thumps and scrapes first alerted Harvey to the unfolding drama. He didn't want to listen, but found he was powerless to resist as the sounds grew steadily louder and more urgent, seeming to drift gradually into clarity. A sudden splintering of wood turned his blood to ice and kick-started him into action.

The noises were coming from the direction of the garden shed, carried effortlessly on the night's gentle breeze.

Harvey sat up in bed and listened closely, fighting against the familiar inner turmoil. He should investigate. There could be an intruder. The shed was where he kept the tools and other materials required for his job as a landscape gardener. His livelihood.

Suddenly, the eerie cacophony of sound abruptly stopped.

Harvey strained to hear the conclusion of this strange episode. A muffled thump, something that may or may not be a grunt or a groan. Then a few more thumps in quick succession sounded followed by empty silence.

He lay back down on his bed and buried his head beneath the covers. Soon, sleep came to take him away to a safer, better place.

He dreamed of digging.

He was in a narrow trench six or seven feet deep, and the muddy floor was like quicksand sucking greedily at his lower legs. He tried to free his left foot, but found it held fast by the mud. That revelation was enough to send him over the edge of panic. He reached up, grasping frantically at the smooth, slippery sides of the trench, seeking purchase by finding none.

The mud seemed to be comprised of living organisms, and made obscene wet slurping sounds as Harvey struggled against it. He was sure his heart actually stopped for a moment when he first felt the tiny, yet powerful fingers begin to close around his right ankle.

His eyes snapped open and darted frantically around the tiny bedroom, seeking out any threat. He shook his head and tried to focus his mind for what seemed like an age before the gruesome lingering images of the nightmare subsided.

At some point, he realized it was no longer dark. It was morning. Still shaking, he made his way gingerly to the kitchen where he made himself a cup of strong, black coffee, and sat at the table with a cigarette. The only way to start the day.

He hadn't been himself since the accident.

He groaned aloud as his fragile mind was drawn back to that night three months before.

The night everything changed.

He tried to resist the pull as his imagination pulled him back, but it was useless. Soon, he saw himself lying in his bed, shattered but unable to sleep. Tired after a long day. Then, the noises came again, the muffled bumps and knocks coming from the shed in the garden, followed by a splintering crack as a wooden door was forced open.

They were the same noises he heard almost every night, like a recording played just for his benefit. Harvey had an idea that what he heard now were phantom noises, some kind of residue or ghostly imprint left on the atmosphere. But back then, the night everything changed, he recognized the noises for what they were. The tell-tale sounds of an intruder trying to break into his garden shed.

The revelation hit him like a body blow. His tools!

He remembered pulling on a pair of denim jeans and rushing out into the darkness bare-chested.

Sure enough, bathed in moonlight, he saw a shadowy figure disappear into the rickety old wooden shed. Preoccupied with breaking the padlock on the door, the figure seemed oblivious to him.

In his bare feet, Harvey negotiated the garden path and, struggling to contain his fury, followed the intruder. When he threw open the shed door, Harvey was surprised to come face-to-face with a wide-eyed teenager of no more than fifteen. Caught in the act, the boy looked terrified.

“Please, mister,” he said, a look of panic spreading over his face. “Don't call the Old Bill.”

Harvey hesitated. It was just a kid.

The right thing to do would be to call the police. But that would mean restraining the interloper until they arrived, then giving statements, and maybe even going to court. Who needs it? The odds were the kid would get away with a slap on the wrist, anyway. He would be back out robbing that very night.

There was another kind of justice. Street justice. Just give him a smack and send him on his way. Make it clear that the next time he came around, Harvey wouldn't be so nice about it. The kid might even thank him one day, bruises heal a hell of a lot quicker than police records.

As Harvey stood blocking the only exit debating what to do, the intruder saw a half-chance and made for the door. Harvey thrust out an arm to try and stop him, his balled fist connecting with the side of the kid's head.

The kid hit the dusty floor, and immediately raised his arms to cover his head, balling, “Please, mister. Don't hurt me, please! If you hurt me I'll tell 'em you're a kiddy fiddler. I'll tell 'em you touched me, down there. Tell 'em you touched me everywhere, I will, I WILL!”

“Shut up!” Harvey hissed. The kid would wake up the whole neighbourhood if he kept this up.

“Don't touch me any more mister, please!” The kid shouted. Then his tone changed and he fixed Harvey with a calculating stare. “How long do you think it will take for someone to call the police? I'm a minor, don't forget. I'm not going to jail, anyway.”

“The police wouldn't believe you, you're in my shed!”

“Take the chance, if you like. I'll say you brought me here. Kidnapped me off the street. It doesn't matter if the fuzz believe me or not,” the kid said. “If I sling enough mud at you, some of it will stick. All your friends and neighbours will think you're a sex case. Hound you out, they will.”

It was the kid's attitude that pushed Harvey over the edge. Just who did the little shit think he was? Trying to call the shots, manipulate the system, when he had been caught red-handed doing something he knew to be wrong.

Harvey kicked out, more to shut the kid up than with any malicious intent. He felt his foot connect with something soft. The kid's throat. There was a sharp intake of breath, and the kid tried to scream. But all that came out was a wheeze. Before he could make another sound, Harvey kicked him again, in the side of the head this time. And again. And again.

Soon, the kid was quiet.

Harvey looked down at the mess he had made. The teenager lay sprawled lifeless in a spreading pool of blood. His eyes were open, glazed.

Was he dead?

Shit!

Harvey couldn't go to the authorities. Not with a dead kid in his shed. He would go away for a very long time and for what? Defending his property against the scum that tries to take it from you? There was only one option.

He had to get rid of the body. Hide it, somehow.

He waited in the shed until the hour was more respectable, turning the events over in his mind, then set to work with the variety of power tools he kept. Ironically enough, the same power tools that they boy would have stolen had Harvey not interrupted him. It was messy. Very messy. Though the actual dismemberment didn't take as long as expected, the blood and gore took the rest of the day to clean up. By the time he was finished, he looked and felt like an extra from The Evil Dead.

Staring at the bloodied heap of human remains stacked on a spare piece tarpaulin in the corner of the shed, Harvey wondered what to do with them. Then, an idea came to him.

He dug a hole in the secluded patch of land behind the shed, deep enough to keep any digging wild animals at bay, and lined it with powdered lime. He hoped the lime would help corrode the body. It was a trick the Nazi's used to dispose of dead Jews in World War Two.

When that part of the task was complete, he dumped the body parts inside, filled up the hole with earth, and placed a some heavy rocks on top to keep any local cats or dogs digging them up again. Old Fido taking a thigh home would be positively disastrous.

That very night, the noises started.

Harvey, suspecting his property was being targeted by another intruder, quickly rushed into the garden only to find it entirely empty.

Oddly enough, the noises continued even when he was inside the shed. They were distorted and oddly muffled, as if he were listening to developments through several thick layers of wool, but unmistakable. It was like a replay of the previous day's events. Confused and frightened, he fled.

That was months ago. Every night since, he was forced to endure the same horrific ordeal. He came to dread the inevitable onset of night, fearful of the terrors it brought with it. He stopped going to work, and indeed, stopped functioning as a normal human being. What precious little sleep he had was haunted by terrible nightmares, and he saw the mocking face of the murdered teenager every waking moment. It was almost as if even in death, he refused to go away.

Harvey was finding it increasingly difficult to keep the frayed ends of sanity together. Something had to be done.

With a trembling hand, he picked up his mobile, sighed, and punched in three numbers.

He waited for the person on the other end of the line to pick up and said, “Hello? Police, please...”

The Devil & Jim Rosenthal

She was in labour for fourteen hours. I stayed with her the whole time. I held her hand and whispered a few well-chosen words of encouragement in her ear while I silently wept at the sight of so much agony and suffering reducing the woman I loved to a pitiful, exhausted, pain-filled wreck.

The miracle of childbirth. A woman thing.

Men can only dream of the art of conception, the nine-month long adventure as one life slowly grows inside another and the final, ultimate triumph. A celebration of life and living. A moment so bloated with emotion that many women are unable to describe the event in any meaningful detail, adding to the mystery.

Unimaginable pain as the pelvis opens and the vagina splits, a rush of adrenaline aided by the ever-plentiful supply of gas and air, one last push... a little like having a shit I imagine... then overwhelming relief and joy as the pain subsides and you are presented with a screaming, shivering, gore-streaked and blood-soaked miniature person. The happiest moment of your life, so they say.

For me, though, it was the moment it all went wrong.

I'd been looking forward to it so much. We both had. When I look back at all the planning involved, and then all the hard (yet very enjoyable) graft we had to put ourselves through, I didn't anticipate such an outcome as this for even the briefest moment. I would have considered myself mad for even entertaining such bizarre, twisted thoughts. For this was the stuff of nightmares. It made Rosemary's Baby look tame and unimaginative.

The worst part is, nobody knows but me.

Nobody else can see, so nobody believes.

It isn't a baby. It isn't even human. If I told you what my darling wife had given birth to, you would laugh. You would think I was joking, and laugh until your sides hurt and tears ran down your cheeks. Even if I could prove to you that I wasn't joking, then you'd think I was mad. The victim of an untimely nervous breakdown or something.

But I haven't lost my marbles. They are all still rooted exactly where they should be. I can still function normally and effectively in every facet of my complicated life. The only area where I experience problems is... the baby. And that's only because, despite what everyone else seems to think, it isn't a baby at all. In fact it looks remarkably like a caricature of Jim Rosenthal, the ITV sports presenter.

Told you you would think I was joking.

Or mad.

I first noticed that something was amiss the moment the thing thrust it's vile deformed head out of my wife’s' gaping vulva, brutally ripping and tearing apart the once so delicate folds of secret flesh. Covered in blood, the head was huge. Entirely out of proportion to the rest of it's tiny body. Probably even bigger than my own head, with oval, darting yellow eyes, a grotesquely pointed nose and large tapering ears, Spock-style.

As I watched dumbfounded, the thing announced its arrival by emitting an inhuman, high-pitched howl, and a sleek black forked tongue flicked out of its toothless mouth to taste the air for the first time.

I actually screamed. I remember that part vividly. I screamed, and struggled to stop my bowels from opening right there in the delivery room. Those present must have thought that I was screaming out of joy or sympathy.

No chance.

I was screaming because I was absolutely horrified by what I was seeing.

I turned my head and vomiting a mouthful of nasty hot bile on the floor.

One of the nurses tussled my hair as if I were a ten year old boy and said, “Don't worry about it. You'd be surprised the amount of men throw up in here. Some even faint out cold. I'll just get a mop...”

The stupid bitch! Could she not see? Couldn't any of them see that something was terribly, horrifically wrong?

I could feel myself slipping into shock and fought it desperately.

My plight wasn't helped by a young trainee midwife who kept screeching in false delight and chanting “It's a little baby girl! It's a little baby girl!” at the top of her irritating voice over and over again until all my fear and confusion was replaced by a searing rage. I wanted to fly at her and punch her in the face until she stopped shrieking.

Or stopped breathing.

It wasn't a little baby girl. It was a fucking monstrosity.

Minutes later the chief midwife wrapped the howling, shivering baby-thing in a thick blanket (mercifully almost covering its head) and handed it to me with a smile. The look on her face told me I should be grateful.

Trying desperately to hide my revulsion and swallowing back sour mouthfuls of vomit, I smiled back weakly and took the bloody bundle, the flesh on my arms prickling with disgust.

As it was our first child, and it had been a particularly fraught and gruesome delivery (not surprising when you take into account the size of the thing's head) the hospital decided to keep both mother and child in for two or three days observation.

Over the course of that time, I found myself dreading the onset of visiting hours. I would be forced to sit and watch my beautiful wife nurse the baby-thing as its massive head lolled lazily on its frail shoulders, and obscene sticky liquids oozed out of every orifice in its pale body. All the time we were surrounded by perfectly happy and normal new families. Laughing, joking, immersed in their brand new lives.

I put on a brave face of course, but there was simply too much fear and loathing in me to hide all the time. Now and again the cracks in my armour would reveal, to some extent, my true feelings.

My wife's brow would crease, she would take my hand lovingly in hers, and ask me what was wrong.

So I lied.

What else could I do?

I voiced non-existent political anxiety, and feigned concerned about her health and our financial future. Anything to keep her happy.

Sometimes, it's better to lie to protect the ones you love.

Then, they were home. Safe and sound.

Friends, family and neighbours came to visit, all saying what a lovely, pretty little thing she was. I watched closely for any flicker of distaste, any indication at all that someone else might be seeing what I saw.

But there was none.

It was just me.

Only I could see the truth behind the disguise. I had never felt so alienated.

I looked on in helpless horror as the bond between my wife and the offspring deepened and their love blossomed. I was in emotional turmoil.

Desperate to do the right thing, I unselfishly played the part of the devoted husband and doting father, while secretly struggling to come to terms with it all. My work began to suffer. Feverish nightmares haunted my restless nocturnal hours, and I spent the days in a permanent state of disbelieving shock. Before too long a gigantic, ominous question-mark began hovering over my sanity like a vulture over a rotting carcass

The turning point came when I saw her breast-feeding for the first time. My stomach churned as I watched the baby-thing take my wife's swollen nipple greedily into its mouth the way a new lover would. It stared at me as it was doing it, as if laying down a challenge to a rival. I knew then that things could only get worse. The baby-thing, that devilish product of our divine lovemaking, would be driven between us like a wedge, pushing us ever further apart, and soon our relationship would disintegrate leaving me isolated in misery.

I had to do something.

When the time came, it happened spontaneously. I didn't plan a thing.

I thought about 'accidentally' killing it. Maybe smothering it with a pillow while it slept. But would anyone believe me? If discovered I would be branded a baby-killer and child abuser, and be hated by everyone with such a lethal passion that my life would be permanently under threat. Even if I did get away with it, I knew that my wife would never forgive me for allowing anything to happen to her precious devil-baby. However convincing I made things look, there would always be a burrowing maggot of doubt in her mind.

She suspected something was wrong for a long time. Like most women, she was very perceptive. Women's intuition and all that. So one night, she confronted me.

Caught on the hop, I told her that I had met someone else and had begun an affair. It was either that, or tell her the hideous truth. A girl from the office, I said. Our marriage was over. I was going to live with this young tart, despite the new baby. Very sorry. See you around.

My wife wept uncontrollably for what seemed like hours, shouted hurtful abuse at me for a while, and then I left never to return, with only the clothes I stood up in.

Like I said, sometimes it's better to lie to the ones you love.

That was an age ago.

Don't ask me how long, because I couldn't tell you. I live on the streets now. One of the many thousands of city dwellers that exist around the fringes of society. I move around the hostels and soup kitchens like your average homeless person. Maybe you've walked past me yourself on your way to work one morning. Maybe you were kind enough to throw me some change. You probably weren't. Something else I have come to learn recently is that genuine human kindness is rare.

A few of the people I've met have asked me my life story. We all have a story to tell. Everybody does. But when I tell them, they either laugh at me or simply shake their heads and walk away, muttering about worthless, dangerous nutters.

I can only tell them the truth.

And, even though everybody else seems blind to the fact, the truth is that my beautiful wife gave birth to a demonic Jim Rosenthal look-a-like.

Yes, Jim Rosenthal.

I mean, if it had been Des Lynam I wouldn't have minded half so much. But I never liked that fucking Jim Rosenthal.

Club Culture

Max looked at his watch anxiously. Almost midnight, Saturday. The clubs would be all but full by now, the city centre teeming with testosterone-charged life. Hoards of hardcore ravers would be fighting wandering pissheads for right of entry into some exclusive establishment or other, and sex-starved packs of lads would be chasing scantily-clad young females through rain-swept streets, attracted by the pumping music and flashing disco lights like moths to a flame.

Max stared into the full length mirror, admiring his new outfit - a smart, black, Hugo Boss number. Classy, smooth, elegant, though not too flash. Understated. Soon, he would have the ladies eating out of his hands. All they had to do was get an eyeful of his rugged, dark complexion, powerful build, cheeky smile festooned with perfect white teeth and, of course, just a sniff of his bulging wallet. He winked at his reflection in anticipation of another night of meaningless sex with a girl he would never even know, nor even want to know beyond the sheets.

According to a flyer picked up on a previous jaunt into town, there was a new place opening over in Woodford Green tonight. It may be worth checking out, just to get a break from the tediously commercial house/garage/cheesy pop combo to be found in most of the larger clubs.

It would mean the inconvenience of a taxi journey, though.

When the taxi arrived, Max handed the driver the crumpled flyer and settled down to endure the awkward silence as the taxi wove its way through the complicated network of neon-washed streets towards his destination.

On arrival, Max thanked the silent driver and paid him. There was no tip. Not because he couldn't afford it, but simply because Max didn't think the driver deserved one. He had done his job adequately, nothing more. If people wanted tips, they should go the extra mile.

The new club was situated above a snooker hall. As Max climbed the stairs the steady thump of bass and excited chorus of voices grew steadily louder. At the top of the stairs was a small foyer. A withered, seedy old man sitting behind a glass partition flanked on each side by burly hulking doormen muttered the price of entry. It was reassuringly expensive.

Max passed over a folded note, noticing a door behind the cashier briefly swing open. Behind the door a frightened youth was being subjected to a rigorous search by two burly bouncers. They were probably looking for weapons. Or perhaps drugs they could confiscate, then pass to their own protected dealers operating freely inside the club. For a nominal fee, of course. The only loser in the arrangement would be the trespassing rogue peddler, who would lose his gear and receive a damn good kicking into the bargain.

But what was he going to do about it?

Phone the police?

Of course not.

Welcome to club culture.

Inside, the place was jumping. Music boomed, amplified by the compact nature of the club as a DJ relentlessly encouraged the sweaty, writhing mass to sweat and writhe a bit more before he dropped the bass and allowed the music to slow to a crawl just to start all over again.

Max made a beeline through the pulsating crowd towards the bar.

Once there, he was surprised at how empty that area of the club was. Most of the clubbers had congregated on the smoky dance floor in front of the huge stacks of speakers. It took only minutes to get served, and there was even a series of unoccupied barstools neatly lined up in a row. Max chose one and sat down, drink in hand, to soak up some of the lively atmosphere and survey the local talent.

Despite all his charm, charisma and good looks, even Max was surprised when almost immediately he was approached by a stunning, though obviously older and probably married with kids, brunette in a little black cocktail dress with piercing green eyes.

The new arrival politely asked if she could join him, and even paid for his drink. Sex On The Beach, obviously.

She said her name was Lola, but she could have been lying. People often lied in clubs. They lied about their name, their age, whether they had a partner or kids. You could be whoever you wanted to be in a club. The environment was conducive, and positively encouraged dishonesty. Clubs provided a welcome release from the drudgery of regular life, that was part of the attraction. On various occasions, Max himself had been an airline pilot on a stopover, an architect, an Italian fashion designer, and a scout and ex-player for a Premier League football team, visiting the city on business. It often amounted to nothing more than telling people what they wanted to hear. Playing a role in their little fantasy.

Max and the-woman-who-said-she-was-Lola talked and laughed for a while, probing each other skilfully with well-oiled questions and insincere compliments, studying each others reactions and body language with practised ease. For his part, Max found he couldn't take his eyes off her shapely figure and prominent cleavage, leaving the casual observer under no illusions as to what his intentions were.

Soon, it was time to leave and the decision was made to go back to the-woman-who-said-she-was-Lola's place. Maybe she wasn't married, after all. It was closer than Max's place, and the chances of getting a cab home this time of night would be slim. There was only a limited number, and they would all be busy taking drugged up clubbers to after parties. Max could get one on his own later, when the rush died down.

He wasn’t keen on taking girls home, anyway. If you do that, they would always know where to find you. Some were far too clingy, and others made a good living blackmailing or stealing from men they slept with. Better safe than sorry.

'Lola' lived in a large, well-kept three storey house overlooking the river, now swollen by the autumnal weather. This surprised Max, he was expecting a council house or maybe a dingy little flat or bed-sit. This woman not only had looks, confidence, and a body to die for, but money as well!

It just got better and better.

Was she a widow? A divorcee? a lonely spinster?

Whatever. He had all night to find out her marital status and how much she was worth. And he fully intended to enjoy the process of discovery.

She inserted a key into the lock on the over sized porch door, opened it, then retrieved another key from her handbag and used it to open the front door. Flicking on a row of light switches, she motioned Max inside, fixing him with a familiar look of barely suppressed longing. Max was used to that look.

The woman led him down a narrow passage, through an impressive set of double doors, into a small, neat sitting room.

“Would you like a drink?”

Ah, at last!

The old standard, Max thought. Not only the green light but the filter arrow as well! She may as well just strip off now and save all the false flattery and empty promises. But if she wants to play the game...

“Yeah, great. A dry Martini with a splash of vodka would be great, thanks.”

'Lola' momentarily disappeared to sort out the drinks leaving Max alone.

The sitting room was neat, but bare. No TV or DVD player, no Hi-Fi, no home computer, just two plush leather settees, a single wing-backed arm chair, a coffee table and a couple of stools. Sparse, yet very tastefully furnished. What was the trendy name for such décor? Minimalist. That was it. There was a large portrait hanging on the wall showing an ageing couple against a backdrop of rolling hills and streams. The parents?

'Lola' soon returned with the drinks, and gracefully took a seat on one of the twin settees, patting the place beside her with a hand as an indication for Max to join her. He did so, trying not to let his eagerness show too much.

Instead of jumping on her like a horny teenager, he sipped his drink. In his experience, restraint was one of the biggest aphrodisiacs of all.

“Nice picture,” he said to help the conversation along, nodding at the masterpiece on the wall. “Parents, huh?”

“Oh, thanks... yeah, uh... my parents,” Lola stammered slightly before regaining her composure. Maybe she was breaking house rules or something. “They had that done on holiday in Geneva a few years ago, not bad for a local artist. He could be the next Van Gough or something. We certainly hope so, then that painting would be worth a fortune, ha-ha!”

“I like your way of thinking,” said Max, who rarely missed an opportunity to offer a lady a throwaway compliment.

It must have worked, because the next thing he knew they were kissing. Slowly and tentatively at first, then harder and deeper. She moaned and parted her legs slightly as Max expertly slipped a hand beneath her little black cocktail dress.

“Not here,” she murmured, quietly.

“What?”

“Not here. Let's go upstairs. We'll be alone up there. No disturbances. And we'll be more comfortable...”

“But... we're alone now. Right here. And this room is comfortable enough...”

“Please...”

“Okay, lead the way.” Max sighed. Already this woman was becoming too much effort.

“You go first. There's something I have to do...”

“Oh, Jesus. Okay, Where do I go?” By now Max was struggling to contain his impatience.

“Go through those doors, left down the passage, then right until you come to a staircase. The lights are on the landing. Go up the stairs, turn left, and you'll see a door in front of you. Wait in there for me. I won't be long.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, promise.”

Shaking his head, Max set off, desperately trying to remember the directions. He wished he had to ask her to repeat them. He was certainly feeling that last vodka Martini. How strong did she make it?

Or, more worryingly, what else did she put in it? He was becoming hot, nauseous, weak and confused.

Or was he just high on love?

This thought struck him as hilarious, and he had to ram a fist in his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

Love, ha-ha! Love was a game only fools played.

Left down the passage, then left again. Or was it right?

Fuck!

He really should turn back and confess that he had somehow gotten lost. But what kind of impression would that give? 'Lola' would either think him a blithering idiot or an incompetent mummy’s boy who's scared of the dark and incapable of following a simple set of directions.

No, he was just going to have to wander around this strange big house alone in the semi-darkness until he just happened upon the staircase. How hard could it be? It was a staircase for Christ's sake, not a needle in a damn haystack.

Max stumbled around for what seemed hours, running his hands along walls in the vain hope of finding a lights witch somewhere. How could one house be this complicated? And why hadn't 'Lola' come to look for him? Maybe she had fallen asleep.

At last, he found the staircase. However, this one wasn't leading upstairs as promised. This one was leading down. Hadn't 'Lola' specified going upstairs?

Max was dismayed to find that he no longer remembered, or even cared. His once painfully swollen member now swung loosely between his legs, all but forgotten. All he wanted now was a few hours sleep then a cooked breakfast.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to have a quick look for the girl. She did look exceptional in that little black dress, and it would be a crying shame to come all this way for nothing. Besides, he hadn't seen a phone on his travels around this maze of a house, and the battery on his mobile was exhausted.

By this time, his eyes had grown more accustomed to the absence of light. He could make out the first couple of steps before they disappeared into total blackness. Clutching a bannister for support and cursing under his breath, Max carefully started the descent.

Halfway down the stairs he heard a loud thump from somewhere above and a long, high-pitched, feline-like howl.

Great. A moggy.

He fucking hated cats.

It was then that he first noticed the smell. He had been dimly aware of it before, but his subconscious mind had not deemed it important enough to warrant his attention. Now it seemed to be growing stronger with every step. It was a multi-layered smell; rotting flowers, freshly dug dirt, spoiling meat, faeces and piss.

It smelled like death.

He was approaching the bottom of the staircase now, and it was almost in complete darkness.

Where the hell was he, the basement?

He felt woozy, and his head throbbed. If he inadvertently stumbled across an exit in this damned house, he would gladly use it.

Suddenly, he had a brainwave.

Of course! Why had he not thought of it before?

He fumbled around in his pocket for his cigarette lighter. Finding it, he spun the wheel with the ball of his thumb and a bright orange flame sprung into life, creating a small arc of protective light around him.

He found that he was in a large, bare, draughty room with several doors set into the walls. Didn't Lola say he would find a door near the stairs, and to wait for her in there? This must be the place!

He couldn't remember which door, so the obvious thing to do was to start with the nearest and try them all. She must be there by now. Waiting for him. Or maybe she'd fallen asleep. If that were the case, he had just the thing to wake her up...

There was a door directly in front of him. Max pushed it gently, fully expecting it to be locked, but to his surprise the door swung inward on creaking hinges. He stepped inside the darkened room and held up his lighter, which was now hot to the touch.

By the light of the flickering, yellow flame, he scanned the walls near the door. Eventually, he located the light switch and flicked it on, flooding the room with bright artificial lighting.

It was a bedroom, and there was somebody lying on the bed.

Lola?

Max quickly snapped the switch back down, returning the room to darkness and listened intently for signs that he had disturbed the sleeping form. There were none.

So she had fallen asleep after all, the bitch.

Oh well, he could awaken her with a kiss. Max smiled to himself as he started to unbutton his shirt.

But wait.

That smell! It was so strong here that it was almost overpowering. And now that he thought about it, hadn't he caught a glimpse of not one but two people in the bed? What was more, they hadn't looked... right. Something about the position of the bodies, the contours. He didn't know exactly what, he couldn't put his finger on it, but something was definitely wrong. The shapeless forms reminded him of discarded shop mannequins.

It took an eternity for Max to build up enough courage to flick the light switch back on, but flick it he did. The room was once more flooded with light. He stared at the bed, now even more confused than ever. The tangled limbs of the mannequins, the crumpled sheets, the splattered brown and crimson paint. What the fuck?

He approached the bed until he was standing directly over it, shaking his head in disbelief. He searched his mind for a logical answer to this riddle, something that could neatly explain everything.

Suddenly, the penny dropped.

Max fell to his knees next to the bed and put a hand to his temple, sensing that he was on the brink of a life-altering revelation. Then he retched and vomited streams of foul-smelling hot brown liquid all over the bed, the floor and his smooth new Hugo Boss outfit.

There were two dead people in the bed.

There could even be more. It was difficult to say with all that blood. All that was really visible was a tangle of broken limbs and lacerated flesh. They had been literally torn to pieces, and bits appeared to be missing, as if they had been partially eaten. What looked like claw marks and jagged little bites were clearly visible on what remained of the bodies, carved deep into the flesh to expose the white, virginal bone beneath.

One of the corpses appeared to be that of an elderly woman, whose lips and sagging cheeks had been all but devoured, exposing her jawbone and giving the horrifying impression that she was grinning at him through a mask of dried blood. The other body was a man, his body mostly obscured by gore and his head severed from his body. It lay on the bed next to the tangle of limbs, eyes open and staring.

Max couldn't be sure, but the bodies looked like the elderly couple in the portrait he had seen upstairs. Lola's parents?

Max wondered if she knew about the tragedy that had befallen the old couple. If she didn't, he must warn her! There was either a wild animal or a madman in the house. He felt blind panic well up inside him, and fought to keep it under control.

Then another revelation hit him like a hammer to the skull.

How could she not know about this? Being butchered like that, they couldn't have gone quietly. They must have put up a fight.

She told him they were away.

Max slithered and slipped in puddles of his own vomit as he struggled not only to regain his feet, but also his grip on reality.

How could she do that to her own parents? A woman like that who looked so incapable of committing such atrocities. So warm, so loving, so sensuous...

Then a voice drifted down from somewhere above, splitting the silence and making Max grunt in surprise.

“Oh, Max... Where are you?”

He swallowed hard and held his breath.

Suddenly, the tone changed, “Come to mama, you worthless fucking prick. Don't dwell down there for too long. Come and get it. Come and take me, pleeeeaaaase!”

At first she had seemed to purr, but in the course of a single sentence her voice had turned to anger, encompassing scorn and malicious spite to end in a gurgle of what sounded like absolute, bitter disdain. She made the word 'please' sound like the unearthly howl of a pissed-off alley cat.

Was she doing that on purpose?

Had he let slip at some point in the evening his hatred for cats?

He didn't think so. But one thing was for sure, she knew about the carnage that had confronted Max in the bedroom. He could sense it.

The panic was now surging through him in uncontrollable waves. He must get out of this house! Find a telephone and ring the police. Anonymously report what he had seen, then disappear. Go back to his life. He turned to make his way up the stairs, and came face to face with Lola.

Except now it wasn't Lola at all. At least not the Lola he had met earlier in the evening. Max didn't scream, instead he emitted a low guttural groan as his bowels and bladder simultaneously gave out.

God only knows how she got down those stairs so swiftly and silently. She looked so awkward, so unnatural, illuminated before him in the sombre glow of light from the blood-soaked bedroom. She was hunched over, but her head was tilted up at such an extreme angle that Max could look deep into her eyes, which were now glowing and oval. Her face appeared to be covered in a thin layer of fine brown hairs, and her drooling mouth hung open to reveal dozens of needle-sharp fangs. The fetching little black dress she had been wearing now hung off her in rags, leaving most of her upper body exposed. She was making a continuous low growling sound in her throat that almost sounded like a pained mewing.

Suddenly, as quick as lightning, she slashed at Max with a claw attached to a feline-like arm, and he fell back into the bedroom screaming in fear and pain. It was almost as if she she were holding a fistful of razor blades, judging by how little resistance his face offered to the strike. For a terrible fraction of a second, he could actually feel her inside his cheek.

Mouth filling with blood, he pushed at her as hard as he could, sending the woman-thing reeling backwards into the blackness.

And then he was running...

Up the stairs, onto the first floor.

Where was the door?

The front door?

In his frantic search for an escape route, Max found himself running into furniture and opening and closing doors to empty rooms, all the while whimpering and pleading.

The Lola-thing was coming for him, gaining ground. He could almost feel her disgusting hot breath on the back of his neck. Later, Max came to believe that she, it, could have pounced on him and ended his misery at any moment, she simply chose not to. The harsh truth being that she was just playing with him the way a cat plays with a mouse before finally growing bored and tearing it to pieces.

Eventually, bleeding heavily from his face and reeling from shock and fear, Max located the front door and burst out of the house into the fresh night air. He shambled down the deserted residential road, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure the Lola-thing wasn't chasing him, only to collapse in a crumpled heap on the pavement a couple of streets away.

He was found barely conscious by a police patrol car a few hours later after a member of the public called them thinking he was a passed-out drunk.

Despite his injuries and traumatised state of mind, Max was able to outline what had happened. At first, the police scoffed. “The hot girl turned into a monster? Like a cat, you say? Of course she did, bud. You just compose yourself and try again. Been out clubbing have we? Care to tell us what you took tonight?”

They took some convincing, and drove around the area several times before Max recognised the house. He watched from the back seat as one of the officers knocked the door. Of course, nobody answered.

After breaking down the door the police had no trouble finding the bodies in the house. They probably just followed the stench. The bodies who were soon identified as Roy and Kate Grimworth, the true owners of the house. However, no trace could be found of Lola. Furthermore, no mention of her, or any other young woman matching her description, had ever been noted in connection with the Grimworths. They didn't have any daughters.

Max had plenty of time to ponder the many riddles of that night, but could never come to terms with what had happened. After recovering from the initial trauma, undergoing extensive plastic surgery to reset his shattered jawbone and repair his shredded cheek, and receiving endless hours of counselling, he suffered the first of many nervous breakdowns and was finally declared unfit to interact with society. There were no more clubs, no more designer clothes, and no more one-night stands. He was placed in a secure mental health unit, which suited him fine. At least in there, Lola couldn't get to him.

Except in his dreams.

The best explanation he ever came up with was that, unknown to the rest of the human race, there is another sub-race of human-animal-demon hybrids that share our world. They exist just beyond the boundaries of our limited understanding, and only occasionally mix with people who themselves operate on the fringes of society. People who would not be missed by many if they should disappear off the face of the earth one night.

People like him.

Maybe it's a new thing, some freak of nature or genetically-engineered experiment, or maybe they've always been there. Who knows? This mysterious sub-race could be responsible for the werewolf legend, as well as any number of real-life atrocities, both large and small, which had been wrongly attributed to “normal” people by the authorities. Perhaps the authorities knew all about them, and were keeping the public in the dark. You hear conspiracy theories about the dubious activities of the governments of the world all the time. The internet was full of them.

Max thought this was why they put him away in the nut house. He was quite vocal about his theory, and told anyone who would listen – police, doctors, counsellors, even strangers in shops.

They couldn't have everyone knowing the truth, could they?

Afterword

Here we are, the afterword. The master of the Macabre, Stephen King, often provides accompanying notes in his short story collections. I like the idea, so I'm stealing it. As he says, the notes are at the back of the book, so you don't have to wade through them if you are not inclined to do so. Me, I'm always interested to know where ideas for stories come from. You may not be, which is fine. It's your book now, so its your call. But this is for those who are interested.

We started with a bang. A Thin Disguise is probably one of my most depraved stories. When I wrote it, I remember I was thinking a lot about appearances, and how deceptive they can be. What really lies behind the façade people try so hard to maintain? The main character, Marcus Lewis, is one sick little number-cruncher. Originally published in a magazine called Raw Nerve in 1998, and again in a later 'best-of' anthology.

Reading it now, A Hell of My own Creation is basically about loneliness. It first appeared in Tales of the Grotesque & Arabesque in 1999, and was inspired by an article I read somewhere about lucid dreaming. Yes, its a real thing. Apparently, experiments have shown that, with enough practice, it is indeed possible to have some element of control over your dreams. How cool would that be? But then... what if you couldn't wake up? It was repackaged and renamed (at the publisher's request) as The Art of Lucid Dreaming and appeared in the anthology Torn realities over 12 years later.

The Monkey Man was inspired by a story I read in a tabloid newspaper. One of those little 'Strange But True' fillers. The story was about an area of northern England being terrorized by a man often seen scaling the front's of houses. He was either a peeping Tom or a burglar on the prowl. Maybe he was something worse, which is what my imagination with the story. In a nod to his dexterity the media dubbed him the Monkey Man. I decided to take the funny little story and add a dark twist, resisting the urge to place anyone in a gorilla costume.

This was the first thing I ever had published, by a dear old man called Arthur Smith who ran the iconic Welsh fiction magazine Cambrensis. In fact it was the first piece of fiction I ever submitted, which set me in a falsely confident state of mind until the rejections started piling up. I think the early success had more to do with Arthur feeling sorry for me than any real skill on my part. I remember submitting the whole manuscript in BLOCK CAPITALS on the suggestion of my dad. Dad, you've been right about most things in my life, but you were wrong about that. People don't submit manuscripts in block capitals. Anyway, Arthur re-typed the whole thing, and put it out in Cambrensis in 1997. I was 23.

Cambrensis was a labour of love for Arthur. I can't imagine he ever made any money out of his little enterprise. Especially when you take into account that the payment for publication was a lifetime subscription. As it turned out, the 'lifetime' in question was poor old Arthur's, as he died a few years later and Cambrensis died with him. This is a shout out to you, Arthur, wherever you may be. Thanks for believing.

The Awful Truth is previously unpublished. In a nutshell, it is a story about paranoia and conspiracy theories, prompted by a growing reliance on computers and the notion of what could happen when good things go bad. The original version was written in 2001 or thereabouts, when most of the Western world was in the grip of X Files-mania. It stands as a prime example of the effects of popular culture on contemporary literature, if you want to be all high-brow about it. It was originally entitled 'YES DEAR,' but the minute it was finished, I decided I didn't like it very much after all, and left it sitting on various computer hard drives and portable storage devices for the next seven or eight years until I put it up for free download on my website in 2009, and re-wrote what I hope will be this definitive version in the summer of 2011.

Mr C is an early stab at social commentary. The events in the story are transcribed almost directly from something that happened in a village near where I grew up. South Wales is awash with drugs. Mr C is real. And he would probably recognise himself if he ever read this. But let's be honest about it, he probably wont. The story was published in a small-press title called the Asphalt Jungle, and later in a 'best-of' anthology.

My very first attempt at flash fiction, written in the early 2000's, was Fame / Infamy: A Deconstruction. The hyperactive little rant is a glimpse into the head of a man pushed too far and on the verge of committing suicide, taking twenty or thirty others with him. I tried unsuccessfully to get it placed somewhere, but nobody seemed overly impressed. I remember one editor saying it had no cohesive structure or plot, and was nothing more than a half-baked stream of consciousness. Whatever, dude! I kinda like it.

Another False Dawn is very much in the vein of A Thin Disguise. The two stories were written around the same time, and address similar subject matter. I was reading a lot about serial killers at the time, and was particularly fascinated by the way they constantly evaded capture by the authorities. Without even trying too hard, it seemed. One of the reasons many killers remained free to claim so many victims was simple geography. They just moved around a lot, often choosing victims with whom they had no obvious connection. The police couldn't link them with the crimes, and why would they even try? They had a serial killer to catch. The story was originally published by Screams of Terror webzine in 2009, and this is where newbie writers should take note. SoT is an 'exposure' only market, which means they don't pay any actual money. However, it still counts as being published, so you can only sell Second Rights afterwards, which are generally a lot lower than First Rights. Most high-paying markets won't even consider a story that has been previously published. You live and learn.

The Night Everything Changed used to be called The Shed, but I realised pretty early on how lame that title was! About as exciting as The Workmate, another old story title of mine. I later changed the name of that one, too. The Night Everything Changed deals primarily with guilt, momentary loss of control, and dealing with the consequences of your actions. Something most people can relate to, I think. Though hopefully not to this extent.

The Devil & Jim Rosenthal is a story I wrote about a dream I had. Jim Rosenthal is a cheesy ITV Sport presenter. I don't know him personally, but he doesn't seem like a bad guy, so I have no idea why he haunted my nightmares. He does have slightly gargoyle-esque features. This story has a long publishing history. It was first printed in a magazine called Roadworks in 2000, then again a decade later in an anthology called DOA: Extreme Horror. Roadworks went the way of the albatross three or four years later, which was unfortunate as it was one of the best quality speculative fiction magazines around at the time, and featured some big names during its short life span.

Club Culture was first published in 2009 in a US-based magazine called Shallow Graves, which was based on the popular TV series Supernatural. It was written a few years earlier, and is best described as a modern morality tale warning of the dangers and potential pitfalls of a decadent lifestyle filled with clubs, drugs and casual sex. Thematically I was still playing with the idea that all is often not what it seems, and I am aware that any half-decent psychologist would probably conclude from Club Culture that I have a pathological fear of women. And they might have a point.

About the Author

“A superb storyteller, Saunders is well on his way to becoming a true master of the macabre.”

- Mark Edward Hall, author of Soul Thief and Apocalypse Island

Christian Saunders, who writes fiction as C.M. Saunders, comes from a small ex-mining village in South Wales called New Tredegar. He began writing in 1997, his early fiction appearing in several small-press titles and anthologies. His first book, Into the Dragon's Lair – A Supernatural History of Wales was published in 2003. After graduating with a degree in journalism from Southampton Solent university he worked extensively in the freelance market, contributing to numerous international publications including Fortean Times, Chat, Its Fate! Bizarre, Urban Ink, Enigma, Record Collector, Nuts and Maxim,and a regular column to the Western Mail newspaper. Since returning to dark fiction he has had stories published in Screams of Terror, Shallow Graves, Dark Valentine, Fantastic Horror, Unbroken Waters, Gore and several anthologies. His novellas Dead of Night and Apartment 14F: An Oriental Ghost Story are available now on Damnation Books, while 2012 saw the release of his latest, Devil's Island, on Rainstorm Press. His most recent published work is From the Ashes: The REAL Story of Cardiff City FC, out now on Gwasg Carreg Gwalch.

You can follow him on Twitter @CMSaunders01

Or visit his website: www.cmsaunders.wordpress.com/

Also by C.M. Saunders:

Into the Dragon's Lair: A Supernatural History of Wales

Apartment 14F: An Oriental Ghost Story

Dead of Night

Devil's Island

From the Ashes: The REAL Story of Cardiff City

Available on ebook and paperback from Amazon.co.uk / Amazon.com, and all good online retailers.

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Table of Contents

- Acknowledgements
- Introduction:
- A Thin Disguise
- A Hell of My Own Creation
- Monkey Man
- The Awful Truth
- Mr. C
- Fame / Infamy: A Deconstruction
- Another False Dawn
- The Night Everything Changed
- The Devil & Jim Rosenthal
- Club Culture
- Afterword
- About the Author
- Also by C.M. Saunders: