Estronomicon FantasyCon 2008

THE OFFICIAL SD EZINE Introduction by Steve Upham A Newbie's Guide to FantasyCon by Lee Moan Lightning Dogs by Tony Richards Best Artist 2008 - Award winner Vincent Chong Turning Electrons Into People by Geoff Nelder Forever Autumn by Stephen Bacon Bull Running by Allyson Bird Overcrowded Train by Charles Black Road Rage by Neil Davies Delayed Flight - Launching the Dragons book Net Curtains by Paul Kane Cut to the Chase by Marie O'Regan

Published by

Screaming Dreams The stories in this eZine are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover illustration Copyright Š Vincent Chong 2007 All content remains the Copyright of each contributor and must NOT be re-used without permission from the original Copyright holder(s).

Thank you. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher.

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STEVE UPHAM

I

almost didn’t make it, in more ways than one. It was August and I was stuck in hospital, with no sign of getting out anytime soon. September was fast approaching, which meant that I was in real danger of missing my favourite time of year ... FantasyCon! But as luck would have it, the docs decided to let me home early. That was a huge relief and it gave me a few weeks to rest and gather my strength for the convention. It was still touch and go whether I’d be well enough to attend, but thankfully I did make it when the time came. I would like to say thank you to everyone who helped at the SD table over the weekend.

I was really pleased to catch up with so many people again and delighted at the wonderful response to the book launch for Bull Running for Girls by Allyson Bird. In fact we sold all the stock on the table! Ally must be commended for all the hard work she put into the promotion of this title. Plus a special mention to Paul Campbell who played a vital role in proof-reading and additional promotion. Thank you both for doing SD proud.

It was also a special time for me as I’d made the shortlist this year, in the British Fantasy Awards. I had been nominated in both the Best Small Press and Best Artist categories. It felt a little strange (but in a nice way), being a nominee is such celebrated company. I still can’t quite believe it. I would like to say thanks to everyone who voted in support of Screaming Dreams and must apologize for turning up a bit late to the ceremony, but a few of us got delayed having a curry in town! Although I didn’t actually win either of the awards, it was still a real honour to have been nominated and I will always have very fond memories of this evening.

It was great to see another Art Show this year at FantasyCon, although a shame that there wasn’t more work on display. The absence of two regulars (Les Edwards and Anne Sudworth) meant that we missed out on some great artwork this time. A real treat to see Dave McKean’s work though, along with the award-winning Vincent Chong.

I had a great time over the weekend and would urge all non-members to consider joining the British Fantasy Society (see details at the end of this issue) and coming along to next year’s FantasyCon. It really is the highlight of the year! I hope you enjoy reading through this issue of the eZine and that it will give you some insight as to what goes on at this annual event. Roll on 2009, see you there.

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PHOTOS FROM THE EVENT

The happy smiling faces of Allyson Bird and Paul Campbell

Master of the macabre, Gary McMahon

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LEE MOAN

W

hat is a ‘FantasyCon’ and what can the first-time attendee realistically expect? Men dressed as Orcs? Women dressed as Ice Queens? Well, not quite.

FantasyCon is an annual event hosted by the British Fantasy Society which takes place in the spacious surroundings of The Britannia Hotel, Nottingham.

The convention is open to everybody, although BFS members get preferential membership rates.

The website (http://www.fantasycon.org.uk) states: “At FantasyCon, you can meet your favourite authors, attend book launches and listen to panels. Or, if you prefer, you can sit in the bar with friends old and new and perhaps win a prize in the acclaimed FantasyCon Raffle!”

I went primarily as an observer, to sample the delights (and the beer) of this auspicious event. As a writer who is relatively new on the scene it was a great opportunity to say “Hi” and shake the hands of some of the publishers I have had the privilege of being published by, including Steve Upham of Screaming Dreams Press, Lee Harris of Hub Magazine and Terry Martin, the man behind the exciting new publication Murky Depths. It was also a chance to sit in on some very interesting discussion panels, my favourite being “Crafting the Short Story” in which Christopher Fowler, Stephen Jones, Tony Richards and living legend Ramsey Campbell waxed lyrical about their favourite short stories and what made each one so special. The moderator was Peter Crowther of PS Publishing who was absolutely brilliant, managing the discussion in a relaxed and amusing way. I also enjoyed “New Directions in SF”, with Ian Watson and John Grant sparking off each other to such entertaining effect.

The overall highlight for me was the British Fantasy Society Awards ceremony on the Saturday night. It was wonderful to be sitting at the same table as Allyson Bird and Vincent Chong when Vincent won the award for Best Artist for the second year running. (He provided the cover art for Allyson’s stunning debut collection ‘Bull Running for Girls’, amongst many others). A great moment. The entire ceremony was never less than entertaining, from the inspiring moment when Ray Harryhausen won the Special Achievement Award and Stephen Jones read out a letter from the great man himself, to Joel Lane’s exclamation (“F*** me backwards!”) after winning the award for Best Short Story. I’ll never forget the look on his face as he walked away from the stage proudly clutching his statuette.

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LEE MOAN If there were any downsides to the event they were the age-old restraints of money and time: I regret not being able to buy more books. There were so many wonderful novels, collections and anthologies on sale; and although I aim to purchase as many as possible over the coming months it’s not the same as picking up a copy at FantasyCon and having it personally signed by the author. The other slight downside was not having the time to talk to more people. For example, I met Paul Meloy on the first night and never got a chance to talk to him about his collection ‘Islington Crocodiles’. But things like that make me determined to return next year. Next year I aim to be a member of the BFS. Next year I hope to be able to make recommendations for consideration, and then vote for the authors/stories/artists/publications I think are deserving of the prestigious awards. And that, in a nutshell, is what FantasyCon is all about. It is a welcoming, gracious society and you cannot help but be drawn into their circle. When you’ve been once, you just have to go again—for the experience, for the fascinating company. And yes, okay, for the beer, too.

Copyright © Lee Moan 2008

Lee Moan at FantasyCon 2008

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PHOTOS FROM THE EVENT

Terry Martin at the impressive Murky Depths table

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TONY RICHARDS

Y

ou don’t usually hear of things like this happening in the suburbs. In the countryside? Sure. In empty, wide open places. A deserted heathland, or a wild, desolate moor. But then, London wasn’t always as big a city as it is now.

David Meecham moved to Whetstone, near the northern edge of the capital, in the autumn of ‘95. He was lured there by a teaching job with more pay, and the prospect of less stress than working in the inner city. Thirty two years old, but without any kind of partner in the last year and a half. Tall and rather gawky, yet not an unpleasant looking man. He was saddled with the kind of shyness, though, that makes life pretty difficult for single people in this pushy modern age. And so he threw himself into his work and his brand-new home, to make up for the lack of a real life in other aspects.

Not that he didn’t have his dreams. But more about that later.

He heard all about the lightning dogs within a month of moving in. It was at his local pub, one rainy Thursday evening. He’d abruptly got bored with himself, half way through grading some papers. And had ambled down there in the hope of meeting someone, perhaps even making a new friend.

And -- as is usually the way with shy, unassertive people -- within half an hour of arriving he was firmly stuck in conversation with the local bore.

This was Harry Hobbes, who had been drinking at the same pub, in the same seat, for over thirty years. Harry made sure that everyone who came in here knew that. He’d been born in this area, and knew every corner of it, every building, every shop. And what the shop had been before its current incarnation. The entire history of the place.

Not that it had been much of a place at all, until this century.

“It is called Whetstone --" his speech had been getting simultaneously more formal and more slurred for quite a while now, “because there was a whetstone here upon which troops sharpened their weapons before the Battle of Barnet, the last battle in the Wars of the Roses.”

Barnet, he explained -- the district north of here -- had existed for centuries, had been a market town until the city had enveloped it. But this place? Mostly farmhouses and clusters of cottages, until the Northern Line had stretched in this direction.

“Through most of the previous century,” the man went on, unstoppably, “the edge of the city was at St. John’s Wood. There was a steam rail built in 1872, and an electric tram in 1905, but they didn’t make much difference. It was only -6-

TONY RICHARDS in the 40’s, when the track was bought up and electrified so that the Underground railway could be extended to Barnet, that this whole area started filling up.”

“I live right next to the Tube,” David managed to get in at this point, his first utterance in what seemed like several hours. “The trains do make a racket, but it made buying my house a whole lot cheaper.”

And at that point, Harry looked up at him suddenly, with an intrigued but faintly-mocking gleam in his small, red-rimmed eyes.

“Maybe you’ll be seeing the lightning dogs one night, then.”

I’m going to tell the rest of this myself since, if I leave it to Harry, we’re all going to be stuck here until closing time.

It was an autumn much like this one, but half a century ago, and the track had only been transformed a couple of months back. The hunt was out that day.

The dogs had caught a fox in open country. It had turned tail, fleeing for the woods near Totteridge Common, with the hounds and red-clad hunters in pursuit.

Everyone forgot about the railway line.

The fox managed to get across it without injury. But the pack had not been not so lucky. Four dogs had touched the newly-electrified third rail, and been killed.

How must it have felt for them, in that last instant of pain and terror? One moment, acting out their nature to its fullest. And the next, being torn asunder by some awful, invisible force, as though being struck down by the very hand of God. If a god can kill though, then it can also bring back to life, after a fashion.

Every night, for years after that, when there had been lighting and the air was full of electricity, people would swear they could see four black silhouettes of dogs roaming along the railway line.

“What, spectral beagles?” David broke in, quite astonished.

But no. Dying had brought out their deeper, truer, wilder nature, and it was reflected in the form they now took. Not like mortal dogs at all.

In time, the suburbs had sprung up, and the lightning dogs were forgotten.

But, Harry insisted, they had not gone away. Were still there. People simply didn’t look for them these days, what with their curtains and computers and -7-

TONY RICHARDS their television sets. But they continued to roam the tracks, every stormy, brightness-splintered night.

David was finding it quite hard not to laugh out loud by now.

“And what exactly do these ‘lightning dogs’ do?”

“Oh, they’re still out hunting, not for foxes any more. They wait for a late train, one with hardly any passengers on board. They find someone who is alone in a carriage, between stations. And they get in with him, kill him, then devour him. Even his bones, even his clothes.” Harry was pretty drunk by this stage. “And they lick up every last drop of blood, so that it’s like the man was never there at all. Look in the local papers if you don’t believe me. See if I’m not right. Somebody almost always disappears after a lightning storm.”

But people went missing all the time, and David knew that. He was still chuckling about the story as he got ready for bed.

As usual, he was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. And he had a dream he often had.

Please bear in mind the fact that we’re intruding here. It is a very private dream. In it, the Girl turns to him. She is small and blonde and very pale. She looks at him with shining eyes, and as their gazes meet they both know, in a moment, how right they are for each other.

He was woken the next morning by a train rattling by.

For the next month, David worked hard, replaced the wallpaper with paint throughout his house, and avoided going to the pub again. He even went out with a female colleague several times, although she quickly grew tired of his introverted nature and then dumped him rather sharply.

He had the dream about the Girl most nights.

On the third Tuesday of November, he went back into the centre of London for the first time since he’d moved. A few close acquaintances from his old, inner-city school were holding a kind of re-union, and he rode in on the Tube to meet them at seven o’ clock, ate burgers with them, then spent the remainder of the evening in a wine bar just off Leicester Square.

When they emerged, it was almost midnight. The air was a little warmer than it had been, very still, and the clouds overhead were dense and low. Was there going to be a downpour? He said his goodbyes, then hurried for the Underground station and the last tube.

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TONY RICHARDS There were only six people in the carriage with him, and by Highgate, the last station before the train emerged from the tunnels, there were only two.

The train began its usual rocking as it emerged onto open ground. David gazed out across the small strip of wasteland by the track towards the lit windows of houses, all the curtains drawn. There were families behind them, couples. Maybe even, hidden beyond some floral drape, the Girl, waiting for him to find her.

A sudden flash of brightness brought his gaze up sharply. It was lightning.

There was still no rain, but he knew that would come.

David thought about the story Harry Hobbes had told him in the pub, and smiled a quite sardonic smile.

One of the other passengers disembarked at East Finchley, the last at Finchley Central. He was quite alone here for the long, final three stops.

The lightning flashed again as they pulled into West Finchley, and was making the sky glow regularly by the time that they reached Woodside Park.

David felt a bored relief as the train pulled out of the station. His own stop was next.

The largest bolt so far tore the section of black sky through his window right in half.

And there was a bang on the outside of the carriage door. The moving carriage door.

Had they hit something? David waited till it came again, before getting to his feet and peering out behind him.

And at first, it seemed that there was nothing there.

Until another bolt revealed four swiftly-moving shapes, keeping pace easily with the tube train.

They had no colour, nor any features, that he could see. Were more like moving, black holes, cut out of the darkness.

They were huge. And their shape? Not like any mortal dog. Somewhere caught between a wolf, an otterhound, and a Doberman. Spindly legs.

Enormous heads. He could not see their eyes or teeth.

Every few seconds, by now, one of them would throw itself against the carriage door with a huge thump. And, terrified though David was, he realised that they could not seem to get in.

How long until he reached his station now? Two minutes? Three?

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TONY RICHARDS Harry had been wrong, he kept telling himself above the deafening thumping of his heart. These things were powerless to get at him.

Until ... the strangest thing happened. Lightning flashed again. There was a sudden burst of sparks from the carriage door, and a puff of blue smoke. And the door did something that it never was supposed to do while the train was in motion.

It just started sliding open.

And the dogs had sprung on board within another second.

They looked even vaster up this close. Vast, impenetrable shadows. They had no eyes he could make out. And when they opened their mouths, he could still not see their teeth. Simply, an even deeper darkness. One that might well swallow everything it touched.

David stared at them a moment, overwhelmed with terror. And then fled.

He was in the last carriage but one of the train, that being the one that stopped nearest the exit of his station. And the final carriage? It was empty too, he could see through the windows. He hurried towards it. Grabbed the cold steel handle of the adjoining door and went through it. Over the gap between the carriages, wind whistling round him and the gravelled track roaring below.

And then through the second door, to safety.

These were not electric doors. So they could not simply slide open. David backed along this new compartment, almost half its distance, and watched the dogs pawing at the glass.

They yanked at the handle of the first door, but it seemed to be too stiff for them to manage. And then, two of them stood up on their hind legs -- they were just as tall as he was -- and began scrabbling at the window catch.

It slid down in another moment. They were half way through.

This next window had its catches on the inside, where the dark dogs could not reach them. But someone had left it open several inches at the top.

David could only look on, horrified, as one of the beasts thrust its legs through, and started to push it down. He was now backing towards the very rear of the train, without realising it. Towards the final door.

The second pane slid down abruptly, so hard that it almost broke. And then the dogs were through again.

Again, David was running.

Out through the back of the train. Out into the open air. Clinging to a little - 10 -

TONY RICHARDS handrail. Perched on a small metal footplate. And just praying -- praying -- that the dogs would not continue with him right into the station. Harry Hobbes? He had said nothing about that.

The lightning dogs were pawing at the catches of his window, now. It started to shift downward.

A featureless head poked out. A hole cut in the night. Its deeper black maw lunged towards him. David lost his grip.

And fell directly onto the third rail.

What exactly went through his mind, in that final instant before he touched it? How empty his life had been, perhaps. And how he’d never have the chance to fill it now. He’d never meet the Girl That was six years ago. A few things have changed since then. The lightning dogs still appear when the sky above north London fills with shattered brightness. Except, there is a fifth figure with them these days.

Tall and rather gawky. Not unpleasant looking? It’s impossible to tell, since he is just in silhouette.

David Meecham has transformed from being a schoolmaster, to a master of a different kind.

He still allows the dogs to kill very occasionally, since to deny them that would be to stifle their true natures. But for himself? He just waits.

He simply waits.

He is waiting for a train to go by, one bright stormy night. A late train, almost empty, with a lone passenger in one of the carriages at the rear. A special passenger. A girl. Small, blonde, and very pale, with warmly shining eyes.

He’ll restrain the dogs at that point. Not allow them to touch a hair of her head.

Simply ... drive her out through the final door of the final carriage. Down onto the track, and that electrified third rail.

Apart from his four-legged companions, you see, he is still alone.

And, if creatures like him sleep at all, he still dreams the same dream.

Copyright © Tony Richards 2002

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TONY RICHARDS Lighting Dogs first appeared in Here & Now, Issue 2 Also available in Shadows and Other Tales from Dark Regions Press Don’t forget to check out Tony’s other excellent books! www.richardsreality.com

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PHOTOS FROM THE EVENT

Artist Charles Cutting and his work (on the left) in the Art Show

Chris Teague at the helm of the mighty Pendragon Press

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VINCENT CHONG

A

s ever FantasyCon was very enjoyable, but this year was possibly my favourite so far. One of the highlights for me was getting to meet Dave McKean, whose work has been a huge inspiration to me over the years and has influenced my own style of work. I even did the Artist's panel with him, which felt very surreal, as I never imagined I'd be sat next to Dave McKean,

Pretty Things : Copyright © Vincent Chong 2007

answering questions and giving advice to people about getting started as an artist – I felt very much the novice compared to him! Also, to top off the weekend, I was totally overjoyed to be awarded the Best Artist award again which I wasn't expecting at all. I missed the ceremony last year so it made up for it, being able to pick it up in person this time, and I was totally overwhelmed by the response I got.

Copyright © Vincent Chong 2008

Visit Vinny’s website to see more of his fantastic work www.vincentchong-art.co.uk

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VINCENT CHONG

Storm Front : Copyright © Vincent Chong 2008

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VINCENT CHONG

The Judgement : Copyright © Vincent Chong 2008

The Static Murmur : Copyright © Vincent Chong 2007

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GEOFF NELDER

T

hese days most writers meet on the Internet rather than in real life. Most of those interactions come under three categories:

a) Internet forums, chatrooms and E-mail groups of like-minded writers and readers; b) From individuals or 3D writers’ groups links reach out via (a); c) Meeting people at conventions and courses, and follow up on the Internet.

My introduction to FantasyCon was via meeting a real person at the Winchester Annual Writers’ Conference a few years ago. When I greeted Pauline Morgan at the 2008 FantasyCon it struck me that she was the only one there that I’d met in real life first: everyone else was via the web. Some, like Steve was introduced to me via an invisible web publisher, Neil Marr of BeWrite Books, who has published others at the Con such as John Grant. John, aka Paul Barnett has his Dragons in Manhattan published by Steve. Steve does cover art for BeWrite Books and Twisted Tongue magazine. Twisted Tongue is inhabited by Catherine Edmunds, who is also published by Kay Green, who is the publisher of EarlyWorks Press and Circaidy Gregory Press and was also at FantasyCon – sitting behind me in the dealers’ room. Others talk about six degrees of separation but it is only two or three at FantasyCon! I’m wrong. Another person I met in real life before exchanging ions is Chris Teague, met at the Pontypridd Space, Time and Monster event that Steve helped to organise.

To my surprise, Bloody Books were there. I’d reviewed two of their prepublished books: Meat by Joseph D’Lacey and Through a Glass Darkly by Bill Hussey. I’m a vegan so I wasn’t looking forward to reading Meat but wow, horror is redefined. Bill’s book creeps me out too, excellent. We discussed authors’ names and it seems for a science fiction writer I should be renamed as Goff van Nelder.

Although many attendees are into full fire fantasy, sneaking in each year is a group of science fiction writers belonging to the British Science Fiction Association. Within the BSFA is a writers’ critique group called Orbiters itself divided into novel and short story subgroups. Orbiters is led by Terry Jackman, who, subtly disguised as a BFS member, manned the reception table of FantasyCon for much of the time. This year there was more Orbiters than ever - 17 -

GEOFF NELDER before at Nottingham and so a meeting occurred – in the bar. Hence Ian Whates (editor of Matrix and more), Terry Martin (editor of Murky Depths), Jenny Adams and Terry Jackman and me wore two invisible hats along with other Orbiters circulating quietly.

I can’t remember how I first met Suzanne McLeod, we just keep colliding at Cons and discuss the deeper aspects of literary style in science fiction. She’s one of agent John Jarrold’s babes (as is Ian Whates – kinda) and is being published by Gollancz next year. My temperature and bp always ascend far too much – even thinking of her. If only.

So the Con was more to me than selling our books, listening to speeches, expert panels, boozing and grabbing goodies. It was putting faces to electrons, and well worth the trip.

Copyright © Geoff Nelder 2008

Exit, Pursued by a Bee, published by Double Dragon Publishing Inc, 2008 Co-editor of Escape Velocity magazine

Geoff’s website : http://geoffnelder.com Geoff’s blog : http://geoffnelder.wordpress.com Escape Velocity website : http://www.adventurebooksofseattle.com

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PHOTOS FROM THE EVENT

Troo and Lee with the Humdrumming books

The going gets tough on the Abaddon Books table!

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STEPHEN BACON

O

ctober 8th I thought I saw two soldiers through my binoculars today. They were nosing around at the entrance to the valley, checking out the abandoned farmhouse. Luckily they moved on, but not before I loaded the rifle with cartridges from the cellar and nervously waited at the edge of the trees. It’s only been two years since the last soldier came. It seems like five. I’ll have to be careful about lighting the fire for a while. I don’t want the smoke to alert them.

October 9th We’ve got enough tinned carrots to last about another month. I’ll have to hike to the shop in Penistone again soon. Anne’s mood has been edgy lately, so I’d rather not be away for too long.

There was evidence of something prowling around the fence during the night. I think it may have been a fox. If I can set a trap, even a small one will give us enough meat for a week or two.

From where I’m writing this I can see the grey clouds reflected in the choppy water of the lake. It looks like there might be a storm on the way.

October 10th The generator went out for about an hour last night. I had to go out in the rain to restart it. By the time I got back Anne was crying and flailing her arms around, almost tipping herself out of the wheelchair. I had to sedate her with some of the drugs from the spare bedroom. She slept then, and dozed most of today.

This evening I had a walk around the perimeter of the woods. The trees are unearthly, all twisted and rotting. It reminds me of when I was a child and my brother and I would play in the park, diving into the piles of autumn leaves. It has that same decomposing smell. The only thing is, at this time of year the trees look normal, just like they used to in the autumn – it’s the summer when the scenery seems bizarre. Looking at skeletal trees in the warmth of the July sun is very unsettling.

October 11th It’s nearly time to do our tests again. Time now seems to be so stagnant, and the virus has definitely affected all living things, to the extent that there are no - 20 -

STEPHEN BACON seasons any longer. It’s strange how I used to take the passing of time for granted, mentally ticking it away as the working week passed and the weekends came, flicking through the days as the weather changed. Now the vegetation is rotting around us constantly, it’s like time isn’t passing. I know it is though, by the chart that I keep in the cellar.

I played the cd yesterday, the first time in six months. The music sounded so alien in the cottage.

Anne seems to be in decline. I don’t think she’s spoken since the night of the storm. My heart aches when I remember the days before things went bad.

I’m too tired to write much about it tonight, but I’m feeling an increasingly choking sense of loss.

October 12th This morning, the fox was in the trap. I always thought they were meant to be timid, but it was snarling and biting as I approached it through the field. It’d tried to chew through its leg in a desperate attempt to escape. My rifle put an end to its misery. I ran the blood test on it and it was negative. It was difficult to skin but the meat was welcome for dinner. Anne said she enjoyed it.

October 13th I had an awful dream last night. I was crawling through the cottage as a thunderstorm raged outside. It was night but the rooms were lit occasionally by violent flashes of lightning. Anne was screaming, and I was creeping slowly towards her. Just as I reached the bed, I awoke in a twisted jolt of sweat. Not sure if it was the fox meat that made me have the nightmare, but the images stayed with me all day.

A couple of times I glanced out of the window and thought I glimpsed a movement at the edges of the trees, but I suppose that was just the bad nights sleep.

I’ve been thinking about my brother today, remembering the last time I saw him. It was a hot Saturday in July. I’d been at home all morning, watching the 24 hour news, listening constantly to the radio. I’d gone upstairs to the bathroom. As I came back into the room, Adrian was standing there staring at me. There was gore all over his face, and as he smiled I saw how bloodstained his teeth were. I ran back into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. Stabbing him - 21 -

STEPHEN BACON repeatedly made no impression on me. We’d already buried him two weeks previously, after he’d died with the virus. Obviously, in those days the true aspects of the virus were no fully known.

October 14th It was a difficult day today. Anne was very disturbed. I did our blood tests this morning, but she was so bothered by the routine that I tried to sedate her to prevent her moaning. The sound was almost unbearable.

Around lunchtime, I was up on the roof again, attending to the flashing that had been coming away from the chimney-stack, when I spotted something moving over in the base of the valley. It was too late to go down to fetch the binoculars, but I think it was one of the soldiers. I watched for around two minutes before he gave up and wandered out. It’s a good job I triggered that landslide in February; it appears to have made it difficult to enter the valley. I’ll try to find some more explosive in the cellar and I might go back out tomorrow and see if they’ve cleared any away. I think the flashing on the roof is sorted now – next time there’s a storm, the chimney breast should stay dry.

When I go out to Penistone next week, I’ll try to get hold of some different test kits from the pharmacy. The one I used this morning must have been contaminated because it eventually turned red to indicate that my blood test was positive.

October 15th I had the best nights sleep in months last night. Not sure if it was because Anne was sedated most of yesterday and last night, or my exertion on the roof, but I awoke this morning feeling fit and refreshed. It was so strong that I re-dug the trench around the perimeter of the garden and reset the tripwires. The wind was blowing most of the day so that my face felt brushed and tight when I’d finished.

It’s frightening to think that the virus can strip the life from vegetation as well as humans – this afternoon I leaned against a thick oak tree for support whilst I levered the shovel, and I heard the horrible sound of the trunk crackling and splitting from the inside. This huge tree has been growing for probably hundreds of years and here I was, able to almost push it over out of the ground! I’ll keep my eye on it and if it looks too dangerous, I may have to - 22 -

STEPHEN BACON remove it. I’d hate it to blow over in the wind and breach the fence.

We finished the rest of the fox tonight. Anne was back to her normal, silent self today.

October 16th I’ve decided I’m going to have to go to Penistone tomorrow. We need some more canned vegetables and fresh medical supplies. I’ve tried another two test kits on myself and they both showed that I was positive for the virus. I’ll have to burn the faulty stuff and use the new kits. They must all have expiry dates and it’s probably been two years since I was at Penistone.

Anne just stared at her usual spot on the wall when I explained to her that I was going out to Penistone. I can’t make it there and back in one day so it means staying out overnight. I’ll be fine, but it does worry me about Anne. The microwave can be moved into her room and I’ll try to leave her plenty of ready-meals nearby.

When I see how helpless she is I can barely reconcile her with the woman I married all those years ago. Things we took for granted – going to the cinema, eating out, having the odd weekend away – were snatched away when those bastards started messing around in the lab. The western world was so wrapped up in the threat of terrorism that it was unaware that the danger lay in the carelessness of its own people. When the full extent of the disaster became apparent, it was just as Eliot said – more whimper than bang.

We were married in 2006. It was a warm day in August. My parents were both there, beaming, Adrian was the best man. I was proud to kiss Anne at the end of the service, needing no encouragement from the vicar. We honeymooned in Spain and it was a relaxing couple of weeks, filled with long evenings and the excitement and promise of married life to come.

All of that seems a long time ago now. The colour of the lake resembles the shade of Adrian’s skin as I stabbed him over and over in my living room that day. That was when we lived in Sheffield, before we fled the city as the virus took hold. We were lucky to find this cottage, all the way out here. The people who’d lived in the farmhouse closer to neck of the valley had died a long time before, of what I’m not sure.

I’m going to try to think about life before the virus, while I’m out on the trip.

- 23 -

STEPHEN BACON October 19th I got back yesterday but I was too tired to write anything.

Everything went okay. I got all the necessary supplies. It was an uneventful excursion. No contact of any kind. As I approached the outskirts of the town I found a corpse at the side of the road. It was partially eaten, so I was aware there was life around somewhere. In a way it kept me on my toes – a dark reminder of the ever-present danger than might lurk around the corner. I raided the deserted store and managed to break into the pharmacy to get everything. The tins of vegetables weighed a ton! Things looked different from my memories of when I was last there. Maybe it was just the military cleaning things up at bit. I spent the night out in the fields beyond Penistone. It was a romantic view of the stars I had, as I drifted to sleep. I awoke early the next morning, stiff and troubled by my dreams. I was eager as ever to get back to the cottage.

The entrance to the valley was still intact. I managed to drag some of the deadfall across the track, masking the back road and concealing our presence from whatever was left of mankind. The abandoned farmhouse has done us a favour in the past – it’s like a titbit to satisfy the curious.

Anne has been fine. She’s messed things up a bit and it took me ages to clean up when I got back, but overall things seem okay. It’s funny how my little absence stirred memories and regret in my mind, almost an affirmation of my feelings for her. She’s only a shadow of the woman she once was, but my solitude is diminished by her presence.

October 20th I’ve been having the dreams again. They’re progressing and I’m starting to fear for what might happen.

October 21st I got really frustrated today. I don’t know what to do for the best. I ended throwing a plate through the window in anger. Obviously I regretted it soon after. Anne got a little fraught. I calmed myself down as I patched up the window with some plywood from the garage.

Anne tried to reason with me after. She was obviously disappointed with my behaviour, and a little wary, I think. For the last few days my actions have - 24 -

STEPHEN BACON been a little distant. I’ve been preoccupied by the dreams.

The urges to consume flesh are almost unbearable during sleeping hours, although I easily control them throughout the day. Tinned vegetables leave me nauseous, and the need to bite and tear with my teeth hovers at the back of my consciousness.

I’m writing this in my bedroom. Through the window the darkness in the valley is absolute, and it’s time to reflect on the impact of the virus and what it means to us.

Every drug has side-effects. They created the B12UX virus to kill off the poppies in the middle-east, as a way of halting the production of drugs. It quickly got out of control and started effecting all vegetation – grass, trees, plants, the lot. And then they realised that it would kill all organic matter, fauna included. But the side-effect was the real killer in this whole mess, the thing that causes the damage. The scientists estimated that our Earth was on borrowed time – maybe as little as 35 years – without flora. But the side effect of the virus reduced that figure down much shorter.

I cannot deny this any longer – I’m sure I have the virus. I am scared, not for myself, but for Anne. She’s so helpless in that wheelchair. But if I leave her alone here, I don’t think she’ll manage too long on her own. I tested her again this morning and she’s still negative.

October 24th Last night my craving was so intense I had to leave the house and walk in the woods. After an anguishing hour of spasms I finally gave up and went out to the hillside where I’d buried the soldier. The body was deeper than I’d remembered but the hunger quickened my digging. Even though it was two years ago, there was still a lot of flesh on the bones, especially around the torso where the combat fatigues protected it. The limbs were almost bone though.

October 28th Anne has realised that something is wrong. I lost my temper with her today because she wouldn’t stop asking me questions about what was wrong.

November 5th I probably won’t make it to the end of the week. Two days ago I put Anne out - 25 -

STEPHEN BACON of her misery with the rifle. If I die at the weekend I’ll probably awaken in about 10 day’s time. Anne’s body will feed me for the next month or so. After that I’ll move out to the abandoned farmhouse and wait for the soldiers to return.

Copyright © Stephen Bacon 2008

Watch for more of Stephen’s stories in future issues of the eZine Visit his website at : www.stephenbacon.co.uk

Stephen Bacon at FantasyCon 2008

- 26 -

PHOTOS FROM THE EVENT

Stephen Jones signing Best New Horror 19 : Photo by Brendan Vaughan

- 27 -

ALLYSON BIRD

“F

antasycon 2008 was my third convention and I think that it was Gary McMahon who first told me about it. Bringing my book to Fantasycon was a great opportunity to promote my debut collection, to meet new writers and readers, and as always to have a bloody great party with friends met in previous years too! The panels and readings were interesting and Fantasycon

The bull : Photo by Brendan Vaughan

is a wonderful place to meet like-minded people. Where else in the world could I have had breakfast with Ian Watson, talked to Chris Golden about trolls on forum boards in America, and listened to ghost stories late at night in the gloomy corridors of a hotel?

Other highlights for me Joel Lane winning the award for My Stone Desire short story. I bought THE LOST DISTRICT last year and was bowled over by his work. Guy brought the black bull from Spain and he did a marvellous job with Sarah Pinborough with the raffle. David Howe going down on his knees before me, chats with Lee Harris, Troo, Lee Thompson, Steve Upham, Brendan, Paul Campbell, Geoff Nelder, Selina and Jay in the dealers’ room, getting locked out of my room repeatedly, drinking far too much Guinness in the bar with John Travis, Paul Finch, Terry Grimwood, Chris Gange, Lee Moan, Steve Bacon, Jeff Brown, Vincent Chong, Paul, Simon Bestwick, Simon Clark, - 28 -

ALLYSON BIRD Stephen Volk, Tony Richards (we both love Hong Kong). Chats with Peter Coleborn, (pause for breath) Stephen Theaker, GCW and Susie, Mick and Debs, JLP, Gary (you snogged Conrad) McMahon and Emily, Simon Stranza and Fran, Sam Stone, Terry Martin, Mark West …..Dave Price, Greg Hamerton, Charles Black, Stu Young, Mark Samuels, Adriana, Paul Roberts, Trebay, Mark Morris, Wayne, Nadie, Roy Gray, Darren Turpin, ….John Grant (sadly a brief hello), Martin and Helen, Marie and Paul…. going to forget someone if I’m not careful…..Ramsey Campbell, Niki Crowther, Mandy, Teaguey, Steve Lockley, Graham Joyce, Gary Couzens, Andrew Hook, Ian Whates, …apologies to those missed off….never got time to see all the people I wanted to though… ” Copyright © Allyson Bird 2008

Find out more about Ally’s work at : www.birdsnest.me.uk

Ally (the author) and Steve (publisher) : Photo by Brendan Vaughan

- 29 -

ALLYSON BIRD

The SD table in the dealers room

- 30 -

ALLYSON BIRD

Launched at FantasyCon 2008 : Photo by Brendan Vaughan

Bull Running for Girls

by Allyson Bird ISBN : 978-1-906652-01-2 Paperback : 216x138mm : 272pp Cover artwork by Vincent Chong

A selection of adventure/horror stories set in many locations, from the excitement and danger of bull running in Pamplona, to small town life in Madison County, U.S. Stories set amidst the bustle of Hong Kong, on The Silk Road in China and under a Hunter’s moon in Bordeaux. Then there are those which are much closer to home.

For more information please visit the Screaming Dreams website.

- 31 -

CHARLES BLACK

A

t the railway station, a disembodied voice - impossible to tell whether it were male or female - announced: “The train about to depart from platform five is the o eight hundred hours service to-” Abruptly the public address system crackled, emitted a burst of noise that had people covering their ears, then finally fell silent; it’s message incomplete.

Onboard the train in question, a bowler hatted gentleman complained, “Packed in like sardines in a tin, it really is intolerable.”

Henry Lester agreed. “For the amount of money we have to pay, we should be guaranteed a seat,” he muttered to himself.

All the seats were occupied, most by people, but a few filled with luggage.

Standing by the doors at one end of the carriage, were a group of travellers, unable or unwilling to request that a seat be cleared of it’s baggage.

“Squeeze tight here comes one more,” announced the man in the bowler hat.

The door opened again and they were joined by a fat man with long hair.

He was out of puff from the exertions of his dash to catch the train.

"Phew, just made it," he wheezed. "I've never run so fast before," he laughed, still gasping for breath, "I reckon I could win gold at the Olympics running like that."

Henry Lester did not voice his opinion, that if the Russians boycotted their own Olympics along with everyone else, it was doubtful that the fat man would win a gold medal.

The fat man went on, asking the obvious, "Full up again are we? I should know better by now; if I want a seat and not a mad dash I will have to get out of bed sooner," he laughed again.

"It's always the same," a woman moaned, "you’d think British Rail could put on an extra carriage or two."

The others murmured agreement, as the train slowly rumbled off from the station.

Henry Lester was on his way to work. He was a small man, and had found himself pushed into a corner. He rubbed his eyes and surveyed the other occupants of the small space.

Oh God, same as usual, the smelly one, the sweaty one, the fat one, the fidgety one, and the mum with the noisy brat.

Not that he meant these were the same people, just that they always fitted - 32 -

CHARLES BLACK into one of these categories. He hoped none of them would try to start a conversation with him.

Henry Lester was what most people would call a loner; he kept to himself.

To be honest he hated contact with most people, he hated travelling to and from work by train, but he had never passed his driving test.

The fat man was surreptitiously picking his nose.

Dirty pig, Lester thought, looking away in disgust.

That was Lester's problem with people; they were dirty; infected. You never knew what they had been doing, what they had been touching. Someone started coughing and someone had farted. The train shook and Henry Lester was jostled. He gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on looking out of the window, even though it was too muddy to see through. It was an interminable journey that should have taken twenty minutes but instead lasted almost an hour.

Lester had had a terrible day at the office. His superior, Mr. Mortenson was not pleased that he had arrived late. He insisted that Lester made up for his tardiness by staying on after hours - without overtime. Mortenson also made sure that Lester’s already voluminous workload was bigger than normal.

All of which meant that when he eventually escaped from work, Lester had his own mad dash to the station to avoid missing the last train home. In his hurry he forgot his gloves.

At least his journey home looked as if it would be better than this morning’s.

Lester had a window seat, goodness only knew who had sat there before, or how many people had put their feet up on it.

Oh well, he thought, as soon as I get home, I’ll change out of these contaminated clothes, and take a shower.

Lester was rudely roused from his thoughts when he realised someone was sitting next to him.

If I keep looking out of the window perhaps they won’t try to start a conversation.

His plan did not work; a voice whined next to him, "Hello there. Well this is better than this morning isn't it?"

The man was fat, had long greasy hair, and a faintly ridiculous goatee beard. Lester recognised him as the man who had to run to catch the train this - 33 -

CHARLES BLACK morning. Lester smiled politely, but did not speak. Inwardly he cringed.

I hope he's getting off at the next stop.

"Why, oh why they don't put on an extra carriage is beyond me it really is.

That train is always crowded isn't it."

"Yes." Lester reluctantly agreed "Still they always are aren't they? Even this one."

What is he on about? thought Lester, this train’s relatively quiet, in fact there are several empty seats. Why did he have to sit next to me?

The fat man continued, "But then again, everywhere is crowded when you think about it. Know what I mean?"

Lester smiled again.

Oh God, he's a nutter. What on Earth is he on about? Why do they always have to sit next to me?

Oblivious to Lester’s thoughts, the fat man continued, "When you realise that all around us there are life forms, many that aren't visible normally, then you really know what crowded means, shall I show you?"

Lester did not answer.

“Oh, by the way my name’s Trevor,” the fat man introduced himself whilst fishing around in his pocket. Eventually he pulled out a grubby handkerchief.

Lester was hard pressed not to tut.

He unwrapped it to reveal a clear piece of crystal, small enough to sit in the palm of his hand. "It’s your lucky day, meeting me. You see, you can see them with this crystal. It comes from the tenth planet. In a way it’s like a crystal ball, although,” he laughed, “it’s not a ball, and you don’t have to look into it. You just have to touch it."

Lester had had enough, the man was obviously mad. Lester was no astronomer but he was sure there were only nine planets, never mind invisible forms of life.

And even if there were, why would touching a crystal reveal them? He had never heard such ridiculous nonsense. He started to rise with the intention of moving to another seat. "Excuse me please, this is my stop coming up," he lied, hoping that the man would not realise that there was no station imminent.

"Don't you want to see? It will only take a moment."

“No, I don’t, thank you.”

The train jolted, and Lester had to steady himself, as he did so his right - 34 -

CHARLES BLACK hand brushed against the crystal. The contact was only brief, but Lester recoiled in disgust.

Damn and blast! If only I’d remembered my gloves.

Lester’s vision blurred, and he felt dizzy. He rubbed his eyes.

What was that?

A new world was becoming visible to Henry Lester.

"There, you should be able to see them now. The crystal's magic, it's amazing isn't it? These are the elementals and spirits; are you familiar with the writings of Paracelsus? They are the jinn and efrret of the mystic seers of the East, and the familiars of witches." The fat man was talking but Lester was not listening.

Around him Henry Lester could see strange creatures; they were everywhere. Monstrosities of madness, things that should not be, among them things with a resemblance to jellyfish crawling through the air, a floating cloud of green mist that had a multitude of disturbingly human eyes. And many others so outlandish and alien of shape and colour that they defied description.

The creatures seemed aware of each other but were oblivious of Lester and his fellow passengers. He shook in horror, "Oh my god, what are they? Keep them away from me."

The fat man pointed at one of the beings, a kind of winged worm or snake.

"Well you see that one there, according to Prinn that's a …"

Although he felt nothing Lester screamed as one of the creatures passed through him. The other passengers were unaware of what Lester could see, and they tried to ignore his strange behaviour by burying their heads in their newspapers, or looking out of the window.

"It's all right, these are harmless. Mind you, there are some that are dangerous, downright lethal in fact. You know when all of a sudden someone drops dead, no apparent cause and they say heart attack, well that's because…

Hey, what are you doing?"

To everyone's astonishment, Lester clambered over the fat man and ran to the end of the carriage screaming.

By the time any of them realised what he was going to do it was too late, and Henry Lester had opened the carriage door and thrown himself from the fast moving train.

Copyright © Charles Black 2008

- 35 -

CHARLES BLACK

Charles publishes the excellent Black Book anthologies at Mortbury Press - 36 -

PHOTOS FROM THE EVENT

A colourful Stephen Volk chats with Allyson Bird

John L. Probert reads one of the stories from his Coffin Nails book

- 37 -

BOOK OF THE MONTH!

COFFIN NAILS Available now from Ash-Tree Press

W

elcome to the sinister, scary and sometimes outrageous world of John Llewellyn Probert. A place filled with troubled schoolchildren, overbearing theatre producers, brilliant surgeons and nervous billionaires.

Where a walk in the country can lead to a mansion filled with beautiful women, or a trap from which you can never escape. Where a picture on the wall of a primary school classroom can come to life with appalling consequences, and a rugby match can be the scene for a burned witch’s revenge. Meet the parents who think they know what is best for their son - until he returns from the grave to show them otherwise. Learn about the girl who found solace in a burial chamber near Prague, and discover the real reason why West End musicals succeed or fail.

Ash-Tree Press is proud to present award-winning author John Llewellyn Probert’s Coffin Nails - eighteen tales designed to make you gasp with horror and shudder with delight with a volume so gripping that as you read it you may well fail to notice the twisted, taloned creature that escaped when you opened the cover creeping up behind you to do its dreadful work. Once you’ve satisfied yourself that there’s nothing there please feel free to read the rest of the book, but remember- we never said it was visible.

- 38 -

NEIL DAVIES

"I

’ve killed seventy-four men and thirty-three women in my professional life," said Harry, his voice flat, emotionless. "Seventy-five men if you count Ricky The Rodent, but he panicked and ran and fell into a quarry, so I don’t really feel I can take credit for that one."

Jennifer Padstow nodded in understanding and listened with a grim and forcefully sustained expression of unflappable interest. She tried her best to ignore the voice inside screaming, Seventy-four men and thirty-three women…

You’re alone in a car with a fucking psycho!

She was proud of the steadiness in her voice as she asked her next question.

"You remember his name? Ricky The Rodent I mean."

Harry nodded.

"I remember all their names. Just a knack I seem to have." He hesitated.

"Are you sure this is the kind of stuff your editor wants?"

"Oh yes," smiled Jennifer. He’d feed his own grandmother to wild dogs and finish his evening with canine burgers to get a scoop like this. "It’s not every day we get a professional hitman willing to talk to us."

"Hitperson," he corrected her. "We’re very politically correct in our organisation these days."

"So, you have female hit… people?"

Harry laughed. "Not that politically correct."

Inspiration, thought Jennifer. An angle. Wonder if I could get Equal Opportunities to investigate the world of contract killing?

"So," she said, smiling slightly and trying to compose her voice to its best detached reporter tone. "Tell me what made you decide to come forward and offer us your story."

Harry sighed. Every time he explained his reasons, be it to another person or to his own reflection in the small mirror of another hotel bathroom, he felt a little older, a little more tired, a little more unsure of his sanity.

But they had left him little choice.

"My targets told me it was time to quit, time to come clean."

Jennifer hesitated, unsure she understood.

"By your targets you mean…?"

Harry nodded slowly, his head heavy with exhaustion.

"Yes. My targets. My victims. My dead victims. They made it very clear that it was time to stop."

- 39 -

NEIL DAVIES They had arranged to meet at the Sandbach Services on the M6 at 7pm. The cold winter night had already closed in as she had waited, as instructed, in the well-lit entry of the shop. He had pulled up outside the doorway in his dark blue Peugeot 407 and, together, they had driven north on the motorway.

They were still on the motorway, climbing the incline through the hills of the Lake District, low cloud sitting over them, rolling down the hillsides, pooling as fog in the valleys and across the roadway.

Neither had spoken for almost five minutes before Jennifer, feeling the interview slipping away from her control, nervously cleared her throat.

"So…" She glanced sideways at the man driving the car. The hitman. The hitman whose dead victims came back and told him to stop killing.

He stared straight ahead, concentrating on the fog-wreathed road, his deep-set brown eyes unblinking, his sharp, ski slope of a nose sniffing occasionally with the beginnings of a cold. His square jaw was set in a firm jut, his lips pressed tight together. She guessed his age to be mid-forties, but he was in good shape for it. If circumstances had been different, she might have found him attractive.

This is insane, she thought. Totally insane.

She cleared her throat again.

"These victims of yours… do you see them? I mean, do they appear in front of you? Solid? Transparent…?" Her voice faded as she felt the danger of a mocking tone edging toward her. She did not want to antagonize this man.

A wry smile twitched at the edge of Harry’s mouth.

"They talk to me. I don’t see them, I just hear them." He tapped a finger against the side of his head for emphasis.

The man is certifiably crazy. Maybe I can work that angle for the story?

"So, killing all these people over the years must have had an effect on you, yes?" She could hear the slight tremble of fear in her voice and it annoyed her.

"It must take some kind of toll on your mind, surely. Do you have nightmares?

Do you think about their families?"

"Am I mad you mean?" He laughed. "No, I don’t have nightmares, I don’t worry about their families and I don’t feel any guilt or remorse for what I’ve done. It’s a job. I’m very good at it. Or was."

"And the voices?"

"Not dreams. Not nightmares. They’re real, I have no doubt about that."

- 40 -

NEIL DAVIES He flicked the indicator and turned off the motorway, up a dark slip road, turning left at the roundabout.

For a moment neither spoke. Jennifer had not even seen the junction approaching and could not make out exactly where they were. Harry peered through the windscreen, watched the twisting of the narrow, unlit country road they were now on.

"How old are you Jennifer?"

Jennifer shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the question for reasons she could not fully comprehend.

"Twenty-two. Why?" "I think we can agree that I’m a lot older than you, and I’ve seen a lot more things in my life." He slowed the car to navigate a particularly sharp bend and then eased down on the accelerator once more. "I’ve seen so many people die, Jennifer, and if you had asked me if I believed in ghosts six months ago I would have laughed in your face. All those people dead by my hand and not one had come back to haunt me. Ghosts did not exist."

"And now?"

The wry smile returned to his tight lips.

"Oh, they exist now all right. And they’re not happy."

With an empty road in front and behind he eased the car off onto a flat, muddy pathway leading to a rusted five-bar gate. As he bumped to a stop he turned off the engine and shuffled in his seat so he faced towards the reporter.

"Have you ever killed anyone Jennifer?"

Resisting the urge to lean backwards, away from him, Jennifer shook her head.

"Do you think you could? If you had to? Self defence maybe?"

"No." She found her voice, cleared her throat to rid it of the nervous crackle she heard in her own head. "No, I could never take another human life."

"It’s not hard you know. In fact, it’s surprisingly easy. One you’ve done the first couple, you don’t even see them as human anymore."

Uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking, and that her interviewee was turning into the interviewer, she searched for a way to take control once more.

"Why have we stopped here?"

"I killed people all over the place, but I needed a safe location to bury the - 41 -

NEIL DAVIES evidence." He turned and looked out the windscreen once more. "This is it. I was burying bodies here when you had to drive across fields to get here. In fact, this road was built on my work."

Jennifer shuddered involuntarily and was startled when he pushed open the door.

"Where are you going?" She felt suddenly very vulnerable, very frightened.

She was with a contract killer at his secret burial ground. How hard would it be for him to add one more body to those already interred here?

He stopped with one leg out of the door and turned, smiling, to her.

"I’ve brought you to meet them."

"Who?" "The ghosts."

The cold soaked through her coat, making her unsure how much was the night and how much the fear that made her knees tremble. Her arms were folded, hands tucked into her armpits.

She stood in front of the car, in the narrow light thrown by the headlamps.

The night was quiet, unusually so she thought. Not even the sound of traffic on the motorway. Had they driven further than she thought? Or was it the deep blackness that pressed against the light from the car, smothering all sound as surely as it had smothered Harry the moment he stepped away from her.

"Harry?" Her teeth chattered as she spoke. "Why don’t you come back here and carry on with the interview?" Like at this moment I care about the damn interview! "I’m cold Harry. Let’s get back in the car and talk."

She tried to see into the darkness, anything that might tell her where he was.

He could be sneaking up on her right now. He could kill her before she even knew he was there. Maybe he’d changed his mind? Maybe he’d decided not to give the interview, and couldn’t risk leaving her alive with what she already knew about him? Childhood fears of the dark and the very adult fear of being murdered crowded for space in her brain, forcing the rational reporter to the sidelines. She could no longer think coherently. She just knew she had to escape from this alive… somehow.

She turned quickly, first one way, then the other, staring down the beam of the headlights, trying to see beyond where they penetrated. Trying to see Harry. Wondering which way to run, where to hide.

- 42 -

NEIL DAVIES "Sorry."

His voice came from her left and she jumped, letting loose a small scream that she was immediately ashamed of.

Harry smiled as he stepped into the light.

"Didn’t mean to frighten you. Just wanted to make sure everywhere was clear. I have to be careful."

"Of ghosts?" She tried to smile, to show she was not afraid, but she could not stop the trembling in her muscles, or the shakiness of her voice. It was all she could do to hold back the tears that filled her eyes and threatened to spill down her cold cheeks.

"No. The ghosts don’t frighten me, not anymore. But there are people who would rather I didn’t talk to you."

She hesitated, suddenly excited by this new angle. Years of wanting to be a reporter climbed over the fear, pushing it down, if not controlling it then momentarily suppressing it.

The hitman on the run. This would give her story even more human interest, ensuring more readers and a higher profile in the magazine. I like it.

He handed her a CD in a clear plastic envelope.

"This has all the names and details of the people buried here. It should help give them the closure they're demanding. For them and their families."

She tucked it into her coat pocket and was about to speak, to draw more information from him, when the pop, like a firework, echoed in the quiet night air.

Harry stared at her for a moment, eyes wide with surprise and sudden pain, and then fell, almost in slow motion, folding up before her, lying down on the ground with a grotesque gentleness.

She stood, saying nothing, not sure what she felt until she saw the blood oozing from beneath his fallen body. Then she knew the fear she had felt before was nothing, not compared to the terror she was experiencing now. The certainty that, out in the dark was a killer, and that she would be the next target.

She screamed.

The car headlights died, plunging Jennifer into a heavy darkness, intensified by the sudden loss of light.

A hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her sideways and down. She yelped - 43 -

NEIL DAVIES in surprise, stumbled and fell to the mud, jarring her knee and her hip as she rolled.

Another pop, strangely subdued in the quiet countryside, and she heard something push through the air above her head. It took her shocked mind a moment to realise it had been a bullet.

"Jennifer."

The voice was barely a whisper, a croaking, wet whisper that bubbled and spat.

"Harry?" She reached towards where she could see the faintest outline of a huddled body against the skyline. Her questing fingers dropped into thick, viscous fluid and she pulled back for a moment, knowing it was his blood. She reached again, found his barely twitching hand, wet and sticky.

"Jennifer, listen to me." His voice was weak and she could hear the blood catching in his words, making it difficult for him to speak. "Without the lights he can’t see you at distance. He’ll have to come in close. I won’t be able to help, I can barely move."

He paused and, for a moment, she thought she could hear quiet sobs coming from him. When he spoke again his voice was even weaker. She strained to hear him.

"Jennifer, I’m sorry this has happened to you. I didn’t mean…"

"Harry…" She was crying herself now, not sure whether it was for her or for Harry.

"Reach inside my jacket."

She hesitated, unsure she could force herself to feel through the blood for his body.

"Please, Jennifer. My jacket."

She took a deep breath, rolled towards him, wincing as her elbow landed in a pool of… what? She couldn’t be sure. She did not want to think on it. With a final stretch she found his side, surprisingly dry, and slid her fingers inside his jacket. They met cold metal.

"Take the gun Jennifer. When he comes in close it’ll be your only chance."

"I can’t Harry. I’ve never… I couldn’t take a life, I told you."

"This man will kill you if you don’t try." He coughed and spat. She felt droplets of blood hit her face. "Jennifer, you have to try."

Desperately she searched the darkness, hoping for something that would - 44 -

NEIL DAVIES take the decision away from her, but she could see nothing save the dark outline of the car, the headlights no longer shining.

The headlights.

How had he…?

"Harry? How did you turn the headlights off?"

He laughed. It soon collapsed into a spasm of coughing, but for a moment she actually heard him laugh.

"I didn’t." She could barely hear his voice. "The ghosts did!"

She saw the outline of the man walking slowly by the side of the car.

It had seemed an eternity, in reality only minutes, while she waited for him to arrive. Harry had been silent since he told her about the headlights. She was not even sure he was alive any more.

She had waited, sitting in mud that grew thicker with the slow crawling advance of Harry’s blood. She cried quietly, still shivering, but more with the cold than fear. She felt she had somehow fallen through the fear into a strange calmness. What would happen would happen. She was as prepared as she could be.

The man stepped closer, flicked on a flashlight, played the beam first over Harry’s unmoving body and then Jennifer. She squinted in the sudden light but otherwise did not move.

She saw the barrel of the gun rise into the edge of the flashlight’s beam, aiming directly for her. Perversely, the strongest thought that flickered through her mind was that she had not heard the man’s voice. How could he kill her without even speaking to her? The thought angered her.

She waited for the crack, the expected pain, but she would not close her eyes. She stared into the light, hating the man who held it.

She flinched as the barrel moved, but it was not the recoil of a shot. As the flashlight, too, jerked upwards she saw the fist wrapped around the gun, a pale, grey fist with flesh that seemed to squirm and writhe, as if the blood vessels were alive, twisting and burrowing.

The car headlights burst into life, shattering the dark of the night, momentarily blinding Jennifer as she recoiled in surprise.

She heard the struggle before her eyes adjusted enough to see it. The man with the gun pulled and fought for control of his weapon, a weapon held - 45 -

NEIL DAVIES solidly by another man, strangely hard to focus on, as if he drifted in and out of reality. But she saw enough to know he was naked and his whole skin behaved as the skin of the hand had. Rippling, writhing, as though thousands of worms burrowed through the bones and muscles.

Worms. She felt suddenly nauseous. Oh my God! "Now Jennifer." Harry, barely alive, croaked the command to her. "You have to do it now!"

The pistol felt heavy beyond its size as she pulled it from behind her back.

It took all her strength to lift it in front of her, to point it at the two men struggling, to start pulling the trigger.

It kicked, hurt her hand, her arm, as each shot screamed away from her. At first nothing happened, her shots flying wildly into the dark, but then the man with the gun jerked as though hit in the side. Again and again. He let go of his gun and staggered backwards, glaring angrily at Jennifer. He lurched forwards, trying to reach her.

She kept pulling the trigger, a lucky shot ripping the man’s ear from his head, another drilling through his left eye, bursting blood and brain in a fantail that sparkled almost prettily in the headlights.

She was still pulling the trigger, empty clicks echoing around her, as the man fell to the roadway, dead.

She dropped the gun, buried her face in her hands and cried, looking up only as she heard the ghosts approaching.

They came out of the night, a susurration of wind and whispering flowing in their wake. Men and women. Naked, grey, skin as alive and writhing as the one who had struggled with the killer.

One hundred and seven of them, she guessed. One hundred and eight if Ricky the Rodent's among them.

They approached her from all sides, footsteps silent, mouths closed, only the unending background of barely discernible whispering and an icy, flowing breeze that wrapped around her.

They stopped ten feet away, close enough that she should have felt threatened, frightened, yet she felt strangely calm. These figures, so grey they almost melted into the night, their eyes full of sadness and loss, even the unnatural movement of their skin, seemed to be right to Jennifer. It was right - 46 -

NEIL DAVIES that they were here. She was the interloper.

Beside her, Harry groaned, still clinging onto life.

When Jennifer spoke, she was surprised at how strong, how calm she sounded.

"Why did you save Harry? Why did you stop the other man from killing us both?"

"We did not want Harry to die at the other’s hand."

The words were spoken, not by one voice, but by a choir of mismatched, disjointed voices, speaking directly into her head. She saw no mouths move on the ghostly apparitions before her.

"But Harry killed all of you." Her journalistic mind struggled to understand, unconsciously searching for a story even in the midst of her shock at the events of the night.

"We did not want the other to kill him." Those voices again, hard to listen to, strangely easy to comprehend. "We have so much more planned for Harry."

The ground trembled, began to pitch and roll beneath her.

An earthquake, she thought, scrambling backwards, painfully to her feet, stumbling towards the car. But we don’t get earthquakes. Not like this.

Harry moaned again and she saw his eyes flutter open in the light from the headlights. Then the ground rolled again, visibly this time, ripples pushing upwards in the solid roadway, waves of tarmac crashing towards them. Cracks snapped open around her, around Harry, strange pulsing light spearing up through the openings. Unnatural, blinding light.

Something roared, more than the wind, more than the splintering ground.

It was the roar of an animal, a creature, large and deadly and angry.

Jennifer screamed, covered her ears, fell back against the bonnet of the car as explosion after explosion tore apart the world around her. And the one thought kept circling in her mind…

I killed a man, and now I'm going to die… is this justice?

Silence fell, almost as deafening in its way as the roar before it.

Slowly Jennifer opened her eyes, blinking back tears, trying to ignore the pounding in her head, the stabbing pain behind her eyes.

The ghosts had gone. The roadway, in the still shining headlights of the car, was empty and flat, the mud and tarmac unbroken. Her would-be killer lay unmoving to one side, blood pooling alongside him.

- 47 -

NEIL DAVIES And Harry?

Jennifer cried, unashamed and unrestrained, sobbing out her fear and her sorrow.

Harry was gone. Alive or dead, he was gone, swallowed up by the ground, the very road built on the bodies of his victims.

Copyright Š Neil Davies 2006

Road Rage was originally published in The Midnight Hour collection (still available from Screaming Dreams) Check out the author’s website at : www.nwdavies.co.uk

The Midnight Hour

by Neil Davies ISBN : 978-0-9555185-0-8 Paperback : 216x138mm : 176pp Cover artwork by Steve Upham

Short story collection featuring 14 tales of dark imagination.

The Midnight Hour, Argument, Ribbons Of Blood, The Shadow, When The Fires Die, Photographs, The Perfect Marriage, Road Rage, Virgin Flesh, Death by Popcorn, Frozen Food, Away With The Fairies, Bonding, The Extreme Makeover Of Helen Watson For more information and to order your copy please visit the book page on the Screaming Dreams website, thank you.

- 48 -

BOOK LAUNCH

A

lthough the Dragons book was originally printed in May, we decided to make this the official launch, being the first opportunity to get together for an event. It may be worth mentioning that we (author and publisher) had recently been in hospital (not the same hospital though, that would have been a bit too spooky) with heart-related problems, so it was fortunate we were able to make it to the convention. Maybe the book business should come with a government health warning!

The Dragons of Manhattan

by John Grant.

ISBN : 978-1-906652-00-5 Paperback : 216x138mm : 368pp Cover artwork by Bob Eggleton

Can it be true that the right-wing US Administration of President Alfie Sedoma is under the control of shapeshifting dragons who regard human beings as prey?

A wonderfully funny, acidly sharp political satire. The original serialized story is now available as a complete novel in paperback for the first time.

For more information and to order your copy please visit the book page on the Screaming Dreams website, thank you.

- 49 -

BOOK LAUNCH

John Grant with a copy of his Dragons novel

- 50 -

PAUL KANE

T

hey think nobody knows what’s going on in this street, behind the net curtains.

But Leo knows. He’s known for some time. And he’s been watching them very closely indeed.

This neighbourhood used to be quite a pleasant one. Mason Close was a really lovely cul-de-sac. Everybody knew everyone else by name. You could walk to the local shop in safety, greet people on the way with a nod and a friendly hello.

Perhaps even stop and have a gossip about the weather or the Test Match. Leo remembers when it used to be like this. But everything has changed now.

It all began when he returned home to find that Mr Hill, the old man who lived directly opposite from him, had died; a happy soul who went to the old age pensioner’s club on Mondays and enjoyed a game of dominoes and a pint down the Legion every other night. Anyhow, things had moved on somewhat while Leo had been away. No. 2 had been snapped up very quickly, and the first ones had moved in.

He watched them to-ing and fro-ing from the sanctuary of his home. From the moment he first saw them, he could tell something wasn’t quite right. Granted, they looked normal enough to the untrained eye. A husband (stocky, sable-haired, who always wore casual slacks and a polo shirt), a wife (thin woman with short-cropped hair, who favoured silk blouses and dark polyester skirts) and one child (a boy of maybe ten or eleven, complete with trainers and a baseball cap).

Leo discovered later on that they called themselves the Gibson family.

He gave it a week or so before setting foot outside. Mr Gibson came out of the front door at the exact same time, almost as if he’d been waiting for just such a sign. Gibson came over to speak with him; he’d made the first move – first contact.

Trying to come across as the friendly neighbour sort, but Leo could see past this act. Gibson was attempting to weigh him up. There was a coldness behind that stare, cold like an icy key down the back to cure hiccups.

Gibson wanted to know all about him, what he did, where he’d been when they first moved in - abroad? Leo gave nothing away. He couldn’t talk about it, not even to his own relations. So he just said: ‘I’m retired now. Took an early package.’

‘Nice,’ answered Gibson.

Then the man was inviting him inside for a coffee, and like an idiot he’d gone along with it. As Leo came down the steps to the house, he noticed the curtains twitching in the upstairs bedroom. Someone observing him. He knew all about - 51 -

PAUL KANE observation. His instincts were screaming at him to leave, to get the hell away from that place. But he was as curious about the Gibsons as they seemed to be about him.

They were still in the process of redecorating, Gibson explained, so he hoped Leo would excuse their mess. Nodding politely, he’d sat opposite Gibson in a luxurious black armchair – that matched the man’s hair – and had been introduced to his wife when she “returned from the garden”; Leo had seen no one in the garden. Maybe she’d been the one peeping at him from upstairs.

‘How do you do,’ she said in a husky voice, looking him up and down before smiling. He couldn’t help noticing that throughout the afternoon she was staring intently at him, all the while Gibson was talking – about how they’d moved away from the city to avoid the hustle and bustle, not to mention the stress.

Each time he turned his head to look at Gibson’s wife she would be perusing him, catching his eye, not even bothering to conceal her scrutiny. The fact that she was collating data. Inspecting, just as he would later do himself. Occasionally she would cross her legs very slowly, trying to gauge his reaction. Would he be enticed?

When Leo ignored her charms Gibson sat there smirking at them both.

Leo knew now that he was being toyed with, lured into the spider’s web. But he’d resisted, made his excuses, and left.

Ever since that initial encounter he’d been wary of the Gibsons. There was definitely something strange about them and one day he would find out what it was. Only from a distance, from behind his net curtains.

He never made actual contact with them again; Leo was far too clever for that.

During the course of those next few months he witnessed a string of people visiting the house. Mostly male, but some women too, they were of all ages and creed. Each and every caller would be welcomed at the door by a kiss, and sometimes even a hug. Then he’d see fleeting glimpses of figures at the window, shadows really, but always upstairs. Always in the bedroom.

So that’s what they’re up to, he thought. Running a high-class bordello in the middle of suburbia. If only it had been that innocent.

For he started to notice that although the clients left after their first few sessions beaming, on subsequent visits they always looked more agitated and sombre when they reappeared.

And how could Leo ever forget the day that one man went in at 5:00 p.m. and didn’t come out again? What had happened to him? Where had he gone to? He - 52 -

PAUL KANE couldn’t have slipped out through the back or while Leo was looking away because he’d kept his eyes peeled for hours, well into the evening when the light had flickered on upstairs. He never broke off once, not even to go to the toilet. All right, so he’d fallen asleep in the small hours of the morning, but by that time the guy had already been inside longer than any of the others. And he never came to the house again.

Their son had been at school when he’d gone round that first time, but Leo soon became aware of his movements on the street. The boy had apparently attracted a group of other youths into his orbit and they went out most nights, no doubt to vandalise or steal cars. They wouldn’t return until well after dark.

But it wasn’t just children who succumbed to their allure. He saw people from the street – Jim Cox from no. 4, Eileen and Freddie Drake from no. 9, the Richards from no. 14 – all of whom he’d known for years, frequenting the Gibsons’ domicile. It tantalised them somehow and he appeared to be the only one who was immune. The only one who could see that something was awry.

The only person on the outside looking in.

Gradually a change took place on the close. It was subtle, over the course of a year or more. But it was there, a pattern. Houses became empty because the people living there had suddenly upped and moved away. It didn’t ring true with him. Something had happened to his friends, just like it had happened to the man who went in and never came out again. The houses were purchased by more of their kind. More odd families. He could tell because of the way they all got on so well with the Gibsons. The way they looked at them. Something in their expressions gave them away. A pretence. And those residents who’d been living on Mason’s Close for years became strange. They refused to talk to Leo or come round anymore. Moreover they would stand whispering on the end of the road, pointing to his house.

The initiated.

He decided to invest in some powerful night vision binoculars (£399, but he considered them worth it for his own peace of mind). They allowed him to see what went on during the darkest hours, and beyond the net curtains.

His hunch was validated soon enough when he saw shapes moving about on the close, things that he couldn’t quite make out even with the glasses.

As for the Gibsons, well Leo saw more than enough to arouse his suspicions.

Naked flesh, disgustingly perverse acts. Scenes he couldn’t come to terms with.

- 53 -

PAUL KANE Men were hauled about in chains and struck repeatedly, hung up on the wall like dolls while Mrs Gibson strode around the room with her head held high. And her “husband” sat on the bed enjoying every minute of it.

But that was as far as it went before she’d pull the curtains and switch on the light, cutting him off. Did they somehow know he was wise to their secret activities? How could they? He’d been so careful. Yet he could have sworn that Mrs Gibson looked right at him one night, gazing across at the window where he stood behind the net curtains. He pulled back just in time, persuading himself that she had seen nothing. Not the glint of his binoculars, nor his blackened form.

But this had not been enough. He needed tangible evidence that he could take to the police, or possibly even to his old colleagues. Because he knew that whatever was going on in the house facing his was sure to be illegal. And it was probably happening in most of the residences on Mason Close. It called for desperate measures.

And that’s when he broke into their home.

He watched and waited for his opportunity, while they were all out in the car one Saturday afternoon, then he’d slipped surreptitiously inside. Leo was brilliant at this kind of thing. Nobody saw him and he left no trace of his presence. You could get into virtually anywhere if you had the right knowledge and skills.

Installing the camera had been an easy task after that: a small device he’d bought from a security firm which fitted neatly out of sight inside an air vent. It would transmit pictures back to his place so he could tape the results. Satisfied, he’d left the house the same way he got in. Mission accomplished. He still had his old touch.

He should have steered clear. Simply moved away and made a fresh start somewhere else. Somewhere safe (was there such a place?). Because Leo would never again feel secure in the close once he knew the truth. Once he had seen them feeding...

Mrs Gibson had closed the curtains as she always did now, then clicked on the bedside lamp. Their victim on that occasion had been a fellow in his twenties who had entered the building earlier on in the day. It was his sixth and final visit.

No sooner had she stepped away from the window than she lunged at the stripped – and whipped – man, husband Gibson clapping his approval. Her face seemed to be smudged on the monitor like a ruined charcoal drawing, misshapen as she shook it from side to side. She did unspeakable things to him but still the man made no protest. His willpower had been sapped during all those previous - 54 -

PAUL KANE calls. Blood spurted from hidden wounds on his neck and chest, drenching the mad woman as her frenzy continued.

It was as she looked up for the third or forth time that he saw her true face, the one she dared not show to the world. Something not of this world. He gasped, turning away from these relentless sights. He could hear her calling to Gibson to join in and when he’d summoned enough strength to look again he even saw their son at the door, inhaling the coppery air, eager to participate. With a shaky hand Leo had turned down the volume, the awful sounds more than he could bear...

He hadn’t known what he’d expected to see, a murder perhaps? Or, or...But never this. His mind could barely function at all afterwards.

How could he let this go on? It wasn’t what he’d fought for all these years.

Something had to be done, and soon before they came for him (already the boy had taken to ringing him and then hanging up; Leo knew who it was, he knew it).

He had to strike now. It was the only way. The accursed vermin infesting his street had to be vanquished, eliminated.

But Leo could not undertake this battle alone. The Gibsons had their new “friends” on the close. He would be forced to bring in the authorities and his old mates. They were bound to listen now that he had proof.

To give them their due, they did respond quickly when he called ‘I’m going to do it now, you’d better hurry. I’m going to kill them all!’

- but only after he had already started the cull.

Leo waited for the creatures to emerge, the make believe families taking their “children” to school...Then he’d opened fire with weapons he should have handed in long ago (there was no way – ban or no fucking ban!). Weapons from his own attic storeroom; weapons he knew how to use with deadly accuracy.

By the time the cops arrived Leo was well into the massacre, having dispatched six of their number while others tried to stop him. They didn’t even bother to hide now. They wore their actual faces openly as hysteria set in.

Armed response teams blared on to the scene. His backup. They had their own guns drawn, ready to join in the fight. But why were they all trained on him?

He had to move or...

The police didn’t give him time to explain further before they cut him down.

And as he lay on the floor he knew what they would think, that he had gone off his head. Because they still couldn’t see it. Damn them all! He was the only one who could see what they were really like, the threat they posed...that much was - 55 -

PAUL KANE apparent now. The bodies on the floor, the ones standing around crying, grieving for their lost kin. Lost comrades, more like...

‘Lis...Listen to me...you’re in danger...These people...they’re not human...’

They’d blame the conflict, the chemicals, or the drugs he’d been given to counter their effects. But it couldn’t be that. Leo was all clear. No side effects.

‘We...we’ve been fighting the wrong war...’ he gurgled, the words foaming out of his mouth.

When his old friends from Special Forces arrived, they’d handle this.

Straighten everything out. They’d take one look at the tape and see that he was right. They’d see what he saw. They had to…

In the Gibson house the monsters who’d started all this were at the windows – they’d retreated as soon as the first shot was fired – looking out at the scene as ambulances and police sirens wailed all around him.

Those same detestable, repugnant faces peeking out from behind their net curtains...

Copyright © Paul Kane 2008

Visit Paul’s website at : www.shadow-writer.co.uk

SUBMIT YOUR WORK TO ESTRONOMICON Send in your work for future publication in this eZine.

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Short stories (original and reprints) Non-fiction articles Artwork (cover and interior) Author/artist interviews IMPORTANT : All work must be fantasy, SF or horror themed See the website for more details.

- 56 -

PHOTOS FROM THE EVENT

The traditional FantasyCon curry night

John Travis hiding behind his glass, with Allyson Bird mopping up the mess!

- 57 -

MARIE O’REGAN

M

arch 10th, 1992 I’ve been stalking her for hours. She knows it now. I can tell by the nervous little glances over her shoulder, the way she’s walking faster and faster – crossing roads back and forth, trying to shake me off. Her heels semaphore the panic loud and clear, each one sending a little pinprick of excitement into my groin.

She won’t lose me.

The thrill of following her is wearing off now, boredom’s setting in. Time to move in, cut to the chase. Looking around me, I can see a few possibilities – quiet alleyways, shop doorways. No. Wait. The park’s just up ahead.

I like the park.

I like peace and quiet while I work. No distractions. The gates are just up ahead, time to be quick. I start to run, quickly and quietly on the balls of my feet, just the way I practised.

I don’t make a sound.

Just for a moment, for one split-second, I wonder if she’s going to see me and scream before I can close the final gap. I clamp my hand across her mouth just as she draws a deep, shuddering breath. Christ, that would have been loud! I like to whisper to them as I drag them off. I like to tell them all the things I’m going to do to them. It’s a real turn on when they start shaking against me, begging me to let them go, not hurt them, they’ll do anything I want …anything.

The park’s deserted as I haul her deep into the bushes and slam her down onto the hard ground. That knocks all the air out of her, and the twigs have done a pretty good job of scratching her face up. I can almost kid myself that it really is Karen this time, that Karen didn’t desert this one as soon as she knew I was following her, leaving just another girl, just another piece of meat.

Whatever fight is left is soon knocked out of her by forcing her face into the dirt.

Then I… December 31st, 1982 Happy New Year! That’s a joke. It’s not like I’ve got anything to be happy about anyway. That bitch Karen’s gone and finished it, and taken the kids with her…and I’m out of beer.

They’re all the bloody same. Out for all they can get. She’s bled me dry over - 58 -

MARIE O’REGAN the years, bitch. Not much left now.

I’ll show her.

January 6th, 1983 I’m sorry about the kids, I really am. They weren’t bad kids, I was quite fond of them. How did I know they were going to be in the car? They should have been safe in bed, not loaded into a car at two in the morning.

I almost didn’t recognise them when I went to identify the remains. The only way I recognised Kelly was by the scar on her left calf. I remembered the panic on her little face as next door’s dog sank its teeth in, and the way she clung to me after I kicked it off. Karen had to be identified by her dental records, so at least I got that bit right.

Shame about the kids, though.

October 4th, 1993 The nights are the worst. I can’t get to sleep for all the noise. People coughing, snoring – even sobbing. It’s mainly the new boys that cry – missing their loved ones, their life.

Life. You can keep it.

I haven’t got to put up with it much longer, though. It only took them three hours to reach the verdict, and it was unanimous. Two more days. That’s all I’ve got left.

It feels like forever.

February 15th, 1984 She won’t shut up. Even now. In eight years of marriage she never stopped nagging, and the bitch is still at it, even now she’s dead. I meet a girl, I start to have a nice time – and there she is. Sniggering at me. Belittling me. I just wish she wouldn’t try and use the face of the girl I’m sleeping with. I mean, surely she knows by now I can tell it’s her. It’s in the eyes. They give her away every time. One minute everything’s fine, we’re both having a good time – the next she’s back, and all hell breaks loose.

I have to shut her up, don’t I? I have to make her leave me alone. And I wish she wouldn’t bring the kids into it. She sits them there in the corner where they can watch me perform, as she puts it, and that’s just wrong. I hate that. Makes - 59 -

MARIE O’REGAN me feel like a seal or something. I always try to ignore it; concentrate on the face I know is really there, beneath the illusion. It’s no good, though.

She just starts to laugh, harder and harder, till crimson tears are streaming down her face. I have to stop her! She won’t stop laughing at me, not until her lips burst when I mash them into her teeth, grazing my knuckles. Then she starts to moan, deep in her throat, and suddenly I don’t have to worry about performing any more.

At least the kids aren’t looking now. They’ve turned their backs on me, and are giving me the silent treatment.

They always did side with their mother.

July 5th, 1957 I hate it when she looks at me like that – when she makes me cry. She just stands there, arms folded, one foot tapping. She looks down at me, standing in the middle of the spilt milk, shattered glass on the floor. She looks…disgusted.

She grabs my wrist so hard it hurts, and starts dragging me along the hall to the cellar door. She doesn’t listen to my apologies, she takes no notice of my tears.

She never does.

October 5th, 1993 Last day. Funny how quiet everyone is today. You can feel it in the air. Death, that is. Cold and heavy. The others are probably down on their knees; thanking whatever God they believe in that it’s not coming for them. Not today, anyway.

Some of them whisper to each other late at night, when time slows down and grows thick, like treacle. Superstitious crap if you ask me. They say that when the screw hits the switch and the juice hits you – in that instant – then your life starts to roll. I mean, we’ve all heard that, right? How your life flashes before your eyes just as you’re about to pop your clogs? But what they say here is that it doesn’t stop. It just keeps on rolling.

That can’t be true though, can it? I mean, when you’re dead you’re dead, right? There can’t be anything left.

In a way I’m quite looking forward to it all being over. At least I won’t have to listen to her incessant bitching anymore. Peace at last.

I tried to explain it to the shrinks, that I was just trying to shut her up, but - 60 -

MARIE O’REGAN they didn’t get it. I could tell they didn’t. They just nodded and made their notes, and went off to discuss my case. That’s all I am. A case.

December 4th 1992 I think I’ve done it. I think the worst is over. I’ve been seeing Shelley for six weeks now, and I haven’t heard Karen’s voice once. Shelley’s just Shelley. So far. Please God, let it all be over. I can’t take this any more.

She’ll only be happy when I’m gone.

May 4th, 1993 I knew she’d come back. God forgive me, it wasn’t my fault. Maybe if we hadn’t been so drunk. It all started off so great… a few drinks, a few laughs. It was when we got back the problems started.

I shouldn’t have had so much to drink. I was never much good in bed pissed. Of course that would be the moment Karen chose to come back…said I’d never been much good in bed, anyway, drunk or sober. I never meant to hurt Shelley, I just wanted to shut Karen up. Only when I did, it wasn’t her at all, it was Shelley all the time. I can never catch Karen. I tried telling the police that, but I can see they don’t believe me. It would help if they’d look at me, look at me! rather than at the blood on the walls, and my hands, but it’s too late now.

I’ve lost everything. Karen’s won.

I’m sorry, Shelley.

October 5th 1993 The priest has just been to see me, wanted to offer me absolution. As if I could ever be absolved of all I’ve done. I don’t deserve it. I deserve to die. In fact I think I’ll welcome it, at least I won’t have to listen to Karen anymore.

Twelve o’clock. Time to die.

It’s funny how long that corridor seems when you know it’s the last walk you’ll ever make. None of the guards can look me in the eye. What do they think, they’re going to catch it? They’re all just staring blankly ahead as if I’ve already gone.

I can’t say I blame them, really. I wouldn’t want to look someone like me in the eye, either. You don’t know what might be in there, waiting.

God, we’re there already. At the door. How the hell did that come up so - 61 -

MARIE O’REGAN quick? I can see the door opening, feel the guards urging me forward, but I can’t hear a thing. Why can’t I hear anything? They say it’s quick, but what do they know?

So I’m strapped in. The bastards won after all. Still, it took six of them to get me into the room and strapped to this chair. I managed a few good punches, too. Might even have broken the fat one’s jaw. Hope so.

The hood is the worst part. I can’t see what they’re doing. I can’t see if she’s here. God please don’t let it take long.

I can hear her. I can hear her laughing.

Ungh! What a jolt! I can feel it racing through me, like fire. I’m burning all over! Soon be over, soon be…

March 10th 1992 I’ve been stalking her for hours. She knows it now.

Copyright © Marie O’Regan 2008

Visit Marie’s website at : www.marieoregan.net

CHRISTMAS ISSUE The next Estronomicon will be a festive-themed edition, featuring a selection of stories by David A. Sutton, Michael Kelly, Paul Kane, Marie O'Regan, Stephen Bacon and more. Plus artwork from the talents of Marilynn Flynn, Joe Tucciarone, David A. Hardy, and Anne Stokes, with a fantastic cover piece by Alan M. Clark.

Due out December. Don’t miss it!

Yule Angel : Copyright © Anne Stokes 2008

- 62 -

PHOTOS FROM THE EVENT

Winners of the British Fantasy Awards 2008 : Photo by Brendan Vaughan

Steve (me) congratulating Vincent Chong on his award : Photo by Brendan Vaughan

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WINNERS OF THE 2008 AWARDS

The Sydney J. Bounds Best Newcomer Award: Scott Lynch BFS Special Award: 'The Karl Edward Wagner Award': Ray Harryhausen Best Non-Fiction: Peter Tennant, Whispers of Wickedness Website Reviews Best Artist: Vincent Chong Best Small Press: Peter Crowther, PS Publishing Best Anthology: Stephen Jones, The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18 (Robinson) Best Collection: Christopher Fowler, Old Devil Moon (Serpents Tail) Best Short Fiction: Joel Lane, My Stone Desire (Black Static #1, TTA Press) Best Novella: Conrad Williams, The Scalding Rooms (PS Publishing) Best Novel: 'The August Derleth Fantasy Award': Ramsey Campbell, The Grin of the Dark (PS Publishing)

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JOIN NOW!

T

here is a group of people who know all the latest publishing news and gossip. They enjoy the very best in fiction from some of the hottest new talents around. They can read articles by and about their favourite authors and know in advance when those authors' books are being published. These people belong to the British Fantasy Society.

Current subscription rates are: * United Kingdom - £30.00 (£45.00 Joint Membership) * Europe - £40.00 (£60.00 Joint Membership) * Rest of World - £55.00 (£80.00 Joint Membership)

We ask that all payments be made in pounds sterling (GBP) due to the large amounts charged by banks for exchanging currency - we apologise for any inconvenience that this may cause. Send a cheque or money order, made payable to 'British Fantasy Society' to: The British Fantasy Society 23 Mayne Street Hanford Stoke On Trent ST4 4RF England Please enclose an SAE if a reply or receipt is required.

Don't forget to include the following information with your application: * Name * Address * Email Address * Where did you hear about the BFS? Alternatively, you can join online, at the secure BFS Online Store.

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