David Court's Blog, page 2

"It's Marshmallow time!"

Hi, all! Hope you're all well. An update is well overdue, so let me bring you up to speed with a couple of projects I've been working on.
Stitched Smile Magazine

We are here for the horror connoisseur, serving up the very best dishes of the strange, the frightening, and the horrifically beautiful. It’s sixty-four full color pages crammed to busting with work by supremely talented authors, poets, and artists! Dark twisting tales, full page art work, and in depth interviews, reviews, and articles, are sure to delight even the harshest of critics.

The first issue of this is now available. It's a fine body of work that I'm pleased to be a part of, and features a wide variety of original fiction, reviews, articles, poetry and art from the talents of A.J. Brown, Andrew Robertson, Eric Snelleman, David Owain Hughes, James Matthew Byers, Jason Morton, Lance Fling, Larissa Bennett, Lisa Vasquez, Mike Lane, Michaline Slemp, Martin Spernau, Nev Murray, Pawel Latkoski, Reed Novotny, SISU and Veronica Smith. 

The magazine features a brand new story from myself, "Our Elegant Decay", which is a dark tale of botany and betrayal.

There are more details about it here, and you can buy a Kindle or physical copy of it from here. It's a great read, and hopefully there will be many more to follow.

Stitched Saturday

I curate* the Stitched Saturday page over on the Stitched Smile Blog. I post up an inspirational picture at the start of the month, and I encourage authors to write something based on the image. The added bonus of it going forwards is that we're planning on collecting the best of them for a Halloween anthology, and any authors chosen will be paid $10.00 and get an electronic copy of the finished collection. If you're of an artistic bent, go and have a look!

Declaration of Independents

Coventry visionary Rees Finlay (writer and artist behind the excellent and previously reviewed Blue Flame) has a wonderful regular Podcast called "The Declaration of Independents".  It's a celebration of independent creativity, and every week he interviews somebody new from a variety of different fields. He interviewed me for it a couple of weeks ago, and it's now up online for your (dubious) delectation and delight.

Amongst other things we discussed our mutual love for ikea plush sharks, we put the world to rights politically (you're welcome), I related the story of how Alan Moore told me to fuck off, and we found out just how many marshmallows I could fit in my mouth. (Spoiler: It wasn't many).

It's can be found here on that YouTube malarkey, here on iTunes and here on soundcloud. Pretty much every format except for 8-track and Fisher Price My First Record Player.

Please give it a listen, give it a rating (a good one, preferably) and, if you enjoy it, pop him a couple of quid to support Rees in his endeavours.

Other stuff

Scenes of Mild Peril now has a wonderful cover courtesy of the talents of SISU, and is the final touches of editing. so will hopefully be released very soon. I have a couple of stories that are due to appear in forthcoming anthologies, more details of which as I know them.

Anyway, thanks for reading - take care, and I'll have more news for you soon! Do try and check out some of the links above.

Ghosts and Ghostilism - a guest post

Sorry.


Ghosts and ghostilism. An essay from somone who doesn't believe but has experienced the effects.


May I add some neutral background case notes to help you understand the state of mind which I'm about to describe and my ongoing revalations.

Brought up a Catholic and with all of the associated mystery, faith and also shunning other occult things as being a Demonic or in deed Diabolic. Outward influence which you should reject at all costs. Fuck the devil. Well, except don't cos that means you're in league with him. I wouldn't. I bet he has a spiky whatnot.


Me. Accidentally enrolled in an unwitting, unplanned experiment in sleep deprivation. Ocsillating between dry eyed nose-bridged stabbing pain and the dull duvet feeling of being sonically stifled and having a pillow inserted inbetween the ears. And then the other extreme.


Sleep overindulgement. When total sleep does not come, trying to get there, to that sacred goal of rest and temporary oblivion. 


But if it doesn't come? Lying corpse-like for hours as though the effigy of a martyr atop a granite coffin. Hoping to get to true sleep but prickly nerve tingling on that matress slab in a sleep-like torpor just to make the hours go by. Hands crossed- Oh hang on, that's a bit religious. Hands uncrossed.


Filtering in influences. Hell, you overthink things now but when you have nothing else occupying your attention, things crowd to prod and poke at your attention. That thing with that prick at work. Bills needing to be paid. Hassles from your ex. Concerns about your kids.


Background- stress, overdrive, dependency, hypersensitivity. Occupation.


OH GREAT it's WORK TIME. No great surprise as I've been checking the clock every 20 minutes for the last 5 hours. BLEARGH. 


Kinda like this to not carry on.


*Intermission*


So far I am rejecting mood levelling drugs- tried them twice, didn't like it. Left me zombified.


In my spare time, e.g. when I am on my own, I am in a state where I have a strange fascination for the almost-sleep zone where you are not truly asleep but hovering (hypnagogia) and not lucent dreaming (where you realise you are in the dream and can take control) but don't have the aspect of muscular paralysis so actions you see in your dream result in reciprocal real life twitches and hand snaps and wake-up jerks and snorts.


Am I normal?


That region between being awake and asleep. That Insomnia thing where you are trying to bully your brain into sleep but your mind just won't shut up. The annoyance when you look at the clock and go For Fuck's Sake, I have to be up in 4 hours. Occasionally - with bad luck - I skip proper sleep and go into Hypnagogia. Half awake, half nonsense. My eyes get to waft about with a kind of ghost-like swimmy levitation as I see the imaginary world about me. I'm swooping through everyday scenes of people going about their business. Sometimes I can even fly. 


I can read a newspaper headline over the shoulder of a denizen of my semi-dreamworld which, presumably my own brain is generating. (funnily enough, never any adverts). I can see it through my own dream eyes, into my visual cortex, with my eyes closed while half asleep. It's possible to wander about random landscapes and cities and interact with people in kinda blurred 70s projector haze but suddenly it shifts into almost crystal clear focus. SHASHANG! Then dissapointingly a few seconds later it either blurs back or snaps me awake. Hey! I was enjoying that!


In this landscape there are people gossiping and I feel like I'm eavesdropping in a cafe and their chat is nonsense- but it is fascinating. About such random and unimportant subjects. Pretty much like earwigging at any speakeasy anywhere. The subjects of the chat are random and irrelevant. Still. None of them are saying Kill All Of The People. Kinda friendly.


Hallucination without being in the grip of a serious mental illness can be worrying, scary, but also compelling. It's also cheaper than drugs. I feel like a bit of a shit drug addict in that 'Don't stop me doing it, I'm enjoying it' and 'It's not doing anyone any harm' but then I do worry that it can be so compulsive that you find yourself in a situation when 'under the waves' you are scrolling through menu items on your imaginary phone in bed (while the actual phone is up on the shelf) but your thumb feels the texture of the screen and your hand imaginarily feels the weight of the phone as you do this in semi-sleep. And then you have a sleep apnoea event and jerk awake. And then there's the Exploding Head syndrome. Look it up.


Over-sleeping may also gives you a side effect of visual hallucinations in your peripheral vision during your waking hours. Purely based on pattern recognition. Every sodding thing is a Pokemon or a cat in my case. THAT table over there is a sleeping Arcanine. Oh no. it's not. Piss, it's a Weedle. Again. Oh no, an vacuum cleaner. Bollocks. Time to do the essential maintenance activities again.


When people explain how they've been haunted and heard mysterious noises at night- I'm so lucky. Me too, but the choice of my own wonky brain was to choose to pipe in birdsong. Tinnitus with a blessing. For those who wake up with a visual death's head phantom towering above them as a menacing apparition while locked solid and unable to move, sorry to make you jealous- I've had the same proximate and totally realistic feeling that you are frozen next to someone. It was my partner who was 100 miles away at the time. I was haunted by my love. Heard her do that little ripply snore, felt her phantom hand in mine giving a little unconcious squeeze of reassurance. And she was not at this point about to plough into the Atlantic aboard a doomed airliner and sending me her final thoughts and wishes. I haven't checked in the last 20 minutes but I think she's OK.


For me the idea of ghosts are tied up with religion. That's where I've got a disconnect. Oh, and science. Let everyone believe what they would like to but I have experienced 100% ghost-like activity in my own sensual penumbra while over/under slept. If your Auntie Winnie has appeared to you as a glowing orb then that's wonderful if it makes you happy and join the spiritualists. If you are haunted by a terrible apparition then take it from me, it's a psychosynthetic projection of your own fears while in a semi-sleep state and if you get the opportunity to undo your sleep paralysis, kick it into the nether regions.


I know a few words won't change your long-held beliefs but I'm just saying. I'm there. If you're experiencing the same things, you're not alone. It's not your aunty Millicent and certainly isn't Henry VIIIth. UNLESS they direct you to a bag of hidden gold.

Sparks - It's Alive!!!

Yesterday saw the release party for Sparks at Southcart Books in Walsall. If you haven't been following my facebook page, Sparks is an electricity themed horror anthology where all the proceeds will be going to Resources for Autism, an incredibly worthy cause.

It's available on Amazon (click here for the link) and features a veritable wealth of talent including Emma Dehaney, Matthew Cash, Mark Cassell, Calum Chambers, Pippa Bailey, Betty Breen, Peter Germany, Lex Jones, Christopher Law, Dani Brown, G.H. Finn, C.H. Baum, Ash Hartwell and yours truly.

It was a great day; there were readings, and also - crucially - sausage rolls and twiglets.  Here's wishing every success to the book, and that it does some good for a great cause. The reviews coming in are really good, and Matthew and Emma should be very proud of themselves for having put together such a great collection.

I read the opening segments from my contribution to the book - a twisted little tale called Power Trip.  Said video can be found by clicking here, should you so wish!

Tales to Terrify - Let It Cry

Very pleased to announce that my story "Let It Cry" is featured on the 289th edition of the Tales to Terrify podcast.
"Let it Cry" is one of the stories from the forthcoming "Scenes of Mild Peril", my next anthology of short stories to be released by the awesome Stitched Smile Publications.  It's a favourite of mine, and was inspired by a trip around haunted and macabre spots located in and around Dublin. It's the first every story of mine that has involved any actual historical research!  Click here to give it a listen.
Tales to Terrify is a Hugo nominated weekly horror podcast that's been going since January 2012. Some notable authors featured on it include Christoper Fowler, Steven King, Joe R Lansdale, Stephen Volk and Kim Newman.
If you've found your way through to here via Tales to Terrify and you like what you've heard, why not follow me on Facebook and Twitter? Cheers!
#StayStitched

Cladded

Part of Londons burning,
the heart of Londons burning
in a building which
now serves as little more
than a pretty pyre
for the rich.
RIP

Dot

Frayed dried twig fingers knead lumps of pink matter,
Into a bloodied straw mass that grows fatter and fatter.The donor, a victim that life has eschewed,Her cold flesh as scarlet as her ruby red shoes.A needle, a thread – open straw scars are sewed,as blood drips to the bricks of the long amber road.Then the murderer sings, with a cheery refrain‘"If I Only" No longer, now that I have my brain.’

The Thing from Another World

Toppling towards Earth,
the place of our birth,
is something burning bright like a furnace.
It’s an alien vessel,
which at a rough guess will
plummet out of control to the surface.

There are few places parkier
than the depths of Antarctica,
where the landscape is nothing but snow.
But then something of note, a
loud helicopter rotor
of a chopper that’s hovering low.

They’re in hot pursuit
of a stray Malamute
but keep failing to hit with their gun.
The Norwegians are frustrated
and get quite agitated when
it reaches Outpost thirty-one.

The chopper lands on a verge as
the gunner emerges
and pulls out a grenade which he’d stowed.
The throw’s fucked up a treat
and it lands at his feet
and the pilot and chopper explode.

With reckless abandon
He keeps shooting at random,
gibbering, clearly off his head.
As stray bullets fly by,
Bennings is caught in the thigh,
and Garry shoots the Norwegian stone dead.

MacReady and Doc. Copper
head off in their chopper
and find that the Norwegian base is
just a charred shell that’s filled
with dead bodies, as well
as a humanoid corpse with two faces.

They bring it from there
for their biologist, Blair.
“This thing isn’t human,” he proposes.
and meanwhile the mutt
confirms somethings afoot,
as the bloody thing metamorphoses.

Whilst their dogs buy the farm,
MacReady pulls the alarm
and Childs turns the dogs into toast
Blair checks out the corpse
“This is alien, of course,
and can perfectly mimic its host”.

“It’s from an alien race
come from deep outer space
and we can’t let it get out of here.
If it reaches civilization,
It’ll mean all our damnation.
Earth’ll be assimilated in just a few years.”

Bennings dies by cremation,
caught mid-transformation,
and they’re forced to lock Blair in the shed.
With an axe he went crazy, Oh,
and chopped up the radio
and killed all the sled dogs stone dead.

Copper says “With our blood,
a simple test should
reveal the alien now rather than later.”
But the blood stores are trashed,
al the samples left smashed.
It’s clear now that there is a traitor.

The biologist Fuchs
says that he’ll take a look,
and that he’ll continue Blair’s studies.
But later that night
of him there’s no sight
so venture outside, do his buddies.

They find Fuch’s corpse burnt black,
and so Windows heads back
in order to go raise the alert.
Nauls too, is deflated
fearing his friend assimilated
when he finds a scrap of MacReady’s torn shirt.

As the team congregate
to debate MacReady’s fate,
he appears with explosives, quite stressed.
“I’ll blow you to bits,
If you attack me, you shits.”
(Norris suffers a cardiac arrest).

Without hesitation, they try
defibrillation
The outcome for Norris looks bleak
but to their disbelief
his stomach sprouts teeth
and teaches Copper a hands-off technique.

The mutated fellow
is toasted like a marshmallow
although one you wouldn’t dare digest
“Windows, gather everyone round
and tie them all down.
We’re going to try out a test.”

Clark, who fears for his life,
goes for him with a knife,
and MacReady just shoots the man dead.
They’re all stunned into silence
by this act of violence
having seen their friend shot in the head.

“Guys” said MacReady,
“I think I’ve got a theory.
The alien just wants to survive.
if we can just determine,
who’s a host to this vermin,
then we might just stay alive.”

Everyone tied and seated,
a copper wire’s heated
and placed into samples of blood.
But when the wire tip was probin’
Palmer’s Haemoglobin
it leapt off as far as it could.

With little advance warning,
Palmer’s now transforming
as tentacles sprout from his head
Windows hesitates to flame him,
and death comes to claim him
and MacReady has to burn them both dead.

Garry’s been through the wringer,
He feels loathe to linger, so
it’s only fair that he seems a grouch.
“You’ve been through a lot,
but I would rather not
spend Winter tied to this fucking couch”

With Childs left to guard,
the others head to the yard
in order to go and test Blair.
They open his shed
and find they’ve all been misled.
The alien has tunnelled out of there.

Though they thought him Mammalian,
turns out Blair is an alien
and the blighter’s given them the slip
He’s been scavenging equipment
which is for his ship meant,
and has part-built a makeshift space ship.

Garry looks all forlorn.
“The Generator’s gone”
“Is there any way we can fix it?”,
MacReady asks with a frown.
Garry stares at the ground,
“No, I meant as in somebodies nicked it”

“Oh, bugger, shit and damn,
I know the things plan.”
MacReady states, with some consternation.
“We’ll all freeze to death,
and we’ll breathe our last breath –
it’ll be safe whilst it’s in hibernation”

The most hopeful prognosis
was to lay the explosives
agreed the remaining three guys
The dynamite was placed
(and Blair melts Garry’s face)
but then came the biggest surprise.

A vast tentacled Blair
bursts out into the air
popping open like some vile haemorrhoid
But with some dynamite (the last),
MacReady triggers the blast
And the base and the beast are destroyed.

As the flames all burn higher,
MacReady sits by the fire
as Childs reappears with a wry smile.
They can do nothing but watch
as they both share some Scotch.
“Why don’t we both just wait here a while.”

A Squamous Man

Obscene angles, On dreams landscape desolate -
will Night-gaunts make a meal of me yet?

In Innsmouth’s only bar,
a squamous man.

Why risk losing your sanity
when you're destined to be
an Elder Thing’s treat?

I would escape tonight,
but I haven't any arms to bear.
That man is so gruesome
from some kind of loathsome nightmare.

Arrrggh! A Deep One in the bar,
he’s screaming in my face
and hits me with a swing.
He knows so many arcane things
He knows so much about dread things

I would escape tonight,
but I haven't any arms to bear.
That man is so gruesome
from some kind of loathsome nightmare.
La, la-la, la-la, la-la, a squamous man
Oh, la-la, la-la, la-la, a squamous man

Arrrggh! A Deep One in the bar,
he’s screaming in my face
and hits me with a swing.

He knows so much about dread things
He knows so many eldritch things
He knows so many dreadful things...
- with apologies to both HP Lovecraft and Steven Morrissey :)

Flash Fiction Challenge - Double Story bonus!

The Stitched Smile blog has a Flash Fiction challenge held each week.  Click on the link beneath each inspirational picture to be taken to the associated story...

Link to the story is here

Link to the story is here

Of Shadows and Substance - a short story

I’d got the knack of getting ready and leaving the house down to a fine art now. My routine was occasionally thrown out of kilter on the rare occasion that he was lurking somewhere inside the house – more often than not skulking outside my bedroom door, or nonchalantly smoking in my kitchen - but I was both pleased and relieved to say that on that day of all days that hadn’t been the case.

I was running slightly late, truth be told, having hit that ‘Snooze’ button once too often. I hadn’t slept well the night before - I’d caught him sitting on the foot of my bed when I’d finally decided to turn in and I’d had to shoo him out. He’d tried to start one of those portentous sentences of his but I’d kicked him out of the house before he could deliver his ominous soliloquy. He’d started again whilst standing out on the drive, but I’d slammed the double-glazed windows shut before I could make out any of it. He carried on regardless to a non-existent audience, his words thankfully muffled and inaudible through two panes of thick glass. Even with the curtains drawn I couldn’t help but occasionally peer out at him, shaking my head as I watched him mouth empty words to nobody in particular.

After that it was mostly a heady combination of angry adrenaline and fearful trepidation that had kept me tossing and turning fitfully. Sometimes it was more terrifying not hearing what he had to say – that fear of the unknown, those thoughts that reverberate around the lecture theatre of your skull in the dead of night. Christ… Listen to me… I’m starting to sound like him now.

I was determined not to be late for the appointment, no matter what. I’d felt I’d had no option other than to go private when my usually sensitive GP had finally started to give me that look that confirmed he believed that I was insane, and decent private psychiatrists aren’t cheap. I flung open my front door and – luckily for both of us – he was nowhere to be seen. With the foul mood I was in I’d have just elbowed him out of the way mid-monologue anyway.

It had been raining overnight and the weather was as grey as one of his suits and as bleak as my mood. I’d lost my umbrella a few days ago when I’d thrown it at him in a fit of pique and naively hadn’t seen fit to replace it yet, so I was half-drowned by the time I’d arrived at the bus stop.

The one thing you have to appreciate about my situation is that it’s impossible to let your guard down for a single moment. He could suddenly appear at any instant, seemingly from nowhere, giving me no choice but either try to ignore him or simply to run. My options on the bus, trapped in that metal shell, would be even more limited – I’ve lost count of the amount of times when he’d unexpectedly been sitting behind me and I’ve been forced to leap out at the next stop. On top of everything else, he was costing me a fortune in taxi and bus fares.

Oh, I’ve tried ignoring him, but it was next to impossible – some of the things he says can ruin your whole day. No wonder I’m a nervous wreck. Confronting him is pointless too – he just keeps talking, almost as though he’s oblivious to your presence.

I’m not a violent man but a few days ago - at the end of my tether and pushed beyond any reasonable persons breaking point - I had finally snapped. With a cry of impotent frustration, I pushed him into the path of an oncoming taxi. After the bulky black cab had bounced over him, I stared down at the broken corpse that lay on the road, limbs splayed out at impossible angles. A thick muddy tyre-track had ruined both the man and his usually impeccable suit. He stared back at me with vacant accusing eyes.

That was the end of that, I thought. My mood was buoyant for the rest of the day and there’d been a spring in my step. Normality was at last restored. I was just starting to finally feel good about life when I opened my shed that evening and there he was, leaning against my rusted wheelbarrow. Upon seeing me his mouth opened and he carried on speaking from exactly where he’d been interrupted, as though he’d been sitting there in the musty compost-scented darkness just waiting for his opportunity. Completely unharmed, completely unperturbed. I’d slammed the shed door closed and ran into the house, screaming.

The bus pulled up, and I cursed as a displaced puddle splashed over my clean shoes and roused me from my reverie. After confusing the driver by only half getting onto it and glancing nervously around, I finally committed myself to showing my pass. Despite the bottom floor of the bus being mostly empty, I stood. It was safer that way. Easier to make a quick getaway.

Arriving unhindered, the luxurious foyer of my new psychiatrist’s office certainly showed why I had to get a bank loan in order to afford just a handful of appointments. There was an elaborately abstract water feature occupying much of the room that would probably have cost me the best part of a year’s wages. Any artistic merit it possessed was instantly nullified by the fact that the sound of trickling water from it just made me want to go to the toilet.

Other than the receptionist I was the only person there, thank God. It would have been typical for him to have been waiting here for me when I’d stepped in. She smiled at me as I walked towards her, but it felt forced – it was disingenuous, a false grin. Working alongside that water feature, she must either be deaf or have a bladder of steel. She gestured silently towards a black leather sofa in front of which sat a marble table, bare except for a neat pile of magazines.

The leather squeaked noisily as I cautiously lowered my weight onto it. I perched awkwardly on the edge of the chair, wary that if I sat back I’d collapse into it and struggle to get back up.

I glanced up at the receptionist who was now studying her perfectly manicured nails with the focused glare of a master safe cracker. It only dawned on me then that she hadn’t even taken my name, which probably meant I was the only appointment for the day.

I flicked absent-mindedly through the magazines on the table. This wasn’t the kind of place where you’d find the Readers Digest or glossy gossip magazines – these were all aspirational catalogues with powerful single word names. Each was the sort of periodical that would have a twelve-page spread dedicated to an expensive sports car that they’d only ever made six of.

The receptionist called my name in a sing-song voice and gestured towards the corridor. I lifted myself off the sofa and awkwardly stumbled past her. I hoped she wouldn’t notice the wet patches on the sofa I’d left behind from my rain-sodden jeans.

It was only when I was walking up the long wooden corridor to Doctor Matheson’s office when my heart sank. He was waiting there ahead of me just outside the door, a freshly lit cigarette between his fingers. His permanent monochrome appearance - which I was almost getting used to now - was a sharp contrast to the plush velvet red curtains behind him. For some odd reason it always offended me that he blatantly ignored enclosed workspace non-smoking regulations.

Looking right through me, he went to speak. I raised an angry finger, a gesture more for me than for him, and threw open the door. I caught a few words before I slammed the door closed behind me, blocking him out.

“Imagine if you wi...”

It was then I was grateful for the luxury of these offices. The stupidly expensive elaborately carved thick oak door I’d closed behind me drowned his words out completely as I slumped back against it.

Doctor Matheson, a true professional, barely blinked an eye at my antics. That said, the coarse thickness of his ginger eyebrows meant he could have had his eyes firmly shut and I probably wouldn’t have noticed.

“As nice a door as that is to lean against,” he quipped, gesturing to the red leather armchair in front of him, “Perhaps you’d find a chair more comfortable?”

I looked at the chair and then back to the door, studying around the ornate handle - paying particular attention to the keyhole.

“Do you have the key for this?” I asked, nervously, “I don’t want to be interrupted.”

Doctor Matheson calmly poured a tea for himself and another for me. The silver teapot clanked noisily as he placed it onto the tray.

“Is he out there now?” he asked, sliding a delicate china cup across the table to me, “Did you see him?”

I’d heard that question from doctors before, but always in a patronizing tone of disbelief - of contempt, mockery and half-amusement. Matheson sounded genuine and absolutely sincere and reassuringly not in a way that felt like he was trying to humour me. This was so refreshing after the bad experiences I’d had in the past.

“I’m here to help,” he said, getting to his feet and taking a few steps towards me. His eyes locked on mine, and I could feel the mood in the room change. He'd been so calm and reassuring, but I already knew – and dreaded – what he was going to say next. Don't say it. Please don't say it. Anything but that.

“Let him in.”

My heart froze. I’d spent so long trying to escape from him that the very act seemed alien to me. What would he do? What would he say?

Matheson must have sensed my apprehension. His voice grew quieter and calmer.

“He can’t hurt you with me here,” he assured me, “Let him in.”

My hand clutched around the handle and slowly turned it, my glance occasionally going back to Matheson who was simply smiling and nodding reassuringly. I could feel the mechanism inside the door click as the latch opened and, when the handle could turn no further, I slowly opened the door.

He was still there, his cigarette barely touched. It was though time had remained suspended in the moments since I'd closed the door on him. I leapt back as he suddenly strode towards the door, a determined expression on his face. He neatly stepped into the room, refusing to acknowledge either of us. Staring at a fixed point in the far wall as though performing to an imaginary audience, he took a drag from his cigarette and began to speak.

"What fragile mysteries can be found lurking within the darkest realms of the human psyche? This seemingly ordinary psychiatrist’s office, workplace of the well-meaning Doctor Ray Matheson, may well be the conduit used to unlock secrets that would be best kept secret. Secrets that are best kept… within the Twilight Zone.”

There he stood, dressed in a neat 3/2 grey sack suit, satin tie and a white Oxford spread collar shirt. A perfect greyscale facsimile of Rod Serling, the famous – and long dead – presenter and creator of The Twilight Zone. He stepped out of the room, job done. I slowly pushed the door closed behind him, my hands sweaty, my knuckles a pale white. It gave a satisfying click as it shut.

“Was he there?” asked Matheson, a gold-nibbed fountain pen poised above a notepad that had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

I bit my upper lip and nodded.

“And has he gone now?”

I nodded again.

He patted the armchair in front of him.

“Come and take a seat. Let’s talk about him.”

I slowly lowered myself down into the comfortable leather of the armchair, relaxing slightly now. That particular encounter hadn’t been too bad, all things considered, and it wasn’t likely he’d reappear during the course of this session. Matheson smiled at me encouragingly, and went to speak.

There is one textbook question, appropriate given the circumstances, with which any such conversation must begin. I’d rehearsed the answer a million times, knowing full well what he was about to say. I'd almost started answering before he'd asked.

“When did this all start?”

#
I’d had a full time job then, back in the days when I wasn’t a bag of nerves, wondering where he’d appear next, what sinister or loaded utterances he’d make in that gravitas-laden voice of his. It was just a few months back, but it felt like years now. A lifetime ago.

“There are things we all take for granted; a normal life, a house, a well-paid job, friends, the occasional holiday.”

I remembered it word for word. The first things he’d ever said – all delivered whilst I was standing in a queue at the post office to sort out a passport application. I’d thought it to be a joke at first, an impersonator who’d painted himself in varying shades of grey, attempting to get a rise out of us. I ignored him, not wanting to encourage the prankster, waiting for a reaction from somebody else in the queue.

But nobody else batted an eyelid. He sparked up a cigarette and not a soul reacted. Staring right through me, he continued.

“But what is normal? What if normality was just a fragile concept, something to be tossed aside like so much detritus? Sometimes the journeys we set off on are not the ones we'd expected – where your passport is stamped and your baggage is jettisoned off as you prepare for your voyage to… The Twilight Zone.”

I did what any Englishman would have done when confronted with such an absurdity. I kept my head down and did my best to ignore him hoping that he'd go away. I swear he winked at me as I made my way out of the Post Office.

And from that date onwards he'd just appear. Sitting on the edge of my desk or the corner of my bed, on the seat behind me on the bus or next to me in the cinema. No introduction, always just… talking. In that way that made everything just… scary.

"Scary? Do explain," said Matheson, his right hand a blur as he scribbled down copious notes.

"Try to picture the scene," I said, shrugging, "You're just about to tuck into your Sunday Dinner you've spent the last two hours making. Up pops Rod bloody Serling with 'A typical Sunday roast dinner. What is the cost? The average cow will eat nearly ten thousand pounds of grain in its abruptly shortened lifetime, all for the insatiable appetite of one self-centred Englishman. All in the name of that most quintessential of English weekend tradition. But traditions come with their own high cost… in the Twilight Zone'. And then he just sits back, looking smug. And your appetite is suddenly gone and there’s nothing you can except to scrape your roast dinner into the kitchen bin, suddenly terrified by the ill-omened nature of roast beef and Yorkshire puddings."

"I could see how that could be distracting when…"

"And another one. You're on a date with that girl from Procurement who you've fancied for weeks and have finally summoned up the courage to ask out. You're getting a bit cosy on the sofa and she goes to the bathroom to freshen up. Then Rod Bastard Serling is suddenly there in the doorway with a 'Love can be as sticky as a vat of molasses, as unpalatable as a hunk of spoiled yeast. It's an act which can see us sharing that most vulnerable of activities – sharing a bed and sleeping – with a virtual stranger. A person who we know very little of – potentially a person of dubious hygiene and health, of unknown temperament and history. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Exhibit One: a case history of a lover-boy who should never have fallen for one who drags you headlong into… The Twilight Zone'. There are few things capable of ridding one of an amorous mood so quickly."

"Do you think it is Rod Serling?"

"What? Do you think I'm mad?", I barked, suddenly very aware of both of our roles, "Rod Serling died in the mid-seventies, a good half a decade before I was even born. And it's not just Rod Serling – it's like a black and white telly version of him. I swear if you look at him long enough you can see grains of static there."

"So, if you accept that it's just a figment of your imagination, then that is half the battle. Acceptance is…"

"It's not as simple as that," I interrupted, "Some of the things he says... they're prophetic. Thanks to some of his omen-laden speeches, I've avoided a works dinner that gave everybody else who went food poisoning, avoided getting in a mate's car which got into an accident that left him crippled, all sorts of things."

"So, this… version… of Serling is actively helpful?"

“Yes, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. That could be the luck of the draw, because he's pretty much warning me about everything these days. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day. He's pretty one note, to be honest. I'm having to ignore him because If I didn’t, I simply couldn't function as a human being. There doesn't seem to be anywhere I can go where I'm rid of him. I just want him gone, Doctor Matheson."

"You have to appreciate that this kind of therapy can take a very long time. With no guarantee of results. I suspect you sometimes appreciate his company."

"With all due respect, that's nonsense. You try living for a single day with that man constantly appearing in your life as the voice of impending doom. I've got the money, Doctor Matheson, if that's the issue."

“Calm down. I assure you, I’m trying to help.”

I sunk my face into my hands, suddenly aware that my breathing was rapid and panicked. I was safe here, at least for the time being. I concentrated on the loud rhythmic tick-tock tick-tock from the grandfather clock that stood next to the door, gradually relaxing my breathing into following the same pattern. Slowly and surely, I eased myself away from the impending panic attack.

“If you will, imagine the complex mechanisms of a clock…” came the voice from in front of me. I pulled my hands away from my face to be confronted by Rod Serling, now sitting there in the place of Doctor Matheson. Of the Doctor himself, there was no sign.

“An intricate arrangement of cogs and dials, all working together towards a unified purpose…”

I staggered to my feet, holding on to the chair for support as I felt my limbs buckling beneath me. Serling stood up as well, tapping an unlit cigarette on the back of his hand.

“…that purpose being to chart one of the oldest mysteries to mankind…”

He was up and to his feet by the time I’d made it to the door. Unable to wrest my eyes away from him, my shaking hands struggled blindly with the door handle. Eventually it turned in my hand and I fell through the door, running straight into somebody who’d been in the unfortunate position of standing right outside. They didn’t budge, as solid and unmoving as a rock.

It was Rod Serling staring down at me, an all-knowing smirk etched on those homochromous features.

“…the mysteries of time itself.”

#
I turned and ran, carried forward by sheer momentum. My legs stumbled but thankfully I remained upright, arms flailing wildly for balance. The receptionist - undoubtedly roused by my shrieks of alarm - managed to drag herself away from her beauty regime long enough to step out into the corridor to see what all the fuss was about.

As she stood in front of me, perfectly lipsticked mouth agape, her form shifted and wavered. Edges warped and morphed, white-noise static shadows gaining substance. Where there had once stood an attractive twenty-something dressed in bold primary colours was now a black and white woman. Anachronistically dressed in nineteen-fifties fashions; pleated skirt and an angora sweater hiding those conical breasts that only women of that era ever seemed to have. All sanity-wrenchingly topped off with the bizarre anatopistic features of Rod Serling.

“Mankind travels through the pre-determined route map of his existence…”

Something inside me finally snapped. Without slowing I reached forward and grabbed his head, slamming it violently into the receptionist’s desk. The body fell limp as I pushed past it, now falling through the doors that led out onto the street.

It had stopped raining now, the newly emerged sun shining off the glistening tar of the roads. An expensive sports car drove slowly past, an overly loud radio booming out what at first sounded like a profanity filled rap track, but turned out to be anything but – they were the carefully enunciated words of Rod Serling.

“…mostly unaware of the forks in the road, the eddies, gyres and currents that carry us along…”

As it slowly passed me by, the car shimmered and mutated from an expensive boy racer penis-replacement into a nineteen-fifties Ford Fairlane. I staggered back away from the road, stumbling into a group of people and losing my balance.

My back hit the pavement and I lay there for what felt like an age, my eyes screwed tightly shut. I knew what I'd see if I opened them, and I clung on to that fragile gristle of sanity for as long as I could. The voices of the crowd – complaining and concerned at first – were beginning to speak in chorus. Female voices deepened and children's voices slowed as they all began to carefully synchronise with one another, a dozen voices eventually speaking as one.

"…but we're about to find that all paths, regardless of the traveller, the length or course, eventually all end up…"

Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't you bloody dare say it.

"…in the…"

I threw myself onto my feet and barged through them, human bodies scattering like bowling pins. With my eyes tightly shut I hurled myself away from them in desperation, screaming at the top of my lungs so I didn't have to hear those words.

When I finally did open my eyes it was too late to do anything about it. The black cab (driven by Rod Serling, obviously) didn't have time to avoid me. The first thing I noticed with the collision was that all of the wind had been knocked out of me, and I only had time for a single thought when the back of my head connected with the concrete kerb, a thing that heads aren't really designed to do.

"A black cab, just like the one I'd pushed Rod under," I thought, blackness creeping in at the periphery of my vision.

"Nice twist."

#
I awoke to blackness. There was a loss of sensation, as though I were floating in a void. Was this what death felt like? Perhaps I was in a coma? I imagine the reaction of most people, if they found themselves in this situation, would be to panic.

Not I. I closed my eyes (for what little worth that was), breathed in deeply (again, a pointless act) and listened. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Beautiful.

Wonderful, blissful silence.

No dry delivery of portentous dread. No expository cautionary tales.

Just an infinite black void.

But then something appeared, right in the centre of my vision. A white dot of light, accompanied by a shrill piercing tone. It wavered, blurring and then becoming focused again.

A voice in the darkness, American, emotionless.

"There is nothing wrong with your television set."

What? Who was that? The voice seemed to be coming from everywhere, louder than God.

"Do not attempt to adjust the picture."

A dread realisation began to dawn.

"We are controlling transmission."

No. This can't be. Not after all this. I began to scream aloud in defiance, hoping to drown out the voice. But it drowned even that out.

"We will control the horizontal"

The wavering dot of light became a shaft of brilliance, exploding left and right, burning a line on my sight. With no physical form to speak of, I couldn't cover my ears. Couldn't cover my eyes. I had no choice but to witness it all.

"We will control the vertical"

The dot erupted from the top and bottom to become a solid line of illumination, burning with an inner energy. And then everything erupted into light, maddening vistas and impossible imagery dancing across my vision. Huge waves of energy pulsed and ebbed and I could only watch and scream dementedly, my last tattered vestiges of sanity ripped away.

"You are about to participate in a great adventure. You are about to experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to… The Outer Limits".

#
SCENE: We're standing behind two doctors who are peering through a window into a padded cell. The occupant is collapsed in one corner and is sitting quite still. A track of drool trails out of his lips, and his eyes appear glazed and empty.

DOCTOR OSWALD: How long has he been like this?

DOCTOR HASKIN: For a few weeks now. He was ranting when we picked up from outside Matheson's office, but that didn’t last long. He just went quiet. He's locked in that brain of his, and I don't think we'll ever be able to get him out. We can just feed him and hope that one day… just one day…

CAMERA PANS THROUGH THE WINDOW AND WE ZOOM IN ON THE PATIENT'S EYES. IN THE BLACKNESS OF HIS PUPIL, WE SEE THE WHITE OUTLINE OF A CLOSED DOOR.

VOICEOVER: The human brain, the most complex mechanism in existence. And like all mechanisms, capable of being damaged, or broken beyond repair. And like an automobile, if you suffer a breakdown, just be sure you don't break down in…