Stephanie Ellis's Blog, page 9

All for Charity

We can’t always give money to charity but we can support in other ways. This year, I’ve contributed to three charity anthologies, each raising money for deserving causes. If you’re looking for something to read whilst supporting a good cause in the process, you can’t go wrong with any of these.

[image error] Contains my story, The Winter of Discontent. Set in the 70s when the dead went unburied. Raising money for the homeless

[image error] Includes my metalhead zombie story, Playlist. Raising money for the Indigenous Literacy Foundation.



[image error] Features We Plough the Fields and Scatter. A folk horror story set in the same world as my novel, The Five Turns of the Wheel. Raising money for the NHS.

The Wheel is Turning and Other News

Oops! I’ve been happily sharing the wonderful cover for my novel, The Five Turns of the Wheel, and realised I hadn’t even given it a mention here! In my defence, I will say I was buried in edits for the book itself, working on another anthology and trying to fit in Horror Tree’s Trembling With Fear amongst all that. Time to write on my own blog is something that seems to get pushed to the bottom of the list. So I’m remedying that – any excuse to look at the cover again! The artist behind this wonderful work is Kealan Patrick Burke who also created the cover for my novella, Bottled.

A folk horror/dark fantasy, the story revolves around the theme of loss and includes elements of my own experience in this respect. It is the first time I have shared anything from my ‘real life’ in my writing. As I wrote, I didn’t realise how angry I still was about my treatment at that time even though it was so long ago. In the Five Turns of the Wheel, the women in a corner of England known as the Weald. battle to hold onto their children – unborn and adult alike. They are up against three monsters – Tommy, Betty and Fiddler – who appear from the OtherWorld of Umbra to take members of their family as offerings for the rituals of the Five Turns. Are there any winners in this age-old conflict? You’ll have to read to find out. And it’s not long until you can! Roll on October 27th.

One thing I will say, despite the sadness and anger I still carry at my own loss, writing this book was a delight. There were some chapters involving the three creatures I’ve mentioned where I remember just grinning away as I let them rampage around the countryside. I don’t know what it is about them but this world really got its hooks into me.

Publication News Overview

[image error] 26th September. Features my metalhead zombie story, Playlist . Charity anthology



[image error] 13 October.
A satanic offering here from me with Family Reunion .



[image error]27th October

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And in other news:

Horror Writer’s Association Poetry Showcase Volume VII. Date TBC. Contains my poem, I am the Corruption.

Weirdbook Magazine Zombie edition. Hopefully November. Another zombie story from me, Life Unworthy of Life.

Kitchen Sink Gothic 2 (Parallel Universe Publications) – date TBC. A reprint of my 70s-set story, The Winter of Discontent. This one is a charity anthology in support of the homeless.

Inferno. Early Dec – date TBC. An anthology from the Infernal Clock, this time edited by myself and Alyson Faye. Featuring stories set in Dante’s Inferno and with a host of well-known names in the indie writing world, we can’t wait to unleash it. Look out for a cover reveal on October 1st and more information soon!

I hope you find something here to read and enjoy. If you do, please let me know. I’d love to hear what you think!

Steph

A Playlist for Playlist

My short zombie story, Playlist has been accepted into the charity publication Trickster’s Treats #4, Coming Buried or Not. Published by Things in the Well, it is raising money for the Indigenous Literacy Foundation.

Without giving the story away, music does feature prominently in this tale and so to create the right image in your heads, here are the tracks and artists mentioned. I loved writing this as it combined two of my favourite things writing and metal. And as I love sharing my favourite bands, I wasn’t going to let such an opportunity slip by.

Buy the book, read the story, listen to the music. See, I can do culture (of sorts)!

Forget the movies, music videos are the home of horror

The majority of horror writers will list many a horror film as having been an inspiration or a means of enjoying horror. The films were often what summoned them to the dark side. I’ve watched a number of horror films but I forget them easily, don’t often discuss them and generally they lie second to books and music (sacrilege, I hear you say!). This has often made me feel a fraud but I don’t care anymore, it doesn’t invalidate me as a writer or supporter of horror, it just means I see things differently.

For me, it is the sound of the darkness, the emotion it invokes, which underpins many of my favourite tracks and take me to the place I need to be when I write and then there’s the videos themselves. They are mini masterpieces achieving more in a few minutes than a movie could do in an hour or two. The effect of the atmosphere created from the music and/or its related video plays on my mood, can generate more chills than the visual cine reel. Ultimately I think this is because it relies on my imagination, my feelings without being directed by a script.

You will find some of my favourite bands over on the music tab of this site. I still listen to many of those tracks but here are some more recent favourites which I regard as mini-masterpieces.

This has a post-apocalytpic feel and that repeated sound you associate with submarine depth readings, is really eerie. That note alone is more ominous than the appearance of those in the video.

This one is another from the mighty Behemoth and has a folk horror vibe to it. It was on a permanent loop as I wrote the closing chapters of my novel, The Woodcutter (now seeking a home).

Slipknot. Again anything by them takes you into the realms of the extreme. The anger in their music is often used to feed into the pages when the worst is happening to some poor soul in my story. I was lucky to see both Slipknot and Behemoth in London this year before lockdown destroyed the live music scene.

And the final one for your viewing on this occasion is Skynd. A new discovery for me and someone who focusses on the worst of humanity. Amazing results.

Who needs the movies when you have these?!

Diabolica Britannica

This week saw the publication of the charity horror anthology, Diabolica Britannica. Available as an ebook only, it has been written by a group of British authors to raise funds for the NHS. Amongst these writers are Tim Lebbon and Adam Nevill and the master himself, Ramsey Campbell has created a thoughtful analysis of British horror as well as providing a commentary on each story.

There are 14 stories in its pages veering from gothic to ghostly to splatter, and in my case, folk horror. I have read them all, and I may be biased, but I regard it as a pretty strong showing. Check out the book trailer to get the flavour of the book!

My own story, We Plough the Fields and Scatter, takes place in a fictional part of rural England, an area isolated by its link to a world of monstrous creatures who live just beyond the veil. Rarely seen, they infiltrate this land, forcing the inhabitants to abide by their rituals and customs in honour of Mother Nature. When they do choose to return, the results are usually horrific – especially when Tommy, Betty and Fiddler get together.

The village of Reaper’s Hill, featured in the story in this anthology, is part of the Hub, the Wheel – or the Weald. It crops up too, as one of the villages hosting a night of ritual during The Five Turns of the Wheel. The latter sequence of events are described in full in my novel of the same name, which is to be published in October by Silver Shamrock Publishing.

Tommy, one of those monstrous figures who reappears from time-to-time, pops up in Diabolica Britannica whilst in The Five Turns he is actually the Master of Ceremonies, leading them on through each bloody sacrifice. In The Five Turns, Reaper’s Hill is the site of the Third Turn, where as he says, ‘The Third Turn is the Wheel that flies. When the Crone rides the night and old bones are crumbled. The Dance claims us all.”

In this statement lies the seed of the idea from which my folk horror stories grew. The Dance was a short story published a few years back in an anthology, Horror in Bloom. Tommy, Betty and Fiddler were there although other characters had different names. The horror behind The Dance, evolved from this rapper sword dance:

If you want Morris with more attitude (and fewer bells) then watch Border Morris troupes. It’s imagery like this that birthed Tommy.

It is not a world you would want to live in but it’s great fun to write about!

Infernal Thoughts

A few years back, I joined up with writer friend David Shakes to produce the first of the Infernal Clock anthologies. The idea was Shakes’ and I came onboard to help see it to fruition. We have so far produced 3 anthologies: The Infernal Clock, CalenDark and DeadCades, although last year was a hiatus due to time pressures.

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Now we have found the time to start the clock ticking again and create another in the series. This one will simply be called Inferno, its theme being the horrors found in the classic poem Dante’s Inferno.

We were going for invite only again but after drawing up a list of writers, many of whom we have written with over the years and a number of whom have already appeared in the Infernal Clock anthologies, I was struck by the lack of diversity. Recent events in terms of #BlackLivesMatter and the whole question of inclusivity made me realise we needed to open ourselves up more.

So, submission details:

Payment: £10 and ebook
Closing Date: 15th August 2020
Open to: LGBTQIA and POC
Length: 3-5k

The theme is Dante’s Inferno and each story will be set in one of the circles or the passages to/between circles. Whilst there are nine circles, there are a number of rings – or pouches – within each circle so there is a lot of scope. How you interpret your chosen circle/ring is up to you, eg it could be set below in the Inferno itself, it could focus on a particular sin, or you could recreate this hell actually on earth.

We are particularly interested in stories set in the Second and Eighth Circles as we do not have any of these yet, although you are welcome to write in the other circles as well.

Stories need to be dark (but with the usual boundaries against extremes and gratuitous violence/sex/language) and 3-5k with flexibility, although we would prefer 4k.

Stories must be submitted in standard manuscript format as .doc or .docx to theinfernalclock@gmail.com.

No multiple or simultaneous submissions. No reprints

Payment will be by paypal on publication.

If you have any queries please contact us at the above email address.

Invitations!

Want to know who you’ll be joining if your story makes it into the Inferno? Here you go:

Shannon Felton
Charlotte Platt
V. Castro
Alyson Faye
Stephanie Ellis
Kev Harrison
CC Adams
G.A Miller
Richard Meldrum
Robert Allen Lupton
David Shakes
Martin P. Fuller

We are also lucky to have Hailey Piper on board to write us a Foreword, whilst Tim Youster, who created the covers for the last two anthologies will be creating the artwork for this one.

We’re looking forward to making this one really special, so please, come and join us in the Inferno.

Steph and Shakes

The Woodcutter

Yesterday marked the end of quite a long journey – for me – to get this novel telling the story of The Woodcutter finished. It has now been sent to my first beta reader.

The original idea came from a short story I wrote for Fright Club, the then HWA Online Writing group. I had long thought of twisting the old Little Red Riding Hood fairytale and came up with an idea whereby the Woodcutter and Grandma existed, as did the famous red cloak – but there was no Little Red Riding Hood herself. This initially appeared in published form as a short story in Iron Faerie Publishing’s Fabled anthology. It has changed somewhat since then.

It’s taken a couple of years to come to fruition, mainly because I wrote another book inbetween – one which has just come back from beta readers and which I am now reviewing in light of their comments. The work never ends – but I love it!

The concentration it took in recent weeks to really get into the world of the Woodcutter and Grandma, and their cottage in GodBeGone Woods, was quite marked at times. A folk horror, I have a number of unreliable narrators, some who believe in the legends surrounding their village of Little Hatchet and the woods, and others whose outlook is coloured either by childhood trauma and experience or environmental factors. If I say specifically what these are, it would give too much of the story away.

Naturally, unreliability can cause confusion and that has been my main worry when creating this – that my foreshadowing might be too subtle or my later explanations might appear like some clonky info dump. My wonderful beta reader is fully aware of this, so hopefully fresh eyes will tell me whether I’ve hit the mark or not.

This little blurb I sent with the draft gives a bit more background:

‘A tragic accident shrouded in mystery leads to a family reunion in the hidden village of Little Hatchet. This community has existed within the overwhelming shadow of GodBeGone Woods, the forest home of the mythical Woodcutter and Grandma, for centuries. 

The reunion occurs against the backdrop of incomer Oliver Hayward’s scheme to raise money for the village by recreating part of the Woodcutter legend – a scheme hiding Hayward’s own murderous intentions. Old wounds are re-opened and ties of blood and friendship are tested to the extreme when the Woodcutter is summoned and Grandma returns.
In this story there is no Little Red Riding Hood, no Big Bad Wolf, only the blade of an axe.

Now it’s back to my other book, not folk horror, but a post-apocalyptic scenario where the apocalypse didn’t quite happen as expected. This has gone through a few name changes but I think I’m going to settle on The Barricade. After that, it’ll be time to start looking for homes for these two and get a couple of projects long on the backburner going.

Woodcutter Writing Playlist:
(Always played in random order! I will say A Forest pretty much looped as I edited though!)

A Forest – Behemoth
Ora Pro Nobis Lucifer – Behemoth
O Father O Satan O Sun – Behemoth
Unsainted – Slipknot
All Out of Life – Slipknot
The Devil In I – Slipknot
Not My God – Fiction
Pit Of Fire – 3Teeth
Nihil – 3Teeth
Atrophy – 3Teeth
In The Name of God – Rotting Christ
Addict Now – Primitive Race
Dead Souls – Nine Inch Nails
Burn – The Cure
Year Zero – Ghost

Dark Divinations

[image error]This lovely anthology, Dark Divinations, was published recently and contains my story, Romany Rose. If you wonder why I chose the fortune teller automaton, it was inspired by the Milestones museum in Hampshire which contained a real Penny Arcade with a number of machines of differing ages. Graveyards, haunted houses, guillotines and creepy dolls were all there. Supplied with real old pennies, I worked my way around them all. This was the fortune teller in the arcade:

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A little research revealed such things were around in the Victorian era – I knew the other machines existed but hadn’t been so sure about this one – and once I knew it fitted the time frame, I was away. Romany Rose was born, read an extract below.

HorrorAddicts.net Press Presents: 

Dark Divinations edited by Naching T. Kassa

Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/ilQ-BfW6BRs

It’s the height of Queen Victoria’s rule. Fog swirls in the gas-lit streets, while in the parlor, hands are linked. Pale and expectant faces gaze upon a woman, her eyes closed and shoulders slumped. The medium speaks, her tone hollow and inhuman. The séance has begun.

Can the reading of tea leaves influence the future? Can dreams keep a soldier from death in the Crimea? Can a pocket watch foretell a deadly family curse? From entrail reading and fortune-telling machines to prophetic spiders and voodoo spells, sometimes the future is better left unknown.

Choose your fate.

Choose your DARK DIVINATION.

**********

An excerpt from Dark Divinations

Romany Rose

Stephanie Ellis

London, 1897

A scraping sound from the street below drew Tom Norman to his window. Whitechapel Road never slept but he knew its rhythms, could register anything out of the ordinary and this was not ordinary. The takings for the night, which had been good, were stored under his floorboards and one of his doormen remained on watch. Robberies and murder had become common in recent times, the swirling fog providing the perfect cover.

Unable to see through the grime-smeared glass, Tom made his way swiftly downstairs. He crossed the shop floor, making a mental note to air the room as soon as dawn broke. It stank of beer, sweat, cheap perfume, and the desperation of the East End. The acts he had currently signed to perform at his penny gaff were certainly pulling in the punters, all seeking novelty and escape at the end of yet another grinding week.

Nothing moved around him, a stark contrast to the never-ending flow of customers in the evening. Samuel, who was supposedly on night duty, snored in the corner. Tom could just make out the man’s shape, stretched out on a hard, wooden bench. Windows and door remained shut. Outside, something scraped again. Tom went over and shook Samuel awake.

“Shift yourself, Sam. Think we’ve got visitors.”

Sam lumbered to his feet, swaying slightly, still drunk. The man was a mountain and could scare away the toughest villain even when inebriated.

Sam paused by the door and Tom peered out through the window alongside. Again, nothing. The gaslight flickered fitfully, barely visible in the mist. The noises had stopped.

“C’mon,” Tom said. “Let’s take a look. Can’t be too careful.” He felt the weight of the cosh in his hand.

Sam hefted a lead pipe left by the door to dissuade those who chose to step out of line. The sight of it stopped many an argument.

They stepped out into the cold, damp air, peering round with a caution borne of experience. Shapes shifted, loomed up, and disappeared. Muffled footsteps and distorted voices drifted by. A whistle pierced the air briefly and shouts echoed further down the road. Tom turned towards the disturbance and almost fell over a large wooden cabinet which had been propped up by the wall.

“Just someone dumping their rubbish,” said Sam, stifling a yawn. He had lowered his guard, considering the threat gone.

Tom walked round to the front of the cabinet, discovering the top half to be glass but was unable to see in, due to curtains running around the inside of the panes. A small brass plaque sat just below the glass, together with a slot to enter a penny. He’d seen these machines containing puppets, automata, and risqué images before. There were several on the pier at Southend-on-Sea. Their novelty had drawn the public to them like flies and swiftly emptied their pockets.

“Might be good business,” he said to Sam.

“If it works.”

Tom patted his pockets, they were empty. He peered down at the plaque and read out the inscription:

Romany Rose

Teller of Fortunes

Your Future for a Penny

“A fortune teller?” Tom let out a disappointed sigh.

“Can’t ‘ave bin a good un,” said Sam. “Otherwise it wouldn’t have been dumped.” Tom yawned. Sam was right. It could wait until daylight, should the sun ever deign to break through the murk which had smothered Whitechapel without respite for the past week. Tom returned to his bed and gave the cabinet no further thought as sleep swiftly reclaimed him.

To read more, go to: Amazon.com or order the special edition, signed copy with hand-painted tarot cards at HorrorAddicts.net

Filling Time

The lockdown continues and although I’m not going into work – I’m on standby, whilst my husband is still working – my time is very much occupied. In fact, think it’s been a revelation to me how much I’ve been cramming into each day for the past couple of years since I started giving my writing a real push. With real life demands easing, I feel as if I can breathe freely for the first time in a long time.

Note, this is not to forget all those who are experiencing difficulties – my family has faced its fair share of those over the years – and we can certainly relate to many of the issues people now face, it’s just that for once fortune has chosen to smile on us a little and to not kick us in the teeth. It’s probably biding its time however. It tends to do that.

So, what’s happened since my last post?

First, I’ve signed a contract with Silver Shamrock Publishing for my folk horror/dark fantasy novel, The Five Turns of the Wheel. This is due for publication in October. Set in rural England during the winter months, it follows five days of ritual, led by three grotesque characters: Tommy, Betty and Fiddler. These three have corrupted the idea of nature and what Mother Nature wants and as they lead the rituals, the women – who are usually the ones to suffer- fight back.

Those characters – Tommy, Betty and Fiddler – came to life in a short story of mine, “The Dance”, first published in Horror in Bloom and then in the Infernal Clock’s CalenDark: The Infernal Almanac. I enjoyed writing about them so much I wanted to continue, hence the novel. This world they live in is also the one in which my short story, “The Way of the Mother” in Nosetouch Press’ Fiends in the Furrows anthology is set. It’s safe to say I am still writing stories with these characters and settings. You might even get to see another one in the not too distant future.

I’ve had a couple of anthology invites for a short story and I’ve not long completed these. I’ve also not neglected my poetry and subbed a poem to the HWA’s Poetry Showcase. Fingers-crossed on that one. And yes, I’ve had rejections. That should always go without saying!

On the novel writing front, this is where recent weeks have gone. I’ve managed to get one book out to beta readers and have had feedback from most so it won’t be long before I’m back in there tweaking it. This one is a post-apocalyptic type story where the expected apocalypse didn’t quite happen. Those who gained protection in an underground government complex want to return above, those above, the originally abandoned, don’t want them back. Separating the two sides is a mammoth barricade which houses its own monsters.

I’m also back working on a novel which has been hanging over me for a year or so. It’s at about 56000 words at the moment with probably another chapter or two to finish the book but then I have notes to go back in and insert a few additional chapters and change some parts. It does however, feel as if it’s finally getting somewhere. I’ll admit to it flipping and flopping between folk horror/dark fantasy but I’ve just decided to tilt it back towards the demonic.

Coming up in publication terms, Dark Divinations will be out on 13th May with my short story, “Romany Rose” and later on, Silver Shamrock’s Midnight in the Pentagram with my satanic “Family Reunion”.

And of course, there is always Bottled, my gothic horror novella from Silver Shamrock.

A noirish tale of modern-day gothic horror with a surreal, dreamy, nightmarish atmosphere. There are grisly bits, so if you’re squeamish, be warned! – Deborah Sheldon, author of Perfect Little Stitches and Other Stories, Body Farm ZandContrition.

(Note: I have actually read all three books and would highly recommend Sheldon’s work. Don’t wait for Women In Horror month.)

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If you’re stuck for something to read, I’ve been reading a lot in recent weeks and can recommend these:

The Deep by Alma Katsu.

Jerusalem by Alan Moore. Be warned this is a mammoth book.

Seven Cleopatra Hill by Justin Holley

Coleridge by Tom Deady

Whispers in the Dark by Laurel Hightower

Actually, I’ll stop there – there’s loads more listed on my goodreads shelf.

 

Free Story: The Woman in Slacks

It’s February, it’s cold and grey and has been raining pretty much non-stop in the UK. My week off is almost over and I’ll be back to school on Monday – although counting down to the move into my new library! To celebrate the latter and cheer up those suffering from the misery of the British weather, I’m offering up a short story I wrote a few years back. It’s first appearance was in Terror Tree’s Pun Book of Horror which I co-edited. ‘The Woman in Slacks’ is also included in my short story collection, The Reckoning, and is a parody of – yes, you’ve guessed it – The Woman in Black. I had a lot of fun writing this and it still holds a place in my heart. Brown polyester, anyone?

The Woman in Slacks

It had been one of those grim, dreary days when Vincent had first seen her. His train had eventually pulled into the station some three hours after it was supposed to and he was tired, hungry and extremely irritable – in other words a typical day’s commute, although one that had sent him to some godforsaken little town on the Norfolk coast. Despite arrangements having been made, there was no one to meet him and the taxi ranks were empty.

In the background a church clock struck twelve. He’d been warned about the witching hour before he’d set off. Pray you get there before twelve, old Mr Tomlinson had said. Once it strikes the hour, you’re on your own. He’d been right. As Vincent dragged his suitcase down the high street, ‘Open’ signs turned over before his eyes. People vanished in front of him. Soon it was just him, his luggage – and her.

She was stood in the archway beneath the old town hall that dominated the market place. It was the slightest of movements that had brought her to his attention. He could not make out her features from this distance but he could clearly see her trousers, coloured the most gruesome shade of brown known to man. It was with an uneasy feeling of dread that he approached this solitary figure. Closing in on her he noticed that the trouser fabric seemed to shine, even on such an overcast day as this. Cheap polyester he shuddered. The curse of mankind. Still, he had no choice.

“Excuse me,” he called as she moved away. “Excuse me, could you …”

She was gone. Bewildered, Vincent gazed around. There were no doors or alleyways down which she could have gone. She had simply vanished into thin air. Across the road an old pub caught his eye, its bowed walls and black timbers hinting at extreme age. The King’s Head seemed to be the only establishment that was still open. Wearily Vincent walked through its doors and settled himself at a window seat in the small dining area. He took out his phone to make a call to the Brewers to explain his late arrival. There was no signal. With a sigh he returned his phone to his pocket.

“Won’t get no signal round ‘ere,” said a gruff voice behind him. Vincent turned round.  A grizzled old man sat by the open fire. “Signal always goes when it rains, which is most days. Not keen on the sun much neither, and if she’s walking … well then you don’t stand a cat’s chance.”  With that he turned his back on Vincent and resumed his contemplation of the fire.

Slightly nonplussed, Vincent shrugged and picked up the menu.

“Course you could always go to the park and stand on the bench by the duck pond – third one along as you go into the park from the high street. Usually a queue this time of day though, what with it bein’ early closin’ an’ all.”

Vincent turned round again. The old man had gone.

“Don’t worry about old Jack,” said a waitress materialising at his elbow. “He’s harmless enough. A regular walking encyclopaedia of local information. He’s probably gone to join the queue.”

“Why doesn’t he just use the pay phone here?”  Vincent indicated a phone on the wall near the bar.

“And let everyone know your business?  He wants his privacy.”

Vincent couldn’t imagine how standing on a park bench bellowing into a phone with half the town listening in was any more private than making a call in a more-or-less deserted bar.

The waitress returned with a surprisingly generous plate of steak and chips. He remembered to ask for the receipt. If he had to come to such a place as this then he was determined to get as much as he could out of his expenses.

“That man, Jack,” he said as he took the proffered ticket and slipped into his wallet. “He said you couldn’t get a signal if she’s walking. What did he mean by that?”

The waitress, Emily, according to her name badge, visibly paled and glanced around nervously. “Oh nothing, nothing. That’s just Jack as I said. He can be a silly old fool.”

“Yes, but … she?” he prompted.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. Can’t stand here chatting during the lunchtime rush,” and with a quick apologetic smile, she was gone.

Vincent gazed blankly around the empty bar. If there was a rush it had certainly passed him by. He leaned back in his chair. A full stomach, comfortable surroundings, it made up in some small part for the dreadful journey. He sipped his pint slowly and surveyed the view from the window. The streets were still deserted but in the shadow of the archway he saw her again, the unmistakeable sheen of those dreadful trousers drawing his eye in, hypnotizing him.

“Sir, sir. Are you alright?”

Vincent jumped. The man he’d identified earlier as the landlord was looking anxiously down at him.

“Huh?”

“You were looking a little peaky sir. I was just wondering if you were alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” said Vincent hastily. “Thank you for your concern though.”

“Well you can’t be too careful nowadays. Only last week we had a customer – a man about the same age as you – sat here gazing out the window, like you, and when I came over – well, he was dead like. Had a heart attack. Frightened the life out of me I can tell you.”

“I’m sure it must’ve been quite a shock,” said Vincent slightly disturbed by the conversation.

“It was that,” agreed the landlord, nodding his head emphatically. “Got me and my staff onto First Aid courses pretty sharpish after that I can tell you.”  The landlord waved his arm at the wall behind the bar where a range of First Aid certificates were proudly displayed.

“That’s very … reassuring,” said Vincent, slightly at a loss for words. Time for a change of subject he felt. “Tell me. I keep seeing this woman in the street. She’s out there now, under the arch. I was wondering if you knew who she was?”

The landlord peered out of the window. “No one there now I’m afraid. What did she look like?”

Vincent shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know really, I couldn’t quite catch her face, but her trousers … they were truly terrible.”

Like the waitress, the landlord’s face had gone white. “Can’t help you there I’m afraid. I’d better get back to the bar, things to do. A pub doesn’t run itself you know.”  Then he was gone.

Vincent glanced at his watch. The afternoon was drawing on, time for him to get moving. Brown trousers would have to wait. A local taxi firm had stuck their card above the phone in the bar. Vincent called a cab. The landlord watched him silently as he left.

“Where to guv’nor?”

“Lych House, do you know it?”

“Oh, the Brewer’s old place do you mean?  Yes I know it. Lucky you called me now. Any later and the tide would be in and you wouldn’t have been able to get out there today.”

“Tide?”

“Didn’t you know?  There’s been a lot of erosion in these parts. Lych House is gradually getting cut off.”

The sky hung heavy with rain, black clouds pressed down on the bleak landscape as the taxi sped through it. Puddles became deeper and wider in the rutted roads but the driver didn’t slow down. It was as if he wanted to get the job done and over with as quickly as possible.

“Do you want me to wait?” asked the cabbie when they finally arrived.

“No, no. I’ve arranged to stay over for the night.”

“You’re … staying … over?”

“Yes. The family want me to go through some old papers. They said I’d have everything I needed to be comfortable.”

“I hope they included some holy water and a wooden stake in that,” said the taxi driver.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just my little joke.”  The cabbie avoided his eyes. “I’ll come over tomorrow morning to take you back.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll give you a call when I need you.”

“You’ll be lucky,” said the taxi driver. “No phone in the house and no signal either.”

“Ah. Alright then. I’ll um … see you in the morning.”

The taxi drove off leaving Vincent to take in the full grimness of Lych House. It was certainly an imposing building but it had most definitely seen better days. Rotting window frames barely contained the glass which visibly moved in the howling wind. The door didn’t seem in much better condition either and the brickwork was beginning to crumble away. He found the key he’d been given and turned the lock. The door groaned in protest, grudgingly allowing him in. It smelled damp and musty. If it hadn’t been raining he would have flung open the windows. Vincent left his case in the hall and examined his new surroundings.

The rooms seemed barely habitable with peeling wallpaper and noticeable splodges of mould on the ceilings. One small room, obviously a study, was in slightly better condition. A fire had been laid ready in the hearth, matches placed by a storm lamp on the coffee table. A comfortable looking camp bed had been made up. His host’s thoughtfulness had extended to a kettle and the necessities to make a hot drink. A cool box contained milk and beer.

An envelope had been placed on his pillow. It contained a welcome from his clients. They hoped he would find everything he needed in the study. A hot meal could be had using the microwave they’d left him for the purpose. Vincent glanced around. It was sat, rather incongruously, on the Victorian sideboard. Some ready meals had been buried beneath the beer. Amongst the general instructions was a strange warning – on no account was he to go upstairs during the hours of darkness, no matter what he heard – or thought he heard.

Vincent went over to the grimy window and cleared a hole in the dirt. It was still dark from the rain clouds but night had not yet fallen. Curiosity piqued, Vincent went upstairs. There were three bedrooms, all empty of furniture, a rather disgustingly-stained bathroom and a small room at the end of the corridor which, from the fading border of fluffy bunnies, had once been a nursery. The only item in there was a rocking chair. He shrugged his shoulders and went back downstairs. It had suddenly occurred to him that a toilet was a necessity. What if he should need one in the night?  Returning to the study, he re-examined the letter. At the bottom of the page he noticed a small PTO. He flipped it over. Toilet facilities can be found outside. Outside?  He stuck his head out the back door. Unceremoniously positioned in the middle of the yard amongst a pile of building material was a portaloo. Someone had also thoughtfully hung a key and toilet roll by the kitchen door. Vincent didn’t fancy the idea of such a night trip – perhaps a bucket could be found.

Back in the study once more, he lit the fire, brewed a cup of tea and started to work his way through the boxes of papers that had been left out for him. There was nothing exciting there, dry legal documents, barely legible land deeds. It all had to be catalogued and sorted. He was thinking about taking a break when he pulled out a pile of old letters, these were personal correspondence.

Dear Rosemary, began the first one. I am sorry to have to say goodbye to you like this but I couldn’t think of any other way. You really are a lovely girl and I’m sure one day you’ll find the right man, I’m afraid that it’s just not meant to be me,

Yours Affectionately,  Roger

PS. You really should ditch those trousers that you’re always in. I mean, polyester, and THAT colour. Really darling!

Vincent thought of the woman under the arch. He picked up another letter.

Dear Rosemary, I’m sorry to have to …

It was almost identical to the first except that this was signed Geoffrey and he too delivered a parting shot at the trousers, this time complaining of the static shocks he received when close to her. Didn’t she realise they could seriously damage a man’s chances of becoming a father?

The next letter was from Jack. Vincent wondered if he was the same one that he had met in the pub. Somehow he found it hard to picture him as the courting kind. Perhaps when he was younger. Vincent checked the date, it was thirty-odd years ago. That made it a bit more feasible. He too complained about the trousers. Beneath the letters was a small diary.

14th Feb. Valentine’s Day. No roses or chocolates for me. Just a cowardly letter from Roger finishing with me. He even had the nerve to criticise the clothes I wear. Polyester is so easy to wash. Bet he has someone to do the laundry for him.

The next entry was a month letter and recorded her response to Geoffrey’s missive and then after another month there was a reference to Jack’s letter. And so it went on. Many more entries detailing her breakups – she must’ve worked her way through half the town’s male population he thought – before it finished on a final one.

31st October. The whole town’s laughing at me. They think I don’t see them but I do, sniggering behind their lace curtains, making sarcastic remarks about elasticated waistbands. If only they’d try them themselves I’m sure they’d change their minds, I mean I’ve got plenty of spares. It was a lucky day when that Transylvanian cargo vessel broke up on the coast and they all washed up. And that strange sailor was a real gentleman. There was no need to tell the authorities about him was there?  He just needed a bit of time to recover before he set off to sea again. And he’d been no bother, no bother at all. In fact I never saw him during the day. He kept himself to himself. Like I said … a real gentleman. Not like the others, they need to be taught a lesson …

Vincent rubbed his eyes. This was all such a long time ago, and yet … he glanced at the clock. It was ten already. Where had the time gone?  Time to try the facilities. Wearily he hauled himself out of his seat and headed out into the yard. Thankfully the earlier storm seemed to have eased somewhat. He entered the plastic cubicle and sat down. There was a loud rumble from somewhere and then the ground began to shake. He grabbed at the side of the cubicle to steady himself but still the growling continued. It was as if pressure from something deep below was building up and getting ready to explode. He tried to stand only to tangle himself up in his trousers as he did so, they remained resolutely around his ankles. The portaloo started to rock from side to side. Maybe it was kids, it was nearly Halloween after all.

“Hey! he cried. “Pack it in.”  There was only a shrill laugh in reply and the toilet continued to move. Any minute now he thought and it would go over and then he’d really be in the …

The cubicle slammed down, the door flying open as it did so, spewing Vincent and its more unsavoury contents out into the night. The rumbling stopped and silence rolled over the house again. Trembling, he bent down to pull his trousers up only to jerk his hand away in disgust. Whatever they were covered in he didn’t want to know and gingerly stepped out of the offending garment. He left them lying there by the prone cubicle. A bucket. Next time he would definitely use a bucket. He quickly made his way back to the kitchen, washing himself down as best he could at the sink. As he dried himself he noticed something hanging over the back of a chair. It was a pair of brown, polyester trousers, complete with elasticated waist. No chance he thought. Lucky I brought spares with me. He turned his back on the trousers and returned to the study. The first thing was find his deodorant, a good spray with that should remove the rest of the smell.

He sat down by the fire, enjoying its warmth. It was a good time to indulge in some of that whisky his clients had so kindly left him he thought and swiftly knocked back a glass. What had happened?  A freak storm, that was all, which just so happened to have rather bizarre consequences. Logical, it was all perfectly logical. And the trousers in the kitchen?  They must’ve been there earlier, he just hadn’t seen them.

He poured himself another glass and leaned back in his chair. He would just sit quietly for a while and then he would …

Crash!  Vincent jumped up so quickly that he knocked the whisky bottle over. He watched in horror as an unfortunate wet patch spread across his trousers. With a sigh he stepped out of the clothing and draped it over the side of a chair. They would soon be dry. True, they’d smell like a brewery tomorrow but that was a million times better than the garment he’d abandoned outside. He still had another pair of jeans as well as some pyjamas.  There was a dull thud outside the door and the lamplight flickered alarmingly. Vincent moved towards the door and slowly turned the handle. He held up the lantern to illuminate the corridor but could see nothing, only a never-ending darkness. At his feet was a small mound. Slowly he bent down to examine the object. Trousers. Again. And these most certainly had not been there earlier. He stepped back quickly and slammed the door shut. He could see no bolt or lock and so dragged a chair over and propped it beneath the handle.

The letter had told him not to go upstairs and despite hearing rather sulky footsteps stomping overhead, Vincent thought that was fine by him. He could never understand those horror films where the characters went off into the darkness to investigate strange happenings. They always died, or became possessed, or both. He had no intention of succumbing to such stupidity. He would stay here, in the study, and not go anywhere until it was light. But first he’d put on some trousers. It was going to be bad enough if he did end up running screaming from the house but if he did that and wasn’t wearing any trousers, oh the humiliation.

As if on cue the window blew open. A huge gust of wind sent his papers whirling, clothes spinning. Something brown blasted in through the window, heading straight for him. He ducked at the last minute and whatever it was went straight into the fire causing it to hiss and spit. Vincent ran across to the window to secure it once more and pulled the curtains to, shutting out the night. Returning to the fireplace, a small fragment of smoking material fluttered onto the hearthstone. He could make out the words 100% polyester.

Vincent backed away, stumbling over his suitcase and landing on the camp bed. He pulled out a pair of jeans, disturbing his pyjamas as he did so. Hadn’t he placed them under the pillow earlier?  He could’ve sworn he had. Carefully he lifted up the pillow. There, where his pyjamas should’ve been, was yet another pair of those bloody trousers.

Perhaps it was time to get drunk, after all wouldn’t you if you were being haunted by a ghost with a brown polyester trouser fetish?  What had the taxi driver said?  He’d hoped I’d brought some holy water and a stake. Well he didn’t have that, but there was a bible on the bookcase, he’d got a crucifix – admittedly he’d bought it for Susan so it was a bit girlie – but she wouldn’t mind if he wore it in the meantime. He grabbed the book, slipped the necklace over his head and dragged the armchair over so that its back was against the wall. Nothing would be able to creep up behind him. Then both the lamp and the fire went out. Somewhere in the house a clock struck midnight, yet the clocks he’d seen earlier had all stopped.

“This is not happening, this is not happening,” he moaned, repeating the mantra over and over again. Now something was pulling at his legs, tugging at his jeans. He swatted the unseen hands away with the bible. There was a howl in the darkness and his invisible attacker backed off but the respite was only temporary. Back came his assailant, this time grappling with his belt, his fly buttons, desperately trying to tear his trousers off him. It was a nightmare parody of some much more enjoyable evenings.  He tried not to think of what it might lead to.

“No,” he shouted. “No!  Don’t you understand that when a man says no, he means no?”

Silence. Somehow he managed to dress himself again whilst retaining a firm grip on his bible. Whatever was attacking him didn’t like that book and he was damned if he was going to let his one weapon go. He fished out his crucifix and pointed it into the darkness. “Begone foul fiend,” he cried, trying to ignore how ridiculous he sounded.

There was a mocking laugh. His attacker didn’t think too much of his effort either and then both lamp and fire flickered back to life. He glanced at his watch. It was one o’clock. How many hours to dawn?  Three?  Four?  It was going to be a long night. Regretfully he pushed the beer away. He needed to stay sober and awake. Coffee.

By the time daylight had begun to seep through the curtain, he was a nervous wreck. His heart was pounding from the caffeine hit it had taken and his legs were twitching and jerking manically. He got up and walked around the room again. The fire was out. It had been smothered by a delivery of trousers somewhere between the hours of two and three. He preferred to remain cold rather than go near those garments. It was a sleeping monster, any minute now they would launch a four-pair attack. His hand cramped. He had not let go of the bible once. It was getting light, surely he would be able to put it down now so that he could massage a bit of life back into his fingers and he was still wearing his crucifix after all.

Very slowly, he put the book on the table, keeping his eye fixed on the dead fire all the time. As he wriggled his fingers, he felt himself start to tingle. At first he ignored the feeling, it was just his circulation re-establishing itself. Then the tingling became a prickling. He glanced in the mirror and was shocked to see that his hair was standing out in all directions, just like that experiment everybody did at school with a Van der Graaf generator.

The chair under the door handle toppled forward and the door banged open. He grabbed the bible once more and stepped out into the hallway. The air felt as if it were alive with static. He had to get out of the house but which way?  Memories of the portaloo incident returned, that ruled out the back door.

He took a deep breath and ran for it, chanting the only prayer he knew – which happened to be from the funeral service, he had been to rather a lot of funerals lately. It wasn’t very comforting but still it was better than nothing he thought. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” he intoned. He was at the front door. Don’t look back, don’t look back, he told himself. He looked back.

All the way up the stairs and beyond, as far as the eye could see were pairs of brown polyester trousers. There was a low humming sound, it almost sounded like … no, it couldn’t be … yes ‘100% polyester, elasticated waist, comfort fit, 100% polyester, elasticated waist, comfort fit,‘. Again and again. He struggled with the door, the rain had warped the wood and was stopping it from opening. Behind him he could hear the mass move, creeping down the stairs, coming to claim him. Any minute now his attacker would be trying to pull his jeans off again. He gave another tug and the door gave way once and for all. He sprinted out into the morning air and freedom.

The tide hadn’t gone completely out but it was shallow enough for him to run through. He kept on, even though his heart was hammering and his lungs felt as if they were about to burst. Finally, when he thought he could run no longer, he saw a car coming towards him. It was the taxi-driver. Vincent flagged him down and jumped in.

“My god mate, you alright?  You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Yeah,” he replied breathlessly. “I think you could say that.”

The cabbie looked at him thoughtfully. “You know you should really get out of those wet things as quickly as possible. Hang on a tick, I think I’ve got something in the boot that’ll just do the trick.”

The taxi-driver got out of the car and rifled around in the boot for a minute before reappearing.

“Here you go mate. 100% polyester, elasticated waist, comfort fit.”  The cabbie’s eyes had glazed over.

Vincent started to tingle again. His hands fumbled uselessly with the seatbelt. The taxi-driver had started the engine but he wasn’t going back to town. Instead he was heading for Lych House. The cabbie looked in the mirror and smiled at him. “She’s waiting for you, you know. She’s been waiting a long, long time for you.”

“Who?”

“Who?  Why the Woman in Slacks of course.”

Vincent felt his belt start to unravel. Slowly his fly buttons popped open and then his jeans were tugged fiercely off. The window opened and his denims were tossed outside with a triumphant laugh. The brown trousers were reverently pulled over Vincent’s shaking legs, up around his waist.

“100% polyester, elasticated waist, comfort fit,” he murmured, smiling happily as he stood once more at the door to Lych House. A woman’s hand reached out and took his.

“Ah Vincent. I’m so glad you’ve come back. And I must say you look divine in those trousers. They really are to die for.”

Vincent allowed himself to be led back inside.

Those who subsequently saw him on the few occasions before he disappeared completely commented on his attire. “You know he never wears anything but those awful brown trousers?  Even tried to get me to wear them, slipped a pair in my briefcase but I dumped them pretty sharpish. Wouldn’t be seen dead …”