Night Shoot

by David Sodergren

Crawford Manor was the perfect location for a horror film. Almost too perfect.

Unfortunately, the only thing more unintentionally funny than a bad comedy horror was a bad serious horror.

Hannah and Ted chatted animatedly to each other, both talking about themselves, neither listening to the other, like two old folks in a dementia ward.

Why were the most talented people always the quietest, while the bolshy loud-mouths manage to bully their way to success through sheer force of will?

Sometimes, in the darkness, the greatest thing to fear is your own mind.

Death was always more shocking and also, somehow, more pitiful in real life. The way the human body was exposed as a useless sack of meat, the way people reacted not with stoicism and bravery, but with the dread realisation that their life was over.

That’s the rule when someone dies, a tacit understanding between mourners to forget the bad shit and rake around in their subconscious for good memories. You can be an asshole all your life, but chances are you’ll die a saint.

Wooden flooring is like a ghost. It’s not there during the day, but at night, after the witching hour, it comes out to play, each step wringing forth menacing grunts and wails.