There you were, standing like an innocent in the freezing rain, whilst shoppers scattered for cover.

There you were, gazing serenely at humanities plight. Yet you remained silent.

As you stood there, sharpening those razor sharp talons, you eyed your next victim.

Middle height with shorn hair this one. Innocent as a babe. You moved in swiftly, taking him unawares.

Even as you smashed his living vein with your dagger teeth, you ignored his final scream.

Callous, merciless, with a heart of stone, decaying through the centuries.

Hundreds had died at your hands. All genders, all ages, perished beneath your ravenous onslaught.

Even those school kids walking past your unmarked grave.

Other eyes watch you now. Eyes filled with knowledge. Eyes that recognise your filthy kind.

You see him not, stepping away into the night. You don’t even know he is following.

As you slip inside your putrid grave, you think that safety is secured.

Until that stake pounds through your stony heart, as you gurgle your final breath.

As the last time passes into history.

He stood there in the darkness, candle flickering gently in the cold breeze. He stared at the mirror, in an ancient posture recorded through time.

Many had gone before, using water, metal, any reflective surface really.

To speak, to see, to commune with the departed was his intention. As it had been theirs.

He waited in that haunted room, just gazing as his focus shifted from far to near.

A flicker appeared around his own reflection before fading out. Then another, softer flicker and his beard vanished.

He saw a younger, smoother chin just then. Pale eyebrows instead of dark.

He was captivated by this experience, not realising its potential result. He did not flinch when his stomach contracted violently.
He held his ground as his features altered completely, until the scrying man did not exist.

Another stood up, smiling. Glad to be free of his prison, glad to be alive again.

The woman in that cream gown had woken sharply as the wind howled against the window pane.

The trees rustling in futile protest as branches cracked asunder. She was startled at first, then terrified.

A candle was lit then, carried towards that window. She looked out at the commotion. She shuddered.

A wispy figure stood below that window. An opaque harbinger of doom. She saw its auburn hair, its cream gown, that lit candle.

She saw those eerie but familiar eyes staring back in mute dread. This was no reflection she reasoned.

This was something far worse.

She stepped back, suddenly afraid. A branch was sheared off by the howling gale, smashing the glass asunder.

The woman staggered, lost her footing completely.

She howled, falling forward and out.

Now she stood alone in that demonic gale. Alone with the lit candle.

Alone as she was before.

I am 47 and would feel awkward with anyone under 39. I am rather old fashioned I'm afraid.

Cannot see appeal of dating younger women.

When I was that age, back in the Dark Ages, I was no virgin, but involved in deep relationship.

My advice, as if you need it, is keep to men of your own age. Far safer in my opinion.

It sits quietly near the village, a small, rising plain that stretches toward ancient Dunwich.

This former city, capital of East Anglia at one time, was ruthlessly destroyed by Mother Nature.

Perhaps because the people were unworthy of life.

The common, and its many walks are delightful to behold, mysterious too, until that storm smashed it back in ‘87.

Today it is but a shadow of its former self. I know, I lived there.

Heather and shell craters abound there. Relics from the last war, where British tanks practised in case the Jerries landed.

Which they did, but not here. Oh no, Shingle street was their point of arrival. Their point of utter defeat.

A secret to this day. The locals know better. They remember the injured, the pow’s. The mumblings of delirious men claiming they would conquer England.

As if!

Deer can be seen beyond the ‘No Entry Zone.’ Many brown and beautiful deer. Not friendly mind you.

Just there.

Further war relics can be found if you wander the forest, or a fragment of one. If you dare.

Be not there after sunset though. Others lurk after that time. Just waiting for the lonely traveller.

Or the foolish individual who knows no fear.

Tread carefully mind you. UXB’s still lurk. I should know. Found one back in ’84. An unexploded phosphorous shell. The local Bobby dealt with that one.

A story is told of children playing on that common. Playing with a similar device. Arms blown off.

I was just lucky.

So tread your path through that common, the common where Westleton lies.

Tread with caution, tread with fear, tread with delight.

You took my heart once, your beauty, your sense of humour.

I gave it to you willingly, without conditions. You took my trust, and I trusted you implicitly.

Like my true love, given without question.

The true meaning of love is simple really. To love someone more than yourself. To willingly lay down your life for them.

That is my definition.

Old fashioned perhaps, but true nonetheless.

As time passed, you changed. You changed so radically I could not recognise the woman I was with.

That golden soul had been corrupted by eternal darkness. The woman I loved had become Madam Satanica.

Now she has gone. Gone after screwing Chris, cards left behind and found by me.

Has she ran to her darkly hidden coffin? To sleep until yet another foolish victim comes along?

Who knows?

All I know, understand is that I was badly abused. My trust betrayed, my love vaporised in the harsh reality of life.

To think I had wept like a madman, unable to comprehend. It will be her turn to weep soon.

As the hounds of Hell track her down. Tear her apart, dissolve both body and soul.

Doom her to eternal oblivion. Madam Satanica must never tread the Earth again. She must never pollute the air we breathe.

This good universe must be purged of her foul stench forever.

Only evil lives in her soul now. A dark eternal evil, erupted from a place darker than the bowels of perdition.

I hope she screams when the hounds arrive. Black with snarling dripping teeth, red eyes blazing, as coals blaze in a raging fire.

The collector of memories, of souls shalt be no more.

I may be damaged, holed below the waterline, but I got away lightly.

My soul remains pure, protected, from the evil that I encountered.
Sleep well this day, Madam Satanica. The hounds of Hell are close now.

Your doom approaches.

I sit here typing as hours and weeks roll by. No time for life’s little pleasures, for real happiness. Only my typing fills that vacuum.

The Dunwich Vampires, Bedroom Trails series, and of course Adventures of Jerrix the Cat series, published on Amazon Kindle.

Worthwhile those titles. Easy to write, despite personal problems.
Only my writing keeps me going now. Don’t have to sweat really, comes to me like breathing. Little left of that really.

The words, the characters pour out like champagne pouring into that tall glass. They appear on the page, some unexpected.

Some like Jerrix are quite talkative, demanding my attention like a baby, crying through the night. I cannot ignore that heartfelt plea.

I type still, remembering Memories of a lost Century also published on Amazon Kindle. A book that makes you reel in horror, cry like a madman, a book of poetry that at times seems brutal.

Written over 20years that one. Still adding to it now of course. Seems never ending that one.

Typing is a lonely profession. Only you can do this whilst life flies by. No one else can do it for you. You are trapped in your own little world, the worlds you create, becoming your only reality.

This writer’s tale is nearly complete now. Typing continues well into the night. Until the sun rises and I head to bed, ready for yet another day of words.

I stood before that mirror, gazing into those strange eyes that gazed back, emotionless. Those small dark orbs that reflected a dark soul.

A soul that had been terribly abused by the woman I had loved. A love that had been vaporised in the fires of reality.

Now there was nothing but emptiness, not hatred, even pity had gone now. My reflection looked back confirming this.

That face was nothing I had seen before. Not quite me, but not quite human. My humanity suppressed by tragic events, buried deep like the corpse I had become.

The reflection shimmered then, seemed to fade into negativity before restoring itself at last. I shivered with cold, despite the noon heat.

Reflections of self are reflections of reality. Grounding our beings in everyday life. They change subtly over time, until that familiar image is familiar no more.

When even you and I stare back in horror and realise the awful truth. The reflection belongs to someone else.

I lay there panting as you appeared, standing tall, erect and terrifying.

A hideous sight that turned my blood to ice. From whence did you come, for me?

I lay with sheets drawn tight, like the fragile walls of some ancient castle. You stood there silent, just watching.

I quivered in fear as you took a step forward. My panting grew desperate. You ignored it. Even as I screamed that hideous scream.

I woke then screaming, sweat drenching my clothes, my pillow, my sheets. Wild eyes scanned the darkness.

You were gone of course. Or were you lurking, waiting for me to sleep once more?

I dread your return, as I dread being alone. I turn again to sleep, my pounding heart subsides.

Darkness closes around me like a protective shell, safe once more.

I know where you are, you cheeky thing. Lying within those plastic folds of never ending pleasure. Waiting for the next session.

Do you know how I need you? How my body heaves with your delicate touch?

No one knows about you, my plastic friend.

Ah, there you are. Sitting quietly as I caress those kinky grooves.

So essential to us both. Your buzzing voice drives me crazy sometimes.

At other times it makes me weep.

Shall we enjoy ourselves now? Or wait perhaps, until the moon sets over a stormy sky?

My body heaves with expectation of the pleasure to come. Oh I don’t know. Such a fleeting thing really.

Let me put you away in that shiny box. Put you to bed, as I roll naked between silken sheets. Oh, my breasts do hurt this night.

Perhaps too much of a good thing?

My mutual friend sleeps now.

As shall I.

Months had passed since the corpse was found. Foul stench stretching into the beyond.

New family entered the flat of doom. Unaware that I was there. Watching.

I saw the funny side then. The noises, apparitions, I was one too now. You have to laugh at the irony.

The family were not as receptive as I though. Just ignored me, until I turned the cold tap on.

That woke them up, had to really. The priest came of course.

Mumbling words he did not believe. I knocked the bell to the floor.
He fled soon after. Then the family left. Alone again, waiting. Fear not I do no harm, I don’t exist...

I was just like you once, human. Now I wander this dark evil city, called Norwich.

Hunting those who did me wrong, rotting flesh hanging from rotting bones. Rattling.

Did you hear me? Doubt it. You sleep too deep. Not deep enough though.

As you bathe your filthy body, washed in the blood of virgins. A bone scratches across the window.

I found you.

Don’t think the grave shall stop me, I can rise from that. Digging my way out to avenge myself.

Shall you quiver? Shall you shake? Shall you plead forgiveness?

This corpse recognises none of those.

This corpse is driven by darker forces than you. Forces created by you, like a boomerang, savage and merciless.

A locked door, a prison of iron cannot stop me then. Good in life, can’t harm a fly. Beyond the grave is a darker proposition.

Beware the night of eternal darkness. Beware the wrath from beyond. Beware something that will come.

For you.

Your pale body shimmered in the moonlight, as the veil swished around.

Your hips quite dazzled, just feet from the ground.

Breasts heaved gently in the cool night air, as you started to whisper, “Do I dare?”

The crickets cracked, as you trod away, happy with life, oh so gay. You lifted the hem, just a little way, cotton rustled like wet turned hay.

Over your head the garment went, lucky for you there was no gent.
Naked now, like the day you were born, like a light, your beauty shone.

Your breasts rose high, your tummy pulled, your thighs stretched wide, as if they should.

No one around, no one there, no freak of nature, no filthy stare. Alone at long last, your love was so vast, it may have been better, if I had been there.

Tale of the Hangman.

I used to work but now I don’t. Vote for hanging, I bet you won’t. We can’t let killers get away.

After all, they will kill next day.

They should die the people say, as upon the bed they lay. They will never understand, how hard it is to make a stand.

Hanging people must be easy, not at all if you are queasy. To look the person in the eye, knowing that they are about to die.

To place the rope around their neck, as they look down towards the deck.

They stand upon the trap door proper, soon they will become a cropper.

I pulled the lever and down they would go, the neck would snap their eyes would roll.

Their body would swing from side to side, the rope would creak which I can’t abide.

Then I’d have to cut them down, they only paid me half a crown. I am the hangman of this tale, I live my life my face quite pale. I cannot sleep because I dream. Will I ever be redeemed?

Cannons Over Norwich.

The city basked in late summer sunshine, shoppers swamping the market, updated now. Around the castle, tourists admired the sand blasted golden exterior.

Then it began, suddenly.

The sky was torn asunder. Giant horses towing great golden cannons appeared over their unsuspecting heads. Then the noise began.
Huge roars as the weapons fired, unleashing balls of fire, downwards. The market place exploded among the detonations. Shoppers turned to human torches. Stalls smashed to matchwood.

The castle exploded, casting debris across the road, smashing buses, taxis and shop fronts. Bodies scattered as the iron balls reached their targets.

The cannons roared again. Spitting merciless death towards the rail station. Carriages and engines smashed. The station left a smoking ruin. The cannons spoke again.

Riverside, with its boats, hotels and homes, disintegrated. People panicked then. Too late. The cannonade was deafening as balls smashed the Adam and Eve. An ancient pub.

The beautiful Cathedral did not escape this wrath. The building collapsed soon enough under that murderous bombardment.

Then the cannonade stopped. A pall of thick black smoke hung in the noon air. Screams of pain rose toward heaven. There was no answer from there.

No one knew why. No one understood. No one really cared.
The city had been punished in truth. Punished for its dark depravity. The silence that followed that day was only a reprieve.

Only the cannons knew when the bombardment would be resumed.

The Savage Blade.

Today, my heart remains torn by the savage blade
that pierced me less than a month ago.
I mope, remember, analyse, the conclusion remains
the same.

Uncalled for, unfair, just not cricket.

To build a life around a rock and see that rock, become
a towering berg, is terrifying indeed.
To see that berg melt until it no longer exists, even
more so.

The weeping has stopped. No tears left in this cruel world.
Nothing left to weep for, except the overpowering silence.
Now I wait calmly for life's next blow. Wondering just how
worse this could get.

With no hard ground beneath my feet, the quicksand beckons.
You can't swim in that.

All washed up as they say. lifeboat floating in a sea of brown
haze. With fingers of the dead, groping madly.

I do not grow on a tree. I am unique. I love as deeply as one
can love. Now, that painful love remains.

A stake drilling slowly through my heart. Drilling through to
my very soul.