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Category Archives: Kill Series

It’s the short cut. The one behind the corner shop that dips down through a strange stretch of scrubby urban wasteland and creeps out under the one working streetlight on that back road. Even at night, the path is clear enough from here – a thin, pale dragline with the welcome beacon of light diffusing the farther end.

Between here and there though is the blur of indistinct twilit shapes on either side. They’re probably just tree skeletons clutching at each other overhead, or dead kitchen appliances and dismembered shopping trolleys, or bare-branched bushes harbouring a feral cat or mouldering midden or the broken remnants of a drunken binge.

It’s tempting to stop and look back about halfway down. The stolid reassurance of the shop’s back wall and the battered garbage bins and the quiet empty path behind.

However, while looking back, what lies in front is no longer in sight. 

A quick glance forward is enough to guarantee there is nothing ahead but the stillness and the shadows and the cold street light ahead.

Of course, one should never discount the shadows though. You see – you’re not the only one who likes to make short cuts.

We do too.

And this won’t take long…




You know that feeling you get? There’s all kinds of cliches to describe it, but they read like you’ve been possessed or something: hairs raising, skin crawling. Like somehow your body knows something you don’t. Some earthy desire for self-preservation that modernity hasn’t managed to breed out of you.

You get it late at night, during the ritual. You know the one. Check the doors are locked. The windows fastened. Turn out the lights. Room by room. Your cosy cocoon of light getting methodically diminished by darkness at its extremeties. By your own hand.

And your eyes start playing tricks, don’t they? Looking back into a room newly dark, the space seems cavernous. Watchful. Hungrier. You have fleeting visions of a figure. A face. A form that moves – but it’s nonsense. There’s nothing.

You could turn the light back on to check, but that would be an admittance of the ridiculous fear tickling around – not even your mind which would be acknowledgable – but your neck.

Retreat. Don’t look back. Well, maybe once, but… nothing. Though there could have been. Move a little faster, snap off the last outer light before closing the door firmly and satisfyingly on the uneasy, uncanny space that used to be home. Bunker down gratefully, albeit temporarily, in the clinical bright light of the bathroom.

No corners here. No shadows. Door closed. You might even take time to laugh at yourself in the mirror before turning on the faucet.

Water falls with noisy familiarity and there is relief as you bend, splashing it up into your face briskly and efficiently.

Vulnerable position, that. Head down, water running, sight obscured. The door could open. The shower curtain twitch. But it would take you time to wipe your eyes to look.

Turn off the water, still leaning, drips running smoothly down your face and plinking relentlessly into the basin. Now, contrarily, you don’t want to look up. Imagine if you did, straight into the mirror, and saw something impossibly and awfully behind you. Right there. You’ve rarely known that flash of raw fear, but your body is anticipating it without you.

You know that feeling?


That’s me.



Venice is like us.

Dead and decaying, but impossibly alive.   Every waterway smells of things too old to live that have forgotten how to die, while the skins of buildings peel and wash away, and aging has become a kind of crumbling, rotting, unsettling, beautiful immortality.

At the core, Venice is doomed – a corpse of a city living on the blood of passing tourists that it drinks greedily and scorns eternally.   Its symbol, the winged lion, is itself a phantasmagoria: the regal superior killer, born aloft and preserved in dirty gold or terrible green bronzes that have wept black tears all down themselves.


I’ve decided.

Amelia wants a new – companion.   A dead surrogate, a deathless playmate – a replacement Jonathon.   And she wants one who is of my acquaintance.




And I know who to choose.


Remember last Halloween? – maybe it was when it began.   Only a year ago.   Or maybe it was older.   Is older.

Down winding side streets, echoing only with the plish of restless canal water nearby, is the mouth of a Venetian alley where the hour is such that corners have become sharper, and doorways deeper, and shadows darker.   Down that narrow throat, one door is [ajar].   Our door.   Amelia’s and mine.   Or was, when we played here half a millenium ago.

[I enter].

And for the first time since coming to Europe – I’m suddenly hungry again.

It’s in the blood.




It creaks, like old bones, and the plaster walls are feathery to the touch.


I am always fucking climbing to read Amelia, aren’t I?   But now – now debts will be paid.   She’ll owe me.

(I’ll even do it myself.   So hungry.   Can I wait?)

It was a hard choice, but I made it.


Open         the swollen, scarred bedroom door –   into   the   belly   of   the   beast…


Too late.



Brix is on the floor, pained – pathetic, his wrists and shoulder ripped open.


And crouching over him, her mouth horrifying

and bloody

and horrified

is Harmony.


She looks up.

I hear the air constrict and flex behind me.

And then Amelia clutches me and her teeth are in my neck, and you