In a dark hallway of common wood a Grandfather clock stood, beside it a table with a simple decoration of now dead holly branches with once red berries tied in red ribbon. The clock whilst not wound, chimed a silent toll for eleven o’clock.

The child’s room was dark and dusty, a sense of memories and tears floated in the air with the tiny pieces of dust that swirled around the room. Clouds of the past caught in the moon beams through the ice covered windows that projected an age old tale to be told forever. Toys scattered the floor, made of wood, tin and rough furs. Lead soldiers in red jackets stood in uniform blocks, others scattered from the bullets, cannons and bayonets of a make believe war and innocent death. A lost teddy bear sat one-eyed under a small bed that stood in the corner. Iron bars curved and beautiful adorned the ends whilst blankets once warm now emanated loss, laying scattered and uninviting upon the worn mattress. Hung from a tarnished brass bed knob was a large sock, the red colour of the wool faintly still showing under the dust that had settled upon it’s empty presence.

Something moved in the darkest corner where a bookshelf stood, it’s overbearing form leaning into the room where the wooden floor had settled unevenly. Children’s books filled the lowest shelf, some upright and well placed, others stacked on their sides, pages worn and crumpled from small hands that held them whilst dreams of heroes and monsters were fed. The next shelf was full of collected curiosities,  the possessions of a child treasured as gifts from someone loved or found on a special day that would be remember forever. Amidst the intentionally placed small wooden chest, semi-precious stones and a carved wooden bear sat a monkey. It’s brown fur dressed in a red and gold laced waistcoat and a bellboy hat of the same design. It’s arms raised in joy enhanced by the painted excited expression of it’s face. It’s grin was eerie in the dull moonlight that barely reached it. In each outstretched fabric hand a tin symbol had been fixed with cotton, like buttons through small holes at the peaked centres of the tarnished disks.

The symbol in the monkey’s left hand shimmered slightly as it gently vibrated from the movement of the arm. It pushed at the air and against the years of dust and damp, it wanted to move. As it began to edge inwards the other arm joined in strained motion. The metal discs edged closer with agonising slow effort, it was not until they almost met that the laws of nature relented and the monkey’s arms moved with any apparent observation. The symbols gently touched, ringing out with an almost inaudible pitched clang. The long silence of the seemly unoccupied room was interrupted. The grin of ink and lead emanated the glee of changing the world around it even if only for a brief moment. With stuttering motion the monkey’s arm moved outwards as far as their creator would allow and then with a new smoothness and urgency back in again, the symbols clattering like a gun shot. Again and again the arms moved back and forth, with each inward stroke bringing the clattering sound of tin upon tin. The monkey began to jump up and down from the frantic motion of it’s upper limbs, legs unmoved in their crouching position against the body. The unnatural movement brought the toy to life, a soul behind painted eyes celebrating in the joy of breaking the silent veil.

Snow began to fall outside the window and as the large frozen flakes began to fall the monkey stopped suddenly. A curtain flinched briefly sending dust into the moon beams in a spectacular dance, specks twisted, raised and fell in a chaotic beat. A Spotlight highlighted the dust celebration as some of the moisture on a glass pane at the window was roughly wiped away like a small hand had been moved across the surface to see outside. It was magical outside, pure moonlight brought a mystic blue to the night as the land outside turned white with the heavy fall of snow flakes upon the ground, trees and hedgerows. Thoughts of snowmen, sledging and snowball fights with friends filled the room, an excited smile for the day that would not come. Before long the garden outside was completely covered, no dirt, grass or brick path showed. A fox trotted out of the hedge leaving a trail of paw prints in the fresh snow. It stopped suddenly as if it had sensed something different in the night. It looked up at the window to the dusty bedroom and cocked it’s head looking directly at one pane of glass that was a clear patch amongst the ice that filled the other panes. The fox stared as if it had made contact with another creature, both sets of eyes meeting and trying to understand one another in the silent conversation. Before long the fox looked down and then continued on with it’s journey, disappearing into the hedge that edged the garden. It’s previous tracks now lost, new tracks started as if the creature had appeared from nowhere in centre of the cottage garden. But before long even the new footprints had vanished in the continual snowfall.

***

Footsteps, small and solid ran across the room away from the window, sudden silence as a moment later the mattress compressed and more dust erupted in the air, playing in the moon light, creating patterns some random, some more recognisable to a human eye. It was Yule tomorrow and he must be asleep when Santa Claus arrives. But he was too excited, snow was falling and tomorrow would bring a wonderland for him to play in after opening presents and the glorious goose dinner. It was all too much and he smiled until his face ached with joy. As he laid there he began to notice the cold, a cold that chilled him deep inside. The house was old and full of drafts, he thought of the warmth of the fireplace with his parents sitting there after they had placed him in bed, smiling and wishing him a good night. He pushed himself under the blankets in attempt to become warm, but no matter how long he laid there, the cold always sat within him. But he was used to that, he had been cold as long as he could remember. Before long he drifted into a slumber with a small smile on his face.

He was unsure how long he had been asleep for when noises from outside disturbed him. But he woke with an excited mind and jumped from the bed running over to the window where he had stood previously. His mind raced with thoughts of Santa. As he looked out upon the snow covered ground, he saw four men, dressed in black on horses, each carrying a flaming torch, three with rifles slung across their backs. They dismounted and the sound of banging upon the wooden door echoed through the stone building. He heard shouts and the screaming of his mother, a deep booming voice cried out “Witch”. He jumped in fear as a gun shot boomed in the night, followed closely by a second that brought silence to the home.

***

Heavy footsteps not like earlier, but heavy and full of dread echoed in the hallway, coming closer and closer to the door to the dusty child’s room. Each step echoing until they stopped, heavy breathing replaced the deathly beat of foot against wooden floor. The door swung open violently, curtains moved, not from the sudden cold wind that entered the room from the door but a presence of scared innocence. Tears fell to the wooden floor, there was a moment of hesitation and the room filled with the tension of both fear and belief. The room suddenly smelled of burnt gun powder, it lingered in the cloud of dust dancing in the moon light, a final memory.

One year later.

In a dark hallway of simple wood a Grandfather clock stood, beside it a table with a simple decoration of now dead holly branches with once red berries tied in red ribbon. The clock whilst not wound, chimed a silent toll for eleven o’clock.

“So, you only harvest the good experiences?” I asked, quite enjoying the game that either he started or I did, and he truly believed he could sell time. He looked at me and answered: “Not just the good times, obviously the sensation of love, a party at the Playboy Mansion or a child growing up are some of our finest wines, each sip to be savoured for the pleasure and happiness. But some require just the house wine and we provide those with times like watching six episodes of some trash American series. Then you curse when it’s 3am and feel tired the following day at work; or you’re in a pub on an average night like this, having a quiet drink with a friend. Those bits of low event time can be scrubbed clean and used like new for our clients. Think own brand with no taste till you add your own recipe options.” I really had trouble trying not to smile or even burst out laughing as he tried to bring me into his world. “You harvest the good and average time, so I guess only leaving mostly just bad times?” I enquired, now making odd sense from his logic.

“Totally, can you see now why often the bad times stick in your mind, whilst some of your best can barely even be grasped in detail?” He leaned in again and said: “Well, we do harvest some of the bad times, we do have some clients with particular tastes.” He took another gulp of the ale, more for a dry mouth than the ale itself. I leaned in as well to encourage him to continue. “They are more difficult to harvest, dangerous one would say. Protective gear is necessary and a lot of man power.”

“Wow!” I said. I would like to think it was an act of clever wit, but it was the only thing I could think of as he described the act of harvesting time like some sort of mining operation. Time, drilled, collected, cleaned, packaged and sold to… “Hold up, who are your clients? Who buys this time off you? Something like time must be expensive and you would not be selling it in a student pub.” He looked straight at me, his almost closed eyes boring deeper than made me comfortable. He raised his glass of ‘Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar’, motioned a respectful tilt and proceeded to down the last of the golden liquid. He took a deep breath and said: “You’re right there, I would not be selling it here,” looking around at the now mostly empty bar and the few odd groups, well past the drunk and boisterous stage. He then stood up and looked down at me, “I was just taking your time up and now I bid you farewell.” With that he walked up to the door. The doorman, who looked like he wanted to be going home, opened the door and let him out into the night. I sat there for a minute, looked at my book, noticing the ale puddle gone and tried to process what just happened with little real comprehension, except the guy was not playing with a full deck. I picked up my mobile, pressed the unlock and looked at the time. It was 2am and I wondered how that happened. So I finished my pint, stood up, put my coat on, grabbed the book and left the pub, saying my farewells to the doorman and went home cursing myself as I would be tired at work tomorrow.

*Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar – Hops grown by HP Lovecraft and brewed by Neil Gaiman

Thanks to the Hobbit Pub for use of glasses, tables, bartops and I hope Adi enjoyed the pint once not needed for the photo shoot.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

The man was still there when I got back, flicking through my book and quietly laughing to himself. “Something funny?” I asked as I put his pint down in front him. He looked up at me, wiped his eyes and spoke: “Just something in your book, they where never like that.”

“What where never like what?” I replied, sliding myself across the wooden bench, shoving my jacket up out of the way. He put the book down again, knocking his pint and splashing the nectar of the old gods across its cover. He did not even acknowledge the fact as he began to speak again. “Oh, don’t worry, just a little factual inaccuracy.”

“In my book? But my book is fiction!” I answered. He looked at me, then down at the book. The beer, now a puddle on the old and discoloured cover, was beginning to seep into the leathered material. Out of the crackling speaker above the bench behind me, strange and out of place chanting gently accompanied James singing of a thing that should not be. “If you say so,” he remarked, pushing the book to one side and leaning in towards me. “So about this time then, you interested?” he said in a hushed voice. I motioned a cheer with my glass and took a swig on my ale. When I finished I answered him. “I still don’t understand what you are trying to sell and never mind what it costs.”

“Alright, I forget you folk see time differently,” he said as he sat back, took a drink of his own pint and continued. “Ever spent a night dancing, had a few drinks, laughed with friends, met a beautiful girl, taken her home and did the old drunken last dance in bed? Then lying there with your arms around her you wondered why it only felt like an hour ago you where contemplating staying in as you were tired. Where had the night gone? It had gone so quickly and your memories don’t add up to the time that had passed? ”

“Yeah, it’s called being drunk!” I said raising my glass again.

“Well, yes and no. You see, yes, your drunk and that does make it all so much easier,” he said with a cheeky but mischievous grin. “Easier for what?” I asked. “Easier for us to harvest your time,” he replied. The only thing that I could bring into words was “Harvest Time.”

“Yes, harvest, like bring in the crops to feed us through the winter. You see, time is an interesting thing, it’s like flypaper for events, sensations and feelings. It sticks to it and wiggles for bit then gives up and returns to the universe to be recycled. But whilst it’s wiggling, it has life and that, my friend, is a commodity.” He sat back, took his pint for another drink looking at me like he had just revealed a great secret to me. I tried to understand what he had tried to explain. “So,” I began, “time is the flypaper, human events and all we feel with it are the flies.” He nodded his head, up and down. I continued on: “and so you sell these flies before the flies die?”

“Yes, spot on!” he exclaimed.

“You chop up the flypaper and sell it fly by fly?”

“Indeed, your are a clever one, aren’t you.” He nodded just once this time and gave me a wary look. He looked thoughtful for a moment and continued his sales pitch at me. “We have all sorts of time for all needs, but mind – the better the experience the higher the price.”

*Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar – Hops grown by HP Lovecraft and brewed by Neil Gaiman

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

He looked directly at me, well as best as I could tell he was. “I’m not selling watches, knocked off or otherwise. I am offering you time, time to experience life, time to enjoy the curves of a naked lady in your bed, time to be dancing to the rhythm of your favourite band or time to be reading that book of yours.” I stared at him, now quite confused, thinking is he a time share salesman wanting me to buy a bit of house on an island now too full of British tourists? “What is that you reading anyway?” He lent over and fingers adorned with gothic silver jewellery grabbed the book from my hands and pulled it over to him. He closed the book, losing my page and began to read the front. “The Wanderings of Alha…, Alhazzz, Alhazzz red?” he gave up trying to pronounce the title and offered the book back to me. As he lent over, the short sleeve of his shirt lifted up his arm and revealed a tattoo, which seemed to be a stylised octopus, tentacles reaching out from the cotton material that masked most of the head. “Well,” I remarked as I took the book back with annoyance at him losing my page, “I did have time to read my book until you showed up.”

“OK, lets begin again. I’ll tell you what, I’ll get us a couple of drinks and then we can have a proper chat.” As he stopped speaking he pulled a ten pound note out from his jeans pocket and put in on the table. I looked at him blankly, wondering if he was about to ask me to go get the drinks? “Look, you’re a regular and the bar is three deep with students who have all the time in the world. You and me, well, you are not so fortunate after all this time. You’re a regular, you’ll get served quicker than me.” I could not disagree with his reasoning that I would get served quicker, but his remarks about my time left me curiously unnerved. Partly for the free drink and partly for the chance to get some time away from this man, I grabbed the tenner and was about to ask what he was having when he spoke: “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Pint of Shoggoth it is then,” I remarked as I walked away and began to work my way to that one point at the bar where regulars get served and others get told to move out of the way of the glass collector. Well, in truth, regulars get asked to move as well, but we have learned to move first or expect an insult before being asked to move. The punk barmaid, dressed in tartan, black, green, pink, red and numerous other colours, hair to match and advertising a zombie film from the days when horror still shocked and got banned on her ripped t-shirt, served my requested two pints of Shoggoth with a bubbly smile before moving on to serve the ever increasing numbers of students wanting to drink booze, who themselves had elements of a zombie mob about them. Grabbing the two pints and with a skill only years of pub life can hone I made my way back to my seat, avoiding drunken youths dressed in golfing outfits, without spilling a drop.

*Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar – Hops grown by HP Lovecraft and brewed by Neil Gaiman

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“…time?” the voice said as it drifted into the arena of my attention whilst I tried to read my book, siting in the corner of my favourite pub. Normally, I could ignore the background noise when I wanted to read a good book over a pint of ‘Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar’*, imported from Newport on the island just over the water from here. The pub, whilst rustic, was not trendy, and proudly owned an eclectic jukebox that currently was singing at you to run to the hills, and attracted swarms of the local students to drink a pint of alcoholic sugar and food colouring before descending upon the next student-friendly bar down the hill. So you get used to the noise and know when is a good time to leave, before the crowds at the bar become more than five students deep. But this voice disrupted my concentration and I realised the voice was actually aimed at me and said something about time. I looked at my mobile phone and the grimy green display doing its best to illuminate, I began to speak “It’s just gone seven…”

“Sorry mate, you must of misheard me,” the voice that had a slight roughness interrupted. I looked up and finally saw the source of the voice that had pulled me from a tale of old gods and books of the dead. They say never judge a book by its cover and they also say first impressions count. I like to acknowledge either depending on my mood. So very much in a ‘first impressions count, you have interrupted my escapism’ kind of mood, I took in the presence before me. He was an average size man, shaved head, dressed in jeans and a casual shirt with oriental script arranged in random places. I always wondered what those symbols meant, was it something deep or the East having a laugh as the Westerners wondered around with ‘fungal foot disease’ emblazoned across their person. His eyes seemed barely open and it was difficult at first to see if he was actually looking at me. “I said, you want some time, you know, buy some time?” He spoke with a shifty aspect as if he was doing something he was not meant to. “Me, time?” I decided to reply, still unsure that I was his intended potential customer. “Yes, time.” he answered back. “Do I want to buy some time?” my internal dialogue asked with more of a question of ‘what’ than ‘do I’. I continued to look at him with a befuddled expression as suddenly it dawned on me. “Oh! Do I want to buy some watches off you?” I spoke hastily as my distrust of this man grew. “Sorry, mate if your wanting to punt knocked off watches round here, then you better be leaving. If the landlady or those guys…” I stopped speaking as I looked round to the two doormen leaning against the wall at the entrance to the pub, looking casually big and persuasive. Turning back to look at guy selling his wares, I continued “…catch you, then you will be asked to leave.” I emphasised the ‘leave’ for a sense of ‘you’re not welcome round here, now sling your hook before the doormen sling you onto pavement outside’ in it. He looked at me, understanding the tone. I could almost hear the heavy sounds of his thoughts and an unsettling power as he stood just staring at me. Suddenly he shrugged his shoulders announced: “You got me all wrong, mate.” and sat down on the pew the other side of the table from me, like he had known me years and I was a good friend.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

His scream was muffled as an abrasive hand clasped across his mouth, toxic hairs like needles dug into his skin and lips, irritating, piercing flesh and gums. Pin pricks in his flesh let blood flow into the bath water as the pressure of the hand increased. He involuntarily inhaled, breathing hundreds of tiny irritant hairs into his throat, nose and lungs. His internal organs reacted in ferocious defence against the foreign elements that had entered their domain. The increasing pain began to overwhelm him, his breaths became panicked as his body tried to gag on his own bile, mucus and blood. The face of the monster moved closer to Darren’s own face, which still struggled with its fight against the paralysis that sat in his muscles like black glutinous tar beneath his skin. Darren rasped in desperation, his eyes staring at the looming face that drew closer and closer to him. Eye sockets that had been grown over by the dishevelled skin of the demon seemed to peer deep in Darren’s eyes. Whilst it had no eyes to see, Darren could feel the penetrating presence burrow deep into his own eyes and ripping his soul in an organised but savage search for his past, as random events of his life rose and fell in his mind. Fetid breath exhaled from the monster’s repulsive mouth. The cavity was long and drawn out vertically, the bottom of the rough lips flowing out into separate limbs each with a single curved claw glistening as they moved around the cavity, cleaning and preparing. The reminiscence of his past increased in momentum. Unable to cope with the bedlam, his mind began to adulterate the memories and the vision that towered before him. The monster no longer stood over him, his mother was holding him down, her mouth opening in a sickening movement and clawed limbs ripped out tearing her face into a deformed manic grin. Blood fell like a waterfall from the coarse wounds, pouring over Darren’s chest and spilling into the already pink water, turning it a deep red. Black congealed lumps fell from his mothers face, each linked by umbilical-like cords. The lumps that hit his bare chest exploded, releasing dark clotted fluids that burned into his flesh. Skin fell away from his ribcage, sliding into the bathwater. Muscle followed and bone began to dissolve, the residue dripping onto his lungs and heart. Darren fought for breath as his lungs deflated and dissolved into the flesh soup bathwater. Finally this butchered vision of his mother pushed him in, down into the vile substance and a final resolve.

Darren looked at the tinfoil that his friend offered him along with the make-shift pipe to inhale the smoke with. He had never tried heroin before and was unsure of it now. Part of him wanted to find out the hit, another part told him where it would lead. As he stared at the tinfoil, he caught a reflection in part of the foil of a dark figure in a brimmed hat. He turned around only to see nothing there, breathing heavily with paranoia of potential actions.

“You want it or what?” said a voice.

The End

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

The figure stood tall, the tip of its fedora hat only just missing the moist ceiling as it approached the bath. It moved without step, gliding with an unnerving slithering across the black and white chequered floor, its legs hidden by the long, heavily stained trench coat. The collar of the coat was pulled up, hiding the visitor’s facial features, all that showed were the eyes, black and abyss-like. They reflected the image of Darren, his naked scrawny body partly submerged in the bath water. As the figure moved closer towards Darren’s still body, the reflection that viewed like a movie in an empty movie theatre pulled in closer to Darren’s upper torso and his head. As Darren’s eyes came into focus, his dilated pupils moved to look directly at the intruder that now stood over him. The waterfall that his drugged mind had perceived shrank suddenly, dragging Darren back to the surface, back to his reality.

Darren’s brain screamed inside his skull, but that was as far as the scream got. His senses exploded with repulsion, the smell wanted to make him vomit, the sickly presence that invaded his personal space made his skin crawl. But he could not react, no muscle operated, no limb moved and no sound came out. Only his eyes could move and all he could see was the horror that stood over him. As he laid in the now suddenly cold bath, naked and prone, all he could do was stare at the figure above him. His internal dialogue begging for his life, knowing it made no difference as whatever stood over him could not hear his pleas. The figure just stood and stared at the pitiful man below him and did not move. Under the trench coat, things slithered and moved, making strange bulges across the visitor’s chest and back. Darren’s mind tried to reason with itself, the rational part saying that his enemies had finally found him and his life would end soon, very soon. But then the part of his mind that told him to fear the dark screamed out at him and took control. This was not human, not even earthly, this was his demon that had come for him. His deeds, his sins were now to be accounted for. He had destroyed his life and all those who had given a damn about him. Through his addiction he had condemned himself, not just to death, to Hell. The drugs… “Wait” his thoughts told him, It’s a hallucination, just a hallucination. His face twitched into a manic smile with the realisation. In the maelstrom of his mind, Darren suddenly felt like he had hit the eye of a storm and peace descended over him. His thoughts moved with ease and took only moments for long thoughts to process. His suddenly clear head analysed the figure above him, he could see it now, his mind understood the horror that affronted him with a sense of calm. Even though his mind took in and understood the horror, his thoughts acted like he was casually sight-seeing. Slowly the figure raised an arm over Darren, extending gangling fingers. As the figure moved the collars of trench coat fell away revealing the face that was hidden beneath. Darren screamed.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

He lay in the bath staring at the ceiling through wisps of steam, while his mind was trying to explain his earlier experiences. At the time it all seemed so real, but now it looked like the drugs and his own paranoia were becoming partners in the reality game. Monsters don’t exist, not in the real world he hated so much. The hot water did its best to relax his tense body, but his mind was still working overtime. He thought about needing more heroin, his death on someones agenda and why in Hell’s name had he hallucinated those creatures in all their sickly glory. His head started to hurt and his muscles started to twitch and convulse as his body and mind cried out for another hit. Darren dragged himself out of the bath and walked into the other room, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the threadbare carpet. He picked up the various tools and supplies for his temporary escape. He placed the tools and substance of his addiction on a chair by the bath, and began the preparation for loading the syringe. He stepped back into the bath and slid into the warm comforting water. He reached over for his belt, and tied his arm ready for the delivery. This was the last of his stash, after this it is either face those who he has crossed or face cold turkey. He would face that bridge later – for now he could escape once more.

He found a vein amongst the various pinpricks trailing along his arm. They looked like a highlighted journey on a map, except the map got you nowhere good in the end. Picking up the syringe, he flicked it, making sure there were no air bubbles. Get one in your bloodstream and it could kill you. He considered the irony, if that finished him off. He found the spot, feeling the point of the needle on his skin. He applied force and the needle went in cleanly. He pressed the plunger and the brown liquid shot into the vein, to mingle with the weak red blood that flowed through him, keeping him alive. The hit was almost instantaneous. He sunk into the bath, the now murky water lapping at his lips. As he lay there in a self-inflicted state of paralysis, he stared passed the ceiling, his mind somewhere else, no longer in the same scape as his body. He sunk further and further into the water. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the water flowed vertically down as he fell below the water level. Like the giant waterfalls he had seen on television, mist erupted as it fell upon his flesh. The turmoil of liquid ignited the senses of his skin. The pressure pushing down and the heat mildly scolding, but all pleasurable as it scoured his sins away. He let himself sink deeper and deeper into the bliss that wrapped him up and made everything safe again. No one could touch him here, no one. Those who wanted him dead could do their worst, he would live forever if they found him now. He looked up at the rectangular hole in the water above him, it seemed so far away now. He could only see the ceiling above him and the naked light-bulb that steamed in the moisture-filled air. He could not see the bathroom walls or the door. This was when the bathroom door opened and a figure moved towards the bath.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

As consciousness swirled back to Darren, he felt about six foot under, in the grave of his own digging. When will the maggots come and take what is left of his flesh, to release him to another existence, a second chance to feel alive? He looked up at the ceiling of his bedsit. The ceiling was a murky yellow colour, years of smoke and living had produced a masterpiece up there, and he could see patterns and shapes on the blotches and damp stains. He saw a barren desert with small settlements of mould. As he stared, the ceiling had moved. This was normal, the visual distortions of so-called reality brought on by his choice of addiction, if he could call it a choice now. The atmosphere in the little room had become oppressive, the air heavy and difficult to breathe. The cupboard loomed over Darren, its doors slightly ajar. His mind started to play tricks – something in the closet was looking out, one eyeball peered from the crack. Its iris studied Darren on the floor in his sorry state.  He could see the thing in the closet looking at the puddle of piss on the floor between his legs, the acrid smell making him feel like an incontinent old person who belonged in care. Darren looked away from his mind’s invention of self-judging, knowing it is just his head messing with itself.

His eyes traced back to the ceiling and its swirling desert storms, and as he stared harder, the lines of yellow started to move. The shades changed colour, only slightly, hints of other colours mixing in with the tobacco yellow. Shapes were forming, they formed creatures from the dark places. He could hear voices hissing and wet tendrils slithering like eels caught in a net. Darren felt a dead weight all over his body, more than is usual for his state, his brain ached and thumped. He closed his eyes to the forms on the ceiling, the darkness engulfing his brain, as did the entities he was trying to hide from. He could see them clearly now, no longer were they patterns on a stained ceiling but images in his head. They looked too real to be the drugs, the edges too clear and crisp, the detail intensely sickening. These creatures with drool falling from salivating mouths, between razor-like teeth. Their eyes bulging from half decayed sockets and stems, tendrils reached out to grab at him, he could feel the cold, damp secretions of these monsters. The smell that came with them was worse than any cesspit he had called home over the years. It felt like barbed wire being pulled through his nose and throat, his stomach convulsed and he vomited, still the stench was drawn into his lungs, his eyes started to stream. The noise they made became louder and louder, it made his ears hurt and the intense riot of screaming, insane laughter and stomach-wrenching noises overtook his senses, it felt like his head would explode. He continued staring at the evil which clawed at him, the smell burned his insides, the primeval grunts and groans too loud.  Darren screamed and opened his eyes. They were gone, it was just the same old yellowed ceiling, no monsters, no pounding noises and no vile smell, just him and his room. Darren breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He noticed the puddle between his legs was growing as his mind and body relaxed and escaped into unconsciousness.

Darkness had fallen by the time Darren woke up. He could feel stinging on his thighs, remembering that he had pissed himself. Suddenly, Darren remembered the ceiling and the horrors he had seen. He looked up and started to shake, and then relaxed when he saw his ceiling was still just the ceiling and not horrific entities trying to take his pointless life to another place, a place worse than this. He got up and put the light on, a dull light spreading across the room. He went to the cupboard and opened it, screaming as he fell to the floor expecting to see glistening teeth surrounded by decaying lips, wanting to smother him in fatal kisses. Darren lay there for a few seconds, then realised that what had come from the cupboard was only junk. He started to laugh, more of a delirious giggle, growing louder until his chest started to hurt, but the laughter would not stop. A coughing fit took over the insane laughter and Darren forced himself to calm down and sit up. He started to wonder if he was finally losing it, too much heroin and too much paranoia. Leaving the contents of the cupboard on the floor, he stood up and shuffled to bathroom to run himself a bath.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

The tap dripped repeatedly, as it had done all night and the night before that, as it had done for weeks now. The water droplets had become a repetitive beat, the beating of a solitary drum, reminiscent of the last beat to be heard before criminals were hung in old London. Darren stared at the drips, watching for them to fall and disappear. He had stared at the tap now for a couple of hours, looking deeply at the lime scale which had built up around the drain hole. It’s porous miniature landscape showed hills and caves all in a scaly white-brown colour. The surface looked like his life, potentially clean white mixed with a brown sludge and full of holes. It looked like hardened heroin – there was his brown sludge, too many days and nights lying in his own faeces with his mind in that place that hides so much of his fucked up excuse for a life since he became a so-called man. The holes in his life mixed in with the dream induced shit, those holes of a caring woman, not the whores or rabid junkies he had quelled his urges with all those months ago. It had been too long now, but he didn’t care any more, those blurred evenings were stale now, as was he.

The only reaction he showed now was either tears, violence or silence. He felt numb to anything that life could throw at him, nothing mattered any more. Well, apart from the numerous people who wanted him dead, including himself.  But that was his choice, not anyone else’s. That’s unless God got in way, if he can? It was his choice when to extinguish his life. This was an insane stand considering he knew of at least one hit have been put out for his life. The problem he had was that his soul-destroying habit cost money. It’s a catch 22, you’re too trashed or ill to earn money; at least legally, anyway.  Mugging and robbery usually worked, but these days it’s not enough money and you usually end up running from guns protecting their owners’ homes and purses. He tried drug running a few times, but temptation got too much and a non-delivery earned his first hit to be taken out on him. The police got involved when the hitman fucked up and shot a kid dead, while only crippling Darren’s leg. Once in hospital, he told the police that he knew nothing. Then they showed him a photo of himself alongside spent cartridges, the photo taken from a distance and obviously without his consent, more like a paparazzi shot or surveillance. Darren broke down and told them everything, and once he was healed the police approached him again, this time they offered cash and protection in return for information.

It was easy money for stitching up mates, not that they were mates, only associates. Any one of them would stab you in the back and sell your clothes if they could get scag for them. But the police weren’t interested in punters, they wanted the dealers. Those who served death or salvation at a price, depending on who you spoke too. He had given them names and details, enough to put many of them away. As tax payers’ money rolled in along with seized goods, so the enemies built up along with the paranoia. Now his front door has not been opened for over a month. The stash that Darren had stockpiled to keep him going, while he hid and tried to find a way to escape from the hitmen, was rapidly depleting, only enough left for a day at the most. Darren felt panic spread through him like a bush fire – he can’t run out now, by now most people knew of his dealings with the law and he will only get a kicking or worse if he tries to get any more scag. That was it, he needed to relax again. He forced his eyes away from the dripping tap and walked over to the small table. He looked at the burnt spoon and the needle, and in less than three minutes Darren was on the floor. The needle dropped from his veins with a little squirt of blood. Something in the room breathed in anticipation.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5