Ash Cottage: Part 2

Danny nearly turned to run. He didn't want to see the owner, he didn't want to see inside the house. His heart told him it was a monster ready to swallow him all. He turned and his legged sent a sharp pain through him. He winced. The door was opened now, he didn't look back.

"Goodness me, are you ok?"

The kind voice shocked Danny out of his panic.

He turned back to the door.

"Oh my paper thank you."

The kindly old woman took the newspaper from his hand. She was little, a bit shorter than Danny, and she has big rosie cheeks and a round face. Big glasses, like his nans concealed the big green eyes beneath. Her hair was gray and curly, not long. She wore a grey woollen cardigan and a dark brown skirt.

"Look at your leg your poor thing." 

Danny looked down at the leg, it was bleeding still and his jeans were torn.

"Let's get you cleaned up." 

Danny complied and followed the woman as she turned around the corner and in to the kitchen. It was warm in there, a little too warm for summer. The air smelled of porridge and the orange tiled floor gave the sun's light a warming reflection.

She pulled out one of the two chairs and patted it. 

"Sit yourself down...."

"Danny" he found his voice through the bemusement.

"Danny! Nice to meet you Danny I'm Alice." She smiled and started rummaging through the top shelf of a cupboard next to the sink.

She pulled out a tin, biscuits or something. It was older than he was. There were pills, bandages, plasters and cotton wool. Danny fancied a biscuit.

"Sorry no treats in here." She said reading his mind.

"You can finish my slice of cake if you like."

The table next to him has a floral plate with a bit of victoria sponge and a cup of tea.

"Can I please?" He asked.

"You can, but first let's pull that leg up so I can get this." 

She dabbed some TCP on to a cotton wool ball as Danny lifted up his leg.

"This might sting, so get stuck in to that cake."

Danny grabbed the slice and took a big bite. She was right it did sting.

She worked quickly to clear the grit and dirt from the scratch and graze. Danny sat eating the cake not minding so much. When it was done the cut was much smaller.

"That's better"

She went back to the box, picking out a big plaster and placing it on his leg carefully just as Danny finished the cake.

"Very brave! How did you manage that?" She asked

"It was a car." Danny said.

"Oh dear, there's not much patience in the world these days.

Danny stood up.

"Thank you Mrs Alice and thank you for the cake it was delicious."

Alice smiled gently.

"I have to take my bag back now."

She nodded.

"Of course dear. Go steady will you!"

Danny left, thanking her again as she went, she stopped at the door and waved before closing it.

Danny's ride back the newsagents was filled with confusion. Why was he ever scared of that house? What was that feeling at the door? Alice seemed a really nice lady. 

He was still running through it when he walked through the door of the newsagents. Not noticing the closed sign was up. Walked to the back of the counter but Mr Jones wasn't there. He stepped round it and went to the back as he had done sometimes to put the bag in the pile next to his desk.

He threw the luminous bag down before he saw what was occurring.

The creature stopped its meal and stood up off the floor. It's size was massive, it could barely fit in the confines of the room, it crouched as it reached the ceiling. The bright green skin, mottled and weathered. The hands were bigger than Danny. It's eyes black and mean. Whisps of white hair protruded from just above it's long pointed ears.

Mr Jones.

Danny looked at it and its meal, she couldn't see much behind the creature massive foot, but a small leg stuck out. Wearing sneakers.

"I thought I locked that." The creature spoke, it's voice wasn't raised but the noise boomed in the small space.

"Thing thing is with you paperboys." The thing grinned wide, disgusting stained, pointed teeth line it's mouth.

"Not very filling." It stepped forward Danny stepped back. 

"So I'm glad for seconds." Danny bolted for the door but Mr Jones was quicker.

Without any effort it held him up by his leg and leaned down so his massive face filled Danny's view.

"You're not even a snack." He growled.

The door to the newsagent opened and Alice walked in.

"I thought I smelled a troll." Her voice said in a single song way.

Mr Jones hissed like a cat and dropped Danny to the floor.

"Witch!" He boomed.

Alice clicked her fingers and Mr Jones burst in to flame. 

Her roared in agony as the the fire grew brighter and brighter and in an instant he was gone.

Alice walked towards Danny. She leant down to speak to him.

"Would you like to have a chat over some more cake?"

Ash Cottage: Part 1

 "You're £2 short" Danny said.

The newsagents always has a weird smell, something Danny couldn't quite put his finger on. Rows of papers and magazines flanked him on either side. A central divide was stocked with sweets and chocolate. An old dilapidated fridge buzzed and whirred as it fought to keep the drinks cool. It wasn't necessary though it was always cold here.

Mr Jones put down his newspaper and leaned over the counter. The man was huge, his arms were as big as Danny. The old man sneered.

"That's what you owe me" he growled.

"For what?" Danny yelled, temporarily forgetting who he was talking to.

Mr Jones' face reddened. 

"You took, two bars of dairy milk." He didn't need to yell, his voice naturally boomed.

Of course Danny took nothing, Mr Jones always found new and creative ways to not pay his paperboys. They all new it.

Danny said nothing.

"Are we sorted then?" The old man glared down his glasses balanced precariously on his short pudgy nose. White whisps of hair coming from just above his ears like horns, the only hair on his bald wrinkled head.

"Yeah" Danny murmured.

"Good." Mr Jones replied. He hoisted another bag filled with papers and dumped it on the counter 

"Jake didn't show up so you have to take his route. You can have his pay too." 

Mr Jones waited ready and poised to squash any complaints. Danny didn't bother.

"Sure" he said resigned to his fate. He hated Jake's route it included "Ash cottage" and he had hated that place since he was little. It wasn't the building itself it just had a feeling about the place, something ominous and foreboding. It wasn't messy or run down, there were more houses on his estate that looked worse, it just seems wrong somehow.

He walked out the shop, by the window was a notice board, two pictures on their, asking regarding missing children. Sally and Chris. Both delivered papers too, Danny knew them, sometimes they ran in to each other picking up their papers for the day. He didn't know them well because they went to the posh school but they seemed nice. He hoped they were safe, he hoped Jake was too an was just off sick or forgot about his route.

Danny worked his way through the addresses scrawled in Mr Jones' incomprehensible writing. It wasn't a bad route. The houses were quite nice and there weren't many dogs to bark or even chase him. It was summer and he was off school and on his bike. He didn't mean the extra time to ride, but he wanted to be finished soon so he could spend some time with his friends. He wondered if they'd want to played some Fortnite, he wasn't great at that game but he didn't fancy football. Perhaps they could get the bus to the cinema? 

He left Ash cottage till last. It was the one he least wanted to do and it was the furthest out. He started cycling over, his trepidation growing as he got closer and closer he rounded the corner for the street when a car pulled out of nowhere.

The world was inverted as we swerved and hit the curb, launching him over his handlebars, he landed in crumple on the pavement.

".. cyclists!" Shouted the man from the car as they sped off. Danny didn't catch the first word but he could imagine.

"Idiot!" He yelled but the driver was long gone.

He sat for a moment, his jeans were torn, there was a bit of blood, not too much, but it hurt. His bike was ok, luckily the wheel wasn't broken but he was in no state to cycle.

Tears welled up in his eyes. He was fed up, fed up of the paper route, of impatient drivers, of Mr Jones and stupid Ash Cottage.

He sighed and pulled himself up.

Still have to finish the route or Mr Jones will take the lot.

He picked up his bike and limped to the house.

When he got there he stopped and looked at ash cottage. A small place, single floor, it has beautiful white walls covered in ivy like tendrils threatening to pull it under. The stone slab path has bushes either side, not wild but a little overgrown, there was grass either side flowerbed surrounding them like a moat. Some flowers looked good, others weren't fairing so well.

It's just a house. Danny said to himself and walked slowly up the path. 

He fished out the last paper and leant his bike against the hedge.

He felt uneasy, the same feeling that he had since his mum would take him past this house. That something was wrong. Something was off.

He approached the door.

His hands were sweating it was making the papers ink bleed in to his palms.

He readied the paper and prepare to post it through the letterbox when the door opened.

Not my cat

“Stupid cat,” I mutter as I yank my hand back, inspecting it for blood.

Thankfully it is clear. No puncture wounds. No trip to A&E.

My assailant jumps down from the wall and sprints back down the garden path, disappearing onto the road like nothing happened.

I pick up the temporary cat food bowl and throw it into the recycling bin.

It has been like this for a month now. Every day. Sometimes twice.

She just appears.

A little fluffy white and grey cat. Small. A bit overweight. She yells for food, meowing until I give in and put some out. Then she eats and vanishes. Sometimes she lets me fuss her. Sometimes she hisses. On bad days she takes a swing. She is only friendly when food is imminent.

She is not even mine. I call her Tiny, but she is not my cat.

I do not know who owns her. I keep seeing posts on Facebook and local forums about people going missing. I wonder, briefly, if her owners are among them.

Probably nonsense. Those groups are full of nutters making things up for attention.

Still, here I am, feeding a cat that barely tolerates me.

The next day she shows up while I am taking the bins out.

Yowling. Loud. Demanding.

I ignore her.

The yowling gets worse.

“You are not my cat,” I tell her.

She moves to the exact spot where I usually put the food and sits down.

“No,” I say.

She grumbles and jumps onto the stone wall beside the door.

Maybe she just wants attention, I think. I extend my hand.

She hisses and bolts.

Figures. She will be back later to harass me for food.

But she does not come back.

It gets late. Proper night. No sign of her.

Good, I think. Maybe she has gone home. Maybe her owners came back.

Then I hear something from the back garden.

There is no path back there, so I cut through the living room and open the French doors.

Something is standing in my garden.

It is taller than me. Black, but not solid. Its edges blur and ripple, like smoke trapped in a shape. The outline suggests a dog. Or a wolf. Or something meaner. Every instinct in me screams to run, to slam the doors shut and lock them.

Something in me recognises it.

I start to back away. It has not seen me yet. It is facing the fence, looming over the corner of the yard. I can still escape. Call for help. Be safe.

Then I hear it.

A pitiful meow.

The creature shifts. Between its four legs I see her. Tiny. Cornered. Pressed against the fence. The thing lowers its head, mouth opening. It looks canine now, unmistakably so, and I swear it is smiling.

Tiny hisses and cries, switching between defiance and terror.

Mean cat. Always stubborn. Always fighty.

She is not my cat, I tell myself.

I scan the garden.

She scratches me. She hates me. She only wants food. She is not my cat, I say again.

I grab the shovel from the flower bed.

She is not my cat.

Tiny sees me. Her eyes are wide, terrified.

She is not my cat.

I raise the shovel.

“GET AWAY FROM MY CAT,” I scream, bringing it down as hard as I can on the creature’s neck.

Internet Wasteland

You want to book a holiday. You’ve heard Malta is nice, but you’ve never been, so you decide to do some research.

Your laptop starts up. Before you’ve even finished typing the first few letters, the AI assistant appears with suggestions. It looks like a paperclip.

Crap GPT has decided to revive it as a mascot, assuming people will find it familiar and comforting.

“Hey! It looks like you want to find out about Maltesers! I can place an order for some if you like?”

The prompt hijacks the whole window. You have to respond.

“No.”

Three dots flash.

“Ordering no more than 30 Maltesers.”

You sigh. You’ll need to cancel that later, but the prompt disappears.

You continue your search for Malta.

The AI response fills the results window.

“Malta is widely considered to be a real place. However, evidence has come to light that it does not exist and never has.

Source: Reddit.”

You scroll past the AI nonsense and look further down. The results are no better. There are millions of articles.

“Malta is terrible.”

“Malta is paradise.”

“Malta is home to a secret race of lizard people.”

You accidentally click the last one.

The page loads an incoherent article with no facts and frequent self-contradictions. Ads scream for your attention. Videos autoplay. Pop-ups crawl across the screen. You hit back.

You keep scrolling.

Since the rise of AI-generated content, sites like Wikipedia have been pushed further and further down the rankings, buried under endless variations of confidently wrong text.

“Malta is where Maltesers are made.”

“Malta is where the Upside Down is.”

“I dreamed about Malta and now it exists.”

Eventually, you find the Wikipedia article.

Clippy returns.

“You seem to be interested in going to Malta. Would you like me to find you a flight?”

“Sure,” you type. Why not take a risk?

“The optimum route is by car. Renting a car for three months.”

You close your laptop.

You’ll need to cancel that too.

Early Bird

I’m definitely an early bird. No matter what time I go to sleep, I always wake up somewhere between 6.30 and 7. It can be frustrating. If I’ve had a late night or barely slept, I still can’t seem to drift past that point. The upside is that I almost never need an alarm clock.

Mornings are when I’m at my best, especially after coffee. I wake up, journal, plan the day, work out, and then start work. Things are quieter in the morning. Fewer questions, fewer interruptions, and a solid stretch of focus until the first meeting lands. It’s easily my most productive part of the day.

The flip side is the evening. After 9pm, I start to crash. I can still do low-energy things. Watching TV, reading, a bit of gaming, or being out with friends or family is fine. But ask me to write a meaningful paragraph for a book, or do anything technical, and I really struggle. My brain just isn’t built for it.

I’ve worked with people who are the complete opposite. Night owls who burn the midnight oil and roll in late the next day. I’ve always been a bit amazed at how they do it. For me, morning sunlight is fuel. Once that window passes, it’s gone.

Are you a morning bird or a night owl?

Anxiety and the Other Voice

Anxiety is tricky because it wears your face. It knows your voice, your memories, your thoughts. When an irrational fear creeps in, you can’t just argue it away. Logic, clever words, reason, they all fail. Anxiety anticipates them, counters them, and leaves you feeling trapped.

I used to marvel at people who could play chess against themselves. How do you win, or even deceive, someone who knows every move you’ll make? Anxiety is like that. It knows your strategies and can dismantle them, piece by piece.

For years, I battled it. Some days I won, other days I lost. It wasn’t until therapy and CBT that I learned a key truth: the fight itself wasn’t the solution.

Like in Wargames, sometimes the only way to win is not to play.

The trick is to give that inner voice a boundary. To say, “Not right now. We’ll come back to this later.” That pause, brief as it may be, creates space. Space for something else. Space for life to continue. And often, when you return later, the worry has faded.

I share this not as a substitute for professional help, you should always reach out if anxiety overwhelms, but as a small reminder: you don’t have to let anxiety rule your life. A little distance, a little patience, and a bit of strategy can quiet that other voice enough to let you breathe.

Blood Price Is Out Now!

Blood Price is now available on Amazon.

This short story follows on directly from Below the Surface, picking up with Gideon Voss and Isolde Thorne as they deal with the consequences of that investigation rather than moving on from it.

In the wake of the events surrounding Vaelus Biotech, a new pattern begins to emerge. Powerful magical artifacts are being stolen from secure locations, not for their individual uses, but for the magic bound inside them. As Gideon and Isolde work alongside the AOU to track the thefts, they uncover signs of careful planning, portal magic, and a willingness to cause chaos as long as it serves a larger goal.

The story moves between investigation, surveillance, and escalation as the team attempts to identify who is behind the thefts and what they are building toward. Familiar characters return, new tensions form, and the threat facing the city becomes clearer, even if the full shape of it remains just out of reach.

Blood Price is about aftermath, pressure, and the cost of confronting organisations that are always several steps ahead. It bridges the gap between Below the Surface and what comes next in the Paladin’s Vow storyline.

📘 Available now on Amazon

👉 https://amzn.eu/d/ggASd4e