Ash Cottage: Part 7

 Alice awoke to the sound of glass smashing.

She sat bolt upright in bed and held still, listening for more. The room was dark, lit only by a thin wash of moonlight slipping through the gap in the curtains she always left slightly open. The pale glow stretched across the floor and up the wall, leaving the corners in shadow.

She rubbed her eyes. She had been deep in sleep. For once, no terrors had dragged her awake.

From her bed, she scanned the room. Nothing seemed disturbed. The glass of water she always kept beside her for her medication still sat untouched on the bedside cabinet. Everything was as it should be.

Her gaze shifted to the door.

It was slightly open.

She frowned. She did not leave it open. She never left it open. She hated the idea of someone being able to approach her without a sound.

SMASH.

Another crash.

The kitchen.

She threw back the heavy duvet and jumped from the bed. Barefoot, she hurried down the hallway, the floorboards cold beneath her feet. She stopped at the kitchen door, hand hovering over the handle.

What if it was an intruder?

A faint smile flickered across her face. Then they had chosen the wrong house.

She flexed her hands, forcing herself to stay calm. A clear head mattered. A slow breath in, steady.

She opened the door.

The kitchen lay in darkness, the moonlight blocked by the back of the house. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, shapes forming slowly out of shadow.

No one was there.

The cabinet where she kept her glasses stood open.

On the floor lay the shattered remains of two champagne flutes. She had not used them in a long time. There had not been much reason to celebrate.

She stepped further in, scanning the room. Had the cabinet loosened? A hinge come away? Pipes behind the wall shaking it loose?

She turned to grab the dustpan and brush.

SMASH.

She spun back.

Another glass now lay broken on the floor, the pile growing.

“What…”

A glass shot from the cabinet.

It moved fast, like it had been fired, smashing into the wall beside her head. She ducked, raising her arms as shards sprayed across the room.

Another followed.

It tore through the air toward her. She stumbled back, the glass missing her by inches before exploding against the tiles. Fragments scattered across her feet. One caught her hand. She winced.

She glanced down. A shallow cut. Blood welled, but it was nothing serious.

Then the rest came.

One after another, the glasses hurled themselves from the cabinet, flung with force by something unseen. Each impact cracked sharp against tile or wall, the noise filling the room, relentless.

Alice turned and ran.

She reached her bedroom, slammed the door, and threw her weight against it. Behind her, the noise continued. The cupboard was being emptied.

SMASH. SMASH. SMASH.

She pressed her back to the door, heart pounding, listening.

Then silence.

She checked her hand again. Blood, but not much. Lucky.

What the hell was happening in her house?

BANG.

The door shuddered violently, the impact jolting through her body and nearly knocking her off her feet. She grabbed the frame, holding on.

BANG.

Something struck it again. Harder.

BANG.

The wood creaked under the force, the hinges groaning.

BANG.

She gritted her teeth, holding firm. The blows came again and again, relentless, as if something on the other side was trying to break through.

She thought of the dresser beside her. She could drag it across, brace the door.

She did not move.

She did not dare.

Her eyes drifted to the window.

The sky was beginning to lighten. The sun edged slowly over the horizon, pale gold pushing back the darkness.

The banging stopped.

Just like that.

Silence settled over the room.

She exhaled slowly, her grip loosening.

Whatever had been out there did not like the light.

Good.

That suited her.

After a moment, she eased away from the door and opened it a fraction, peering into the hallway.

The floor was covered in shattered glass, glittering in the early morning light. Beautiful at a distance. Dangerous up close.

She pulled her slippers from beneath the bed and slipped them on.

Now she had a mess to clean up.

Ash Cottage: Part 6

 “Ooooh, you’re going back a bit there,” said Darren, his curly hair thinning and cut into the shape of a mullet. Alice did not know if that was the style these days. It seemed like an odd choice, but with his stud earring and jovial manner Darren could pull off almost any look.

“It’s that old?”

Alice had asked about the history of Ash Cottage. She knew it had been around a while, but the estate agent had not been very forthcoming and she had not cared much when the surveys were done. She just needed a place she could move into quickly, somewhere that was not about to fall down around her.

“Ooooh yeah,” said Darren enthusiastically. “One of the oldest buildings in the village.”

Alice shifted slightly. The canvas bag she used for shopping was heavy and starting to hurt her hand. She moved it to the other one, her leg stiff.

“Been around ages. Always seems to be someone moving in and then doing it up, mind.”

She had been heading back from the shops when Darren had run into her. He lived in the house up the road, the nearest one before the dirt track that led to Ash Cottage.

“Practically neighbors,” he had said.

She had used the introduction to ask about the history of her new home. The event with the typewriter had left her curious, and she wanted to find out more.

“Yeah…” he continued. “There were the Jameses. They were a nice family. They were the last ones before you. Stayed for a few months, but they didn’t like the place. Something about it, the dad said to me once.”

“Did he say what?” asked Alice.

“Not so much. They were fine for a while and then just up and disappeared. Still, after Mrs Law we were surprised anyone bought the place.”

His expression turned serious.

“Mrs Law?”

“Tragic. Accident. Terrible.” Darren looked both upset and morbidly intrigued.

“Poor old dear, they found her…”

“No. Let’s not,” said Alice, raising her hand. She did not want the gory details.

“Well…” huffed Darren. “Then there was Mr Young. Didn’t really care for him much. Miserable old…”

Darren paused and crossed himself.

“Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” he whispered, as if some spiritual interloper might hear them.

“So there’s a history at Ash Cottage?” asked Alice.

Darren nodded.

“Between the deaths and the disappearances, some people avoid the place. Say it’s haunted.”

Darren paused for a moment.

“You be careful now,” he said at last, a look of genuine concern on his face.

Ash Cottage: Part 5

The bacon sizzled in the pan, two thick white slices of bread, buttered, sat ready to her side. She flipped the rashers to check they were done and then dishes them on top of the bread. She ran the tap over the hot pan which hissed in protest and went quiet.

Alice has few indulgences but a bacon sandwich on Saturday was one of her favourites. She caught a glimmer of something reflecting on the floor, a flash caught her eye. She placed her plate on the small dining table and investigates. 

Another piece of glass!

She thought she had cleared them all up after her glass has exploded. Better she found them now than with her bare feet.

Alice threw the piece in the bin and washed her hands.

Nothing was going to distract her from her sandwich.

Sitting at the table, she picked it up with both hands and took a big bite. Delicious.

She took a sip of her orange juice and leaned back.

She hadn't been able to figure out how the glass ended up on the floor, her only thought that it had been precariously balanced, perhaps she knocked it when she had gotten the pitcher.

Either way it didn't matter. 

She has been in a spiral of despair and at least cleaning up the glass had distracted her from it for a little while 

She took another bite.

She could feel the hurt on her chest, sat waiting, coiled around her heart like a snake poised to strike and render her incapacitated.

She pushed it back. She ignored the feeling. 

It was a beautiful sunny morning, the house was warm and she had her sandwich. In a bit she would have a nice cup of coffee and set about finishing the unpacking. Hopefully having everything neatly organised would allow her to relax a bit easier and write.

Tap.

A noise? She looked around the room? Was it the cooker? Had she left a hob on? She checked, nothing was on. Perhaps it was just settling.

She continued her breakfast.

Perhaps later in the day she would go for a walk, survey the area. There were houses, a school, a newsagents nearby but she liked to have a feeling of where things were. Help her navigate in the future. Find the shortcuts the locals all knew.

Tap.

The noise again. She stood up, taking the remainder of her sandwich and greedily fitting it in one bite.

Was there a leak? Was something dripping?

That was the last thing she needed, to find out the roof has a hole in, these things could cost a fortune and she wasnt exactly flush with money.

Tap.

The sound was coming from the study. Quietly so as to hear the source of the sound she tiptoed forward in to the ball.

Tap.

It was her typewriter. Somehow it was making a noise, as if tired of waiting for her to feed it words it has begun alone.

Tap.

She dashed forward keen to see what was going on. 

The page she had loaded yesterday was still there. The typewriter still she leaned I closely for a better look, her face inches from the machine when suddenly.

Tap tap.

The typewriter finished it's sentence on its own. 

Alice jumped back in suprise.

She yanked the paper from the typewriter, denying the phantom author its media. 

She read the words on the page.

Help us. 

Ash Cottage: Part 4

 Alice sat at her desk in the spare room, her typewriter waiting patiently before her. Her fingers hovered over the keys, poised for a word that refused to arrive.

The afternoon light filtered through the window, gentle and warm rather than harsh. Dust drifted lazily in its glow. Boxes stood stacked on either side of the desk like silent sentries, their contents still waiting to be unpacked. The door behind her remained open, the rest of the cottage breathing quietly beyond it.

She looked around the room. The walls were painted a soft orange that caught the sun beautifully. Beyond the glass, the ash trees swayed, their leaves whispering in the breeze. Birds sang somewhere unseen.

It was perfect.

And still, the words would not come.

It is not as though you need the money, a voice inside her murmured.

She did, though. Not desperately, not yet. But enough. She needed another book. Another mystery. Something to follow the success of the first two. Something to prove the first had not been luck. Something to keep the bills paid and the publisher interested.

She just could not find it.

It was not the genre. She loved writing mysteries. Loved building puzzles piece by piece, hiding clues in plain sight. There was something almost meditative about constructing a crime and then solving it. A little macabre perhaps, but it brought her peace.

Her first book, set in the Yorkshire Dales, had drawn unexpected success. It had taken her by surprise. A publisher had snapped it up quickly, and in a rush of momentum she had delivered a second, which sold even better.

But it had been too long since then. Too much life in between. Too much disruption.

She needed to begin.

But her imagination felt absent. On leave. She could not dream the way she once had. No conundrums formed in her mind. No tangled motives. No red herrings. Nothing to challenge a reader. Nothing to untangle.

Nothing.

She pressed her palms to her eyes and sobbed.

The trauma still seeped through her like water through cracked stone. Sorrow tangled with anger until she could no longer tell one from the other.

She had known loss before. Her mother and father had both been ill. It had been cruel, but inevitable. Her anger then had been aimed at the world itself, at the unfairness of being left alone so young.

This was different.

This grief had faces.

People who were still here. Mostly. People who had taken someone precious from her. People who had shattered her life so completely that she had run from it. Run here.

She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her thick cardigan. Her black hair clung damply to her cheeks, tangling against her glasses.

She had learned to live around the wound her parents had left behind. Learned that some pain did not vanish, it simply softened at the edges. There had been nothing she could have done for them.

But this.

This felt unfinished. Raw. Inescapable.

She could not heal around it. Could not think around it. Could not write through it.

She reached for her glass and found it empty. The pitcher beside it was dry as well.

Only then did she notice her thirst.

She stood, lifting the pitcher, and stepped into the hallway. She passed the small bathroom, the leaning towers of unpacked boxes, the quiet hush of a house still unfamiliar. In the kitchen she set the pitcher in the sink and turned on the tap.

Water rushed out, clear and steady. She watched it rise, letting her thoughts drift. Letting the ache wash through her instead of resisting it.

Then it came.

Smash.

The sound cracked through the cottage like a gunshot.

Alice froze.

The tap still ran. Water overflowed the pitcher and spilled into the sink, unnoticed.

Another second passed before her mind caught up.

The study.

She turned off the tap and left the pitcher where it stood, heart hammering now. She hurried down the hallway, slippers whispering over the wooden floorboards.

She almost stepped on the glass.

Shards glittered across the hall, scattered wildly as though thrown. She stopped just in time, staring down at the broken pieces, her pulse thudding in her ears.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to the desk. Her glass had been there.

She stared at the debris, trying to reason it through. It had not been near the edge. There had been no draught. No open windows. No tremor beneath her feet.

How did the glass get there?

The cottage was silent again. Too silent.

Alice stood very still, her breath shallow.

And somewhere deep within her, beneath the grief and the fear and the exhaustion, something shifted.

A voice, quieter this time, almost curious.

Perhaps a mystery had found her after all.

Ash Cottage: Part 3

“Ash Cottage,” Alice said aloud as she set her bags down in the hallway.

The words echoed slightly, swallowed by the narrow space and the unfamiliar stillness. She stood for a moment, taking it in. The house smelled fusty, damp with age, despite the steady stream of movers who had tramped through it all day. Old air, trapped in old walls.

Most of the large furniture had been hauled into place and stacked neatly, but boxes were everywhere. Cardboard towers leaned against walls, labels scrawled in thick marker. Kitchen. Books. Clothes. Office. The life she had uprooted, reduced to brown rectangles.

She stepped further inside and made her way into the kitchen.

The new oven gleamed, spotless and modern against the rest of the room. She had splurged on it, insisted on something reliable. It looked almost smug, sitting there ready to be used. Proof that she intended to stay. Proof that this was not temporary.

She scanned the boxes until she spotted one marked KITCHEN and knelt beside it, tearing the tape open. Her kettle emerged first. She filled it at the sink and set it on the hob, striking a match and lighting the gas. The sound was comforting, familiar.

Another box yielded a large mug, plain and sturdy. No pattern. No cracks.

She rummaged again and found a teabag, holding it up in quiet triumph before dropping it into the mug.

No milk.

Alice sighed, leaning back against the counter.

That meant a walk to the local shops. And sooner or later, neighbours.

She had come here for peace. For quiet. To disappear for a while. The last thing she wanted was polite conversations over garden fences or curious looks from people who wanted to know who she was and where she had come from.

Everything that had happened recently sat heavy on her, pressing down on her chest. She needed time. Time to rest. Time to recover. Time to write, because writing was the one thing that still paid the bills, the one thing she could not afford to stop.

The guilt sat in her stomach like a stone.

She had left people behind. Friends. People who had relied on her, or would have, if there had been more of them left. There had been conversations. Long ones. They had told her they understood.

“I don’t blame you.” “You’ve given enough.” “I’d do the same.”

Kind words. Necessary words. And still they changed nothing.

It felt like abandonment, no matter how gently it had been agreed upon. She wondered if she would ever see any of them again.

Times were hard.

She took a breath and straightened.

“Ash Cottage,” she said again, more firmly this time. As if the name itself might hold some power. As if saying it enough times could make it true.

A new start. A new beginning. A place to heal.

The kettle began to whistle, sharp and insistent. She poured the water, watched the tea darken, wrapped her hands around the mug and let the heat seep into her fingers.

She looked down at her hands.

The scars had faded. The wounds had healed cleanly. There was nothing a stranger would ever notice, nothing to mark her as anything other than ordinary. And yet the pain lingered, a dull ache that never quite left. Some nights it crept into her bones. Some nights it followed her into sleep.

The dreams still came.

She closed her eyes briefly, breathing in the steam from the mug.

She needed this place. She needed the quiet. She needed time.

Ash Cottage stood around her, old and silent, keeping its secrets. 

Below the Surface is out now

 

My new book Below the Surface is out today.

You can grab it here:
https://amzn.eu/d/0beGk8Bd

This release combines Below the Surface and Blood Price, which were previously released as separate books. Those earlier versions have now been replaced by this single, complete edition.

What’s it about?

In a city where magic is public and corporations have learned how to exploit it, people start disappearing.

When orcs begin vanishing without a trace, Justicar Gideon Voss and mage Isolde Thorne are pulled into an investigation that quickly escalates from missing persons to stolen artifacts, illegal experiments, and a powerful biotech company with too much influence.

What starts as a routine case turns into something much bigger. A shadow war playing out beneath the city, hidden behind polished offices and legal loopholes.

If you’ve read it before

If you already read Below the Surface or Blood Price, this is the full combined story in one book. Nothing split, nothing missing. This is the definitive version going forward.

As always, thank you to everyone who’s been reading, sharing, or quietly following along. It genuinely means a lot.

Alec

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