Ghost stories and strange tales

I'm delighted to announce that Ghosthunters Anonymous!, my first Young Adult novel, has been released. ISBN 978-1-916776-84-5, published by Fisher King Publishing . Available from all good bookstores and online in print and digital versions from Amazon.co.uk here and on Amazon stores worldwide.  Here is a synopsis of the story... When thirteen-year-old Grace is killed in a freak road accident, she expects an ambulance, a hospital bed, maybe even a miraculous recovery. Instead, she wakes up outside her body—alive, but dead—trapped as a ghost in a world that suddenly doesn’t see or hear her. Struggling to comprehend her new reality, Grace stumbles into the hospital mortuary where she meets Mr. Gordon, a cantankerous old ghost who offers her survival tips: how to walk through walls, perch on chairs without falling through, and even move objects with her mind. But Gordon insists she should stop clinging to her old life and cross into the light. Grace refuses. Her little brother Riley ...

  As a child, the steely gaze of the raven always fascinated Mark Taylor. Heading home on warm summer evenings, he’d often stumble upon the shredded remains of a raven’s supper, strewn across the path like grisly confetti. With morbid fascination, he’d crouch down and inspect the tiny beaks and tails and claws while the birds serenaded him from the treetops. As a man, Mark’s passion for ornithology and his exemplary war record formed the necessary stepping stones to the Tower of London. On his 50 th  birthday, he proudly accepted the role of Ravenmaster, servant to the Queen and guardian of eight extraordinary birds. It is said that if the ravens ever leave the Tower, the British monarchy will fall. However, Mark remained sceptical of this and all other superstitions. Perhaps this was why he ignored the protests of his colleagues and named his newest raven Margaret, after Lady Margaret Pole. This poor old lady joined a long line of unfortunates who died in agony during th...

  Dr Nielson handed me a plastic bag. “Hey Deano, throw these masks in the incinerator; we can’t use them. The box is damaged.”  I’d worked at the laboratory long enough to know to never engage in conversation with a scientist, especially one as shifty as Dr Nielson, so I just said OK and put them in my sack. I trekked down to the basement and took the box out of the plastic bag to inspect it. Since the surge in cases, decent masks were like gold dust. It seemed criminal to waste them if I could salvage any. I punched through the perforations and opened the top of the box. The stain on the lid looked like water damage; it was a little squashed on one side, but otherwise fine. The masks inside remained sealed in their cellophane wrappers. No problemo. After I torched the rest of the rubbish, I took the box back upstairs and slipped it into my bag. Security rarely carried out searches these days. You could forget staff protocol; the scientists were too busy finding cures for t...

 My sister scours the rockpools at dusk just as the sun makes its evening journey over the horizon. She is barefoot, her long, straggly hair draping over the back of her t-shirt and skimming the waist of her shorts. She is searching for crabs or tiny fish left behind by the tide. I do not see her face, or the fear I imagine flashes through her eyes as she stumbles. Her head makes contact with a jagged rock and plunges face-first into cold, salty water. I stay by my window. By the time I have run down to save her, I know she will already be dead, and as I reach the edge of the  rockpools, her ghost will have faded away. 

"Was he hiding in the bushes again last night?" asked Sheena. I shook my head. "It's hard to tell, but they shook so violently, and there was no breeze to speak of. But it's usually dusk, not nighttime, when he's there, and his visits are increasing. Last week, I had just left the house when I spotted him by the garden wall. He'd stretched himself flat alongside it, his arms and legs splayed out like four thick branches. Ivy covered every part of his body except his eyes—bright yellow eyes. I took my gaze off him for a moment, and that's when he got me." Sheena's hand recoiled from mine. "You never told me." "I'm telling you now, aren't I? He didn't so much grab me; he rushed past, and his fingers brushed my bare arm - look." I lifted up my sleeve, and Sheena's eyes filled with tears as she saw the mouldy green hue of my skin and the tendril-like veins snaking just below the surface. "It's growing,...

Hey, Marlon, did you write on my board again? I told you it's only for groceries.'  'No, Mum.' I rubbed it out, certain that Marlon was lying. The chalkboard hung high on the wall by the fridge, and I didn't want him to keep climbing on the barstool to reach it. I rubbed out the stupid message—"GET OUT"—and thought no more about it—at least until the next day, when I saw another message written—"Get out now!" 'Marlon,' I said. 'I told you. If you keep on scrawling on it, I'll take away your PlayStation. It's not your board.' I hid the chalk in the back of the kitchen drawer, but I thought Marlon must have found it and hung it back up because, on the third day, the message said, "Beware—it will kill you." Only this time, the writing was all flowery and ornate, nothing like my Marlon's. I tore the board down and threw it in the trash can. I thought that would be the end of it, but when I came into the kitch...

I open up 'the Daisy Chain' each morning at 9am, and it takes about an hour to clean before the chefs come in. The cafe caters for yummy mummies and ladies who lunch - you know the type. Before I started, it was known as 'Jennys.' It closed and rebranded, but still sold dishes I could never afford. I used to zip around with the hoover in no time, but now the customer numbers are growing, and so is their rubbish. Anyway, I go in one morning and there's this highchair thrown down in the middle of the restaurant. So I blame Nicky, the night cleaner. Next day, the same thing has happened again, and on the third day, the highchair is up on one of the tables. A week later, and it's still moving around the cafe, and I'm sick of it. I call Nicky, and he tells me 'Get rid of that goddamn highchair. A year ago, a little kid choked to death in the restaurant, and that's why they renamed it the Daisy Chain.'