Ghost stories and strange tales

Grandad’s photo clattered off the back of the mantlepiece as Julie and David watched Strictly Come Dancing. The frame glanced off their boxer,  Alfonso, who woke up with a loud woof and lumbered towards the kitchen in search of biscuits. ‘How on earth did that happen?’ said David. ‘Shh,’ snapped Julie, who was lying sprawled across the sofa in her onesie. ‘The scores are in.’ David got up from his armchair and picked the photograph up from the rug. ‘Lucky the glass didn’t break. Really odd. It’s never done that before.’ ‘It’ll be a vibration from the lorries outside. Move out the way; it's Anton Du Beke.’ ‘Anton Du Lally, more like.’ The Viennese waltz was drowned out by a crash in the upstairs bathroom. This time, even Julie looked up. ‘That can’t be a lorry,’ said David, pulling on his slippers.’ I’ll go and have a look.’ He returned a few minutes later. ‘Well, there's a funny thing. The shaving set your Grandad bought me for my fiftieth wa...

I knew it was a mistake to have a hire car in India. As we left Delhi airport, it was like finding myself in a video game. Cars sped past, ignoring traffic lights and speed limits as Gerry swerved to avoid the rickshaws and tuk-tuks and people. ‘Ten points for a bicycle,’ shouted Gerry, oblivious to any danger. I tightened my seatbelt. ‘Slow down; you'll hit someone.’ When a passing ox forced the traffic to a halt, a man, or rather a walking skeleton, tapped on my window. He held out a filth-encrusted hand, his words inaudible against the traffic's roar. ‘Keep your window up, Angela,’ said Gerry. ‘Hopefully, we'll be out of this jam soon. Absolute maniacs.’ Eventually, the traffic thinned, and skyscrapers and office blocks became fields and ramshackle dwellings. Gerry parked up at a small café. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘You look pale. Have you tested your sugar lately?’ ‘Bloody diabetes. I'm ok. I just need a Pepsi. How far to Agra?’ ‘Another 30 miles. These b...

I really loathe my pointy teeth, They stick out when I smile, Thank god I can’t be photographed, My selfies would be vile. My skin’s a deathly shade of pale, My breath would kill a cat, There’s woodlice living in my cape, My trousers smell of rat. My nails are sharp like razors, My eyes are bloodshot red, I once was drop-dead gorgeous, Now women just drop dead. My jet-black hair is streaked with grey, My six pack’s disappeared, The zombies laugh when I walk past, The werewolves think I’m weird. So please send your donations, Support this poor dead freak, Ten pounds will buy me makeup, (I only wear Clinique).

Stravinsky, Shubert and Tchaikovsky. Jacob's violin honoured their memory in the cold street for an hour. Perfect pitch, not a single note missed, not a semibreve off-key.   Beads of sweat peppered his collar despite the chill. His concentration never wavered; the intensity of sound heightened by a sense of sweet revenge, edging closer with every sweep of his bow.   Catgut, metal, horsehair and wood. Sticky resin irritated his skin, yet on he played until the last strains of the Shubert melody died away. On the final note, the metal e-string snapped and recoiled like a spring. Pain seared through his fingers as the string curled around the violin’s neck. Always the e-string.   In the distance, Big Ben struck seven O’clock. Jacob bent down, inspecting the empty fedora hat at his feet. The commuters of London showed no love for his music, but he played for himself, not for them. His violin returned to its case; Jacob walked the short distance to the Cellar bar he had ch...

Joram’s eyes flicked open as a rat’s sharp teeth bit into his leg. At 2am, the Calais Jungle held terrors both real and imagined, but there was no mistaking the searing pain. Joram slammed his fist down on the rat’s head and winced as its skull cracked. Fumbling for his torch, the rat still attached, he shone the dull beam of light, pulled apart its jaws and threw it in the corner of the shack. Hasan was still sleeping, and Joram noticed a gathering pool of water next to his son’s pillow. He would scavenge some tarpaulin in the morning after taking Hasan to his makeshift school.   At 8am, he and Hasan joined the breakfast queue in the aid workers' tent. Most days, they had bread and jam, on rare occasions a croissant. Calais was a dump, but at least they wouldn’t starve. The Jungle was a melting pot of nationalities and languages, united by the dream of a better future. If Joram could get regular work, he would smuggle himself and Hasan to England, even though it might take ye...

As I’d predicted, the office party was rubbish. I had caught the last tube home, wishing I was already in bed. My carriage was packed with late-night revellers, but I manage to nab one of the last few seats. My eyes were closing in blissful anticipation of a quick doze when a man in his early sixties sat down next to me. Apart from his lumpy physique, no doubt the result of a dubious lifestyle, the only thing of note was his oversized suitcase.            The black canvas cover was fraying at the sides and covered in unpleasant-looking stains. I didn’t want it near me, but he attempted to park in front of him, spreading his legs on either side to accommodate it. There was little room for anyone to get past and he seemed oblivious of how annoying he was.  Worst of all, he wanted to chat. . There was little room for anyone to get past and he seemed oblivious of how annoying he was.  Worst of all, he wanted to chat. ‘A good evening, was...

While other girls worshipped David and Donny, my bedroom was adorned with photos of my favourite actor, Anton Walbrook. I didn’t have many friends, but it didn’t matter, as my mum and I were always so close. At weekends, she’d put the kettle on we’d snuggle up on the sofa and watch old movies. Anton starred in our favourite films: tales of obsessive love, brainwashed Nazis and suicidal ballerinas. He was always so handsome and mysterious. I loved his neat moustache, luscious dark hair and soft Germanic accent. He was my first real crush, despite inconveniently dying a decade earlier.  As I grew older, I got a job at a university. I kept myself to myself, but I enjoyed my work. At lunchtime, I would head to the library and study the film books and borrow DVDs to watch at home later. But then one day, mum had a stroke and she died two months later. It was a huge shock. I decided to take some time off, while the students were away, hoping it would give me the chance to adjust.  W...