Ghost stories and strange tales

“I think there’s something wrong with your cat,” said Mathew as his friend Riley came into the living room with a jug of coffee. “She was acting really weird. She lay down in front of me, and her head kept twisting like she was having some sort of seizure. She’s run behind the sofa now.” Riley didn’t look overly concerned. “Oh, that’s normal. Lulu always acts a bit crazy when we have friends over. Sarah keeps asking me to pick up one of those cat-calming aromatherapy things, but I think they’re a con.”  “No, really, I think you should take a look. I’d get her checked out at the vet.” The two friends watched as Lulu squeezed herself out through the gap between the sofa and the armchair. She paraded up and down in front of them, her green feline eyes unblinking and staring, and her fluffy brown tail waving from side to side. It was almost as if she was trying to hypnotise them. “Lulu,” called Riley. “Come over here and get your belly rubbed.” But instead of trotting over to...

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...