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Legend Tripping

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  1. Most of the children of Carlin High School were engaged in the usual playground activities, girl gossiped rapidly sounding like a thousand busy typewriters; youthful first years laughed and chas ed each other around the yard, burning off energy; older kids from the rough end of town hid behi nd the toilets, smoking weed. Steven was sitting alone, perched on the fence like a hawk, watching all the normal mayhem when he spotted Simon Anderson take a nosedive onto the concrete. The boy just went white and dropped, and even though the other kids were making a godawful din, Steven definitely heard Simon’s skull crack like a heavy egg as it smashed onto the ground. The noise was a sickening, hollow sound that made his heart jump in his chest. He immediately jumped off the fence and rushed to see if the older boy was alright. In the seconds it took him to move to where Simon was, there was a large crowd around Simon, some girls were screaming, an older boy was shouting, “Get a...
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Emergence

Lunchtime could hardly come soon enough. Leo had woken up with a h a ng-over and so had avoided breakfast which meant he'd spent the morning behind his desk with his stomach loudly protesting. As he watched the final seconds slide by before mid-day he pondered his menu. Greggs was close but it was still a walk up the hill, which he was in no state to manage. At the bottom of the hill was a curry house and a pub which served food. He decided on roast chicken and chips, perhaps a cheeky hair of the dog. He left as soon as it hit twelve. He was in no mood to talk to anyone, not until he had something to eat. He p ac ed down the long slope with its large fence on one side and busy dual carriageway on the other. He noticed, half way down, that some chancer had placed his take-away van. “Burger Master” it said on the front. Leo suddenly had a notion for a greasy cheeseburger. Maybe a double. “ Whit can I get ye son?” The guy behind the counter asked. He was an odd lookin...
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Monolith: The Rise and Fall of Craigrose Tower.

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Author's note: This article was originally written for the short lived magazine Paranormal Glasgow and was due to be published in issue 9 dated September 1998. While the article was accepted and I was paid, the article was never published. The editor's explanation is given below (see appendix 1). To this day I find the explanation implausible and while I can prove nothing I have my suspicions. I would also like to address the attitude of the larger “paranormal community” with regards to myself and my research. It is true that I am an outsider to the paranormal community, that my previous article “Witch Cult of the West Coast” (Paranormal Glasgow Issue 6 June 1998) caused much controversy and noise amongst them. I was accused of being a fantasist, a liar, a charlatan, even an upstart as well as a whole host of other names. Why? As far as I can tell it is because for decades this community has relied on the same dozen or so historic events and sites, rehashing and rete...
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Ill Game.

1. “ Remember me?” he says, just like that, and you know for a second or two, I didn't. He'd aged badly in the sixty years since he'd tormented me. He'd more than doubled in weight, lost his hair, had a whisky nose which looked like he'd stuffed a golf-ball under the ruddy and broken flesh. His teeth were in shards; gone was the handsome, sporting bully of my youth. He looked fucking terrible, but then we all did, we were all fast approaching the grave, some of us sooner than others, which was why we were all here. “Wullie Allerdyce.” He says. “We went tae school thegither” I had expected him to be there, when big McArdle dropped down dead the whole community felt it, especially those who'd been in school with him and had called him friend. Still Allerdyce's presence felt like an insult, given how much they both had hated each other as kids. “Aye, I remember ye, long time no see Wullie.” I says, sticking out my hand to shake his. He takes it ...
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Crossing The Border

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From "The Cycle of The Sisters": Cailleach.

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The Scheme

Nineteen eighty nine, a number, another summer; sound of the funky drummer ubiquitous on the radio. Gordon Harper drummed his fingers against the wheel in time to the tune. It was a nervous staccato, no doubt about that. As he sat parked on Casgairt Road he wondered if he should just bolt. He'd a couple of grand left in his savings, and could be on the next flight to Chilé or Singapore, could be anywhere but here. He threw his cigarette butt out the window and immediately lit another. This was going to be a bad job, that became apparent as soon as Skinny's name was mentioned. When Dunkie mentioned that nutter he should have said “I'm out.” He didn't. No, he didn't want to look like a shitebag in front of the big boys. If he had any real stones he would have told Dunkie to take a fuck to himself. Instead he was sitting with a fucking shotgun under his seat waiting for that nutjob Willie Barr. Total... Fucking... Nightmare! Once more he sucked on th...
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