Jock Horror

Chapter Sixteen. Buer could sense the sun going down. He had waited in the lock-up for hours, going over what his actions would be over the following few hours, a plan was put in place. Bryce’s mind had spilled out all sorts of useful information as i t fell apart. By now Alec Morton would be looking for him. It was time to put his plan into action. He stretched out of the sitting position he was in, and in one movement was up on his feet. The night was cold outside, he could feel it before he exited the railway arch. He locked the door, got in the car, and drove out from the city towards one of the southern suburbs. He knew exactly where he was going. The journey wasn’t far and so Buer amused himself by turning on the radio, listening to the mindless chatter from the humans on it. Their child-like music, so simple and repetitive, amused him greatly. The news came on. Germany was to be re-unified. When he had last been here it hadn’t even been torn apart by the events...

Chapter Fifteen. The single tarot card lay face up on the table. It had a grey border with some Egyptian motif and in the centre, there was the picture, a painting of nine blood red swords. At the top of the card was the number 9 and at the bottom the word “Swords”. Atop this, the word “Cruelty” had been superimposed. Morton’s finger tapped on the card again. “I’m no’ happy.” He stated. Both Willie and Skinner had already predicted that much. Skinner didn’t really care about Morton’s emotional well-being. “That’s neither here nor there Alec. The fact remains, we’ve got a problem.” Morton stared at Skinner, his hatred of him written across every line in his face. Skinner notic ed quite a few more lines seemed to have been added in the intervening hour or so. “ Shut the fuck up, you,” He hissed at Skinner. The words were spat out with such venom that Skinner decided shutting the fuck up was probably his best option of staying alive. Morton’s eyes were glar...

Author's note. I gave up on investigating the paranormal back in 2006, between all the diehards retreading the same old crap over and over again, the camp television shows that made a mockery of those who frankly deserved to be mocked, the credulous fools who would believe “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?” was a documentary if you added some arrows and an authoritative voice-over and slapped it up on Y ou-tube. Mostly though, I gave up investigating the paranormal because despite twenty years of uncovering all sorts of things, I never once, not once, experienced anything that could have been remotely considered paranormal. I heard plenty of tales, perhaps discovered that dangerous witch-cults still existed in my country and was not limited to goths, hippies and the 1973 movie “The Wicker Man.” Still given the market was over-saturated with all types of cranks, I abandoned it. Those who've followed my career since will know me more as a writer of Scottish History, which has bee...

Buer. It wasted no time in its new vessel. It had lifted the cases with the money and moved into the car which it drove, at speed from the bookmakers. It found that Bryce, once accepting its domination and habitation of his body, was quite amenable and access to Bryce’s talents and local understanding were paired with its own colossal wisdom and knowledge without as much as a whimper. Bryce became part of it, no longer was it parasitical, but symbiotic. Bryce only wished to experience what it experienced, to share what little of its burning prodigious power it could grant him without being engulfed by its terrible brilliance. It granted Bryce his wish and so It and Bryce became the living manifestation of Buer. Buer knew that he, both of them, had chosen well. Chapter Fourteen. I n the car, he sped through the slippery, cold, wet streets of the g rey city. He was aiming for the old brick railway arches near the King George the Fifth Bridge that separated the south f...