The Watchers

By Glen Johnson

In Europe in the 1350s seventy-five million human souls perished from the Spanish Influenza. Worldwide in the 1920s one hundred million died from the Black Death. Yearly, almost half a million die due to new strains of viruses and plagues.

Or do they?

A SHOCKING SECRET

Jacob Cain’s life changes forever when he starts to receive a series of reanimated corpses, each impart a fragment of a message. An ancient tale unfolds as old as time itself relating humanities darkest untold secret – the biblical story from the Devil’s point of view.

A DESPERATE QUEST

As the chain of events unfolds Cain repeatedly finds himself confused and covered in blood. Suddenly he becomes a fugitive from the authorities, wanted in connection to multiple murders, his garden now a mass grave.

A HORRIFYING TWIST

Guided by one catastrophic event after another, Cain finds whole villages eerily silent with corpses littering the streets as a new plague from an unimaginable source starts to sweep the country. At an old farmhouse he comes face-to-face with mankind’s worst nightmare. And buried in a field is the answer to all the riddles that climax in a terrifying, unearthly twist.

As Cain fights for his life he must unravel the shocking truth, before billions die. He is all that stands in the way of a global pandemic on an apocalyptical scale.
*
Then God said: “Where do you come from?” At that Satan answered God and said: “From roving about in the earth and from walking about in it.”

(Please be aware, The Watchers was previously published under the title The Devils Harvest)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glen Johnson
• Release date: Nov 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311359094

Glen Johnson

Glen Johnson was born in Devon, England in 1973. He is the author of 55 fiction and non-fiction books. In August 2014, he gave away all his belongings and bought a backpack and he started travelling around Southeast Asia. While he travels, he helps charitable organizations, writing and releasing books about their foundations, leaving them with all the royalties. His first charity book is called Soi Dog: The Story Behind Asia’s Largest Animal Welfare Shelter and it’s available in ebook and paperback worldwide. He has also started to release a series of books about his travel adventures as they unfold, and Living the Dream: Part One – Khaosan Road, Thailand, and Part Two – Krabi, Thailand is available from all good ebook retailers. He also loves to travel and has spent over eleven years living and travelling around the world – so far, he has explored forty-three different countries. At present, he lives in Bangkok, Thailand, but he has also lived in Mexico, Malaysia, Laos, Cambodia, and Singapore. He is also the lead writer on the development team for a new computer game called The Seed (2018), from the creators of the award-winning S.T.A.L.K.E.R Misery mod.Why not add Glen as a friend on Facebook. From his author’s page, you can keep up to date with all his new releases and when his kindle books are free on Amazon. He checks it daily, so pop on and say hello. Don’t be shy, he’s friendly and accepts friend requests.www.facebook.com/GlenJohnsonAuthorwww.facebook.com/RedSkullPublishing and all good ebook retailers.Glen has published 174 books worldwide (via two publishing companies he owns). 55 are his own work; the other 119 are modern-classic-fiction books that can be found on all good eBook and paperback retailers.Books Released by Sinuous Mind Books, and Coming Soon –Books released under his real name Glen JohnsonNON-FICTION BOOKS –CHARITY BOOKS (with Gary Johnson)Soi Dog – The Story Behind Asia’s Largest Animal Welfare Shelter (2015)BEES Elephants Sanctuary: A Haven for Old and Retired Elephants (Coming Soon)TRAVEL BOOKS (with Gary Johnson)Living the Dream 1 – Khaosan Road – Thailand (2015)Living the Dream 2 – Krabi – Thailand (2019)Living the Dream 3 – Penang – Malaysia (Coming Soon)FICTION BOOKS –APOCALYPTIC/DYSTOPIAN/HORRORTHE SIXTH EXTINCTION SERIES (A #1 Best Seller on Amazon UK Horror Short Stories)The Sixth Extinction 1 – Outbreak (2013)The Sixth Extinction 2 – Ruin (2013)The Sixth Extinction 3 – Infested (2013)The Sixth Extinction 4 – The Ark (2013)The Sixth Extinction 1-4 – Omnibus Edition (2013)THE SIXTH EXTINCTION: THE FIRST THREE WEEKS SERIES (A #1 Best Seller on Amazon UK Horror Short stories)The Sixth Extinction Series: The First Three Weeks 1 – Noah’s Story (2013)The Sixth Extinction Series: The First Three Weeks 2 – Red’s Story (2013)The Sixth Extinction Series: The First Three Weeks 3 – Betty and Lennie’s Story (2013)The Sixth Extinction Series: The First Three Weeks 4 – Doctor Lazaro’s Story (2013)The First Three Weeks 1-4 – Omnibus Edition (2013)THE SIXTH EXTINCTION & THE FIRST THREE WEEKS SERIES OMNIBUS (A #1 Best Seller on Amazon UK Horror Short stories)The Sixth Extinction & The First Three Weeks 1-8 – Omnibus Edition (2013)The Sixth Extinction & The First Three Weeks & The Sixth Extinction America 1-12 – Omnibus Edition (2014)The Sixth Extinction & The First Three Weeks & The First Three Weeks The Squads Stories & The Sixth Extinction America & The Seven Seeds of the Gods 1-23 – Omnibus Edition (2017)THE SIXTH EXTINCTION: THE FIRST THREE WEEKS – THE SQUADThe Sixth Extinction Series: The First Three Weeks – The Squad – Echo’s Story (2014)The Sixth Extinction Series: The First Three Weeks – The Squad – Coco’s Story (2014)THE SIXTH EXTINCTION: AMERICA SERIES (A #1 Best Seller on Amazon UK Horror Short stories)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part One: The Black Spores (2014)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Two: False Hope (2014)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Three: The Pods (2014)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Four: The Long Road (2014)The Sixth Extinction: America – 1-4 Omnibus Edition (2014)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Five: No Turning Back (2015)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Six: A Friend in Need (2015)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Seven: All Aboard (2015)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Eight: New Hope (2015)The Sixth Extinction: America – 1-8 Omnibus Edition (2015)The Sixth Extinction: America – 1-20 Omnibus Edition (2016)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Nine: Keep Running (2016)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Ten: Don’t Look Back (2016)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Eleven: Resurrection (2016)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Twelve: Alliance (2018)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Thirteen: Abandon (2019)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Fourteen: Burn (Coming Soon)THE SIXTH EXTINCTION: BOOK EXTRASThe Sixth Extinction: The Seven Seeds of the Gods. Book One – Ancient Egypt (2016)The Sixth Extinction: The Seven Seeds of the Gods. Book Two – Ancient Mayan (Coming Soon)The Sixth Extinction: One Year On (England) (Coming Soon)The Sixth Extinction: Clarkson’s Discovery (Coming Soon)THE ENDLESS SERIESEndless: Part One – Sorrow (2019)Endless: Part Two – Fear (Coming Soon)Endless: Part Three - Anger (Coming Soon)THE EVENT SERIESThe Event: Part One – The Last Hope (2019)The Event: Part Two – Crashing Down (Coming Soon)THE HUMAN NATURE SERIES (A #1 Best Seller on Amazon UK Horror Short Stories)Lamb Chops and Chainsaws – Vol.1 (2012)Lobsters and Landmines – Vol.2 (2012)French Fries and Flamethrowers – Vol.3 (2014)The Human Nature Series 1-3 – Omnibus Edition (2014)Backpacks and Body Bags – Vol.4 (Coming Soon)THE EXTREME HUMAN NATURE SERIES (Extreme Horror Short Stories)Condoms and Cabbages (2015)GHOST (Short Stories)Sea of Trees (2017)Child Angels (2018)Tall Ghosts (2020)The Lost Cat (2023)HORROR (Short Stories)Quarantine (2020)Laugh Out Loud (2021)Secrets and Lies (2021)Blood Lotus (With Hathairat Phuekhiran – 2023)HORRORThe Watchers (2014)THE WAR OF THE GOD’S SERIESWar of the Gods 1 – The Devil’s Tarots (2012)War of the Gods 2 – Lilith’s Revenge (Coming Soon)THE SEVEN WORLDS SERIES (with Gary Johnson)The Gateway – World One (2014)The Keystone – World Two (2015)Even Jewel – World Three (2017)The Sleeping Gods – World Four (Coming Soon)The Turquoise Abyss – World Five (Coming Soon)Oceans of Fire – World Six (Coming Soon)Journeys End – World Seven (Coming Soon)THE SPELL OF BINDING SERIESThe Spell of Binding – Part One (2012)The Spell of Binding – Part Two (Coming Soon)THE PARKINGDOM SERIESParkingdom – Book One (2012)Parkingdom – Book Two (Coming Soon)OTHER BOOKSTales from the Lake Vol.2. Short Story: Prime Cuts (A mixed horror anthology with 18 other writers – published by Crystal Lake Publishing. 2016)Books released under the pseudonym J.G. NewtonEROTIC PLEASURES SERIES (#1 Best Seller on Amazon USA and UK Erotic/Suspense)Guilty Pleasures: Erotic Pleasures Series (2014)Dirty Pleasures: Erotic Pleasures Series (2014)Secret Pleasures: Erotic Pleasures Series (2014)Kinky Pleasures: Erotic Pleasures Series (2014)Erotic Pleasures Series 1-4 – Omnibus Edition (2014)EROTIC MONSTERS SERIES (#1 Best Seller on Amazon USA and UK Erotic/Suspense/Horror/Humorous)Frankenstein’s Monster: Erotic Monsters Series (2014)Dracula’s Lover: Erotic Monsters Series (2014)Mummy’s Desire: Erotic Monsters Series (Coming Soon)Werewolf’s Lust: Erotic Monsters Series (Coming Soon)COMPUTER GAMETHE SEEDGlen Johnson is on the development team as the lead writer (eight writers) for a new computer game series called The Seed. The Seed is a story-driven post-apocalyptic video game set in Eastern Europe in 2026. It’s a single-player 2D interactive novel, deeply rooted in HEXACO psychology – it showcases the gravity of choice. It’s by the same team that created the award-winning game S.T.A.L.K.E.R. Misery mod.The Seed: Act 1 (2018)The Seed: Act 2 (Coming Soon)The Seed: Act 3 (Coming Soon)If you need to get hold of Glen Johnson, email him on: [e-mail]

Book preview

The Ultimate Biography

Millions have died. Tens of millions across England and the world are still suffering from the loss and confusion that only a catastrophe of this magnitude could create.

As for my life, it will never be the same again. My perception of the world has been completely distorted. Even now I still grope for the right words to describe what has happened. How such an experience can be placed into simple words to be read. How it has, without doubt, changed my life, and the very way in which I view life itself, and the way life – in my adopted country of England – even now tries to recover.

Almost five million souls were ripped from their warm bodies.

When you consider there are over seven billion people around the world today, the chances are astronomical that the devil would choose to knock on my front door. However, he did, bringing death and destruction in his wake. You can read the dark chilling story of how death came knocking and the story he brought in with him from the cold. A story that will transform your life forever.

A single person (I think he can be called a person) came into my life and gave forth his story. One he said needed to be told; needed to be out in the open, because the Bible has warped people’s perception for thousands of years, and now it was his turn to put what happened into words. Tell the story from his point of view. Set the record straight.

God be damned.

I would be the devil’s biographer.

Many will not believe the words conveyed by him. At some points, I didn’t even believe what he was saying. However, all I can say is, you needed to be in the same room, see his decorum, the way in which he held himself. And the things he showed me; hallucinations? I cannot say, but they felt real to me as if I had been there, viewing them with my own two eyes, feeling the light tickling wind upon my skin, and the baking sun’s heat on my face, and the sticky blood on my hands. What if it was only hallucinations – tricks? However, small things also made his story believable. Things, that as I now look back, made sense. The way he sat. His hand movements. Simple things that conveyed a lot. He was a good showman.

Now I am simply rambling, confusing you. I will start my story – as all stories should start – from the beginning. I will allow you to judge for yourself, to see if you believe his words, his stories, and his view of events that have transpired. I will let you come to the decision to whether you believe the Dark Angel Satan, the Devil himself, appeared before me and gave his side of the story, his view of creation and the happenings thereafter. Why he was thrown out of heaven, along with countless other angelic rebels? Why, along with some of his angelic brothers, he now resides upon the earth: earth being their playground and their prison. And his plans for the future, and how it affects each of us, and the very future of mankind itself.

Or whether you think that I did indeed simply lose my mind (as I sometimes believe), and I am now paying the consequences for that.

Of course, now, at the end of it all, I know the truth. I now know what it was all about. However, I will let you read my story, read the events as they took place in chronological order. Then you can be the judge. However, I will not give away the fatal twist that makes this whole story all the more unbelievable – more horrific.

Just remember, what makes a person evil, their actions, their effect on others? Could someone so evil and so unbelievably cruel, who caused the death of untold millions, truly aspire to the name of the devil himself?

Read The Watchers and make up your own mind. But be prepared, the truth will blow your mind. Your world will never be the same again.

Millions have died...

PART ONE

The Fallen Angels

So down the great dragon was hurled, the original serpent, the one called Devil and Satan, who is misleading the entire inhabited earth; he was hurled down to the earth, and his angels were hurled down with him.

Revelation 12:9

1

Dead Man Walking

It was a cold January evening. The wind was howling outside, making the laden trees give up their burdens, depositing even more snow on the already heavily covered ground. Roads were blocked. Telephone lines were down, having snapped from the weight of the snow upon them. So far, it has been the worst winter in living memory, and apparently, so the meteorologists say, the worst was yet to come.

It’s at times like these that I wonder – and not for the first-time – why I lived in a god-forsaken place like this? Dartmoor, or the Moors; as the locals refer to it.

England has ten national parks, only two, Dartmoor and Exmoor, are situated in the southern part of the country, in a county called Devon. I live on the larger of the two, Dartmoor: a large national park area, covering several hundred square miles. Wild ponies roam aimlessly, and sheep continually try to run you off the road by appearing at almost every bend in the narrow hedge crowded lanes, where most of the time two cars can’t even pass each other. You spend most of your time reversing to let others pass, (they never seem to give way to you).

There are only two notable cities nearby. Dartmoor sits sandwiched between Exeter to the east and a navy port of Plymouth to the west. Few noteworthy towns or villages. Mainly though the area was just a large collection of identical little towns skirted by even smaller villages, around the Moors fringes and dotted around the Moors itself. Apart from that, it’s a sleepy section of an already sleepy countryside.

But then, as I reflect, that’s why I choose this section to be my home. Away from the cruel streets of America. Away from Washington D.C., my home city. Away from the mad hustle ‘n’ bustle, the crime, and the shootings. Most writers prefer to be in the middle of everything. Be where the pulse is, as some of my writer friends refer to it. However, I’m not like most of them. That soon became abundantly clear.

Sometimes I do miss my former home, my old hectic life. I used to live close to the waterfront. Maine Avenue Fish Wharf was only a short stroll away. The countless times I had walked over the Francis Case Memorial Bridge to get to Pruitt’s Seafood Restaurant, looking down to see the faded red painted sign of Jessie’s Cooked Seafood, sprawled across the dirty white wall. I had tried many of the large restaurants along the half-mile strip, but no one steamed crabs like Pruitt’s.

Once, I even considered buying a boat and living in the marina. But that’s before I travelled to England to do some research for one of my books, and ended up falling in love with my mother’s home county of Devon. That was more years ago than I care to remember.

Both my parents were British. My father dragged my mother across the Atlantic Ocean to his new job, working for the Sacramento State Department of Geology. I was born on a day trip to Lake Tahoe. I was awarded American citizenship, purely because that’s where I came out. If I had waited another twenty-eight days, and not been premature, I would have been born in England, like my mother planned. The best-laid plans of mice and men often go astray.

My mother had a choice because she held a British passport, I could have been registered as British. She never did explain why she chose American?

In the end, my mother couldn’t stand the heat, or my alcoholic father, so I returned with her and my older brother and sister, to live with my grandparents in Biggin Hill London, leaving my father behind, with only his drinking habit for company. I never heard from him again. I was an American by law, even though I lived there for only two months as a baby.

My mother died from a brain aneurysm when I was twenty-one, two weeks before my first book was sold to a publishing house. By twenty-two, when my first royalty check cleared, I moved back to America – my birthplace, but still an alien land to me.

I left the grey streets of London as a young adult. I tasted the dramatic life of America and found it wanting. Now I have found somewhere I can be at peace with myself and my chosen life. I found Devon. And I had been back living in England for three years. I now lived sixteen miles away from where my mother was born and raised.

Devon has some outstanding beauty. Dartmoor mainly consists of smooth-contoured hills after rolling hills, as far as the naked eye can see, often supporting large rocky outcrops. Wide expanses of bogs, which are continually filled by the mist and clouds that frequently shroud the hills and vales. It’s a painted canvas of blue hues and greens. More trees than a sane person would try to count, splattered here and there, or making up huge tracks of woodland; alder, rowan, blackthorn, hawthorn, birch and large oak trees. What’s not covered in trees is plastered with bracken or spidery ferns, making large green-carpeted areas. And there are so many rivers and small streams that cascade down numerous waterfalls, and filling rocky gorges, that it seems like you’re forever driving over one kind of bridge or another – a mythical troll’s paradise.

It also has its fair share of ghost stories: supposedly, haunted houses and manors, mysterious graveyards and famous graves.

Sir Frances Drake is supposedly the Headless Horseman who rides a dark hearse coach, pulled by black headless horses. The legend is called The Wild Hunt, led by a psychopomp: the leader of souls to the Underworld. On certain nights and holy days, you can see the hunter come for his prey, as the headless Sir Drake chased his quarry. He also supposedly rides out on every full moon to chase the lost souls back to hell.

There is also the Spectral Hounds, or otherwise known as Devil Dogs or Hell Hounds, with their red eyes and blood-curdling howls, which still allegedly roams the misty marshes; the very ones that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote about in The Hounds of the Baskervilles. Legends state that a hunter, Richard Cabell, the Squire of Buckfastleigh – who was described as a monstrously evil man – had sold his soul to the Devil. After Cabell died on July 5th 1677, a phantom pack of Hell Hounds was witnessed racing across Dartmoor to get to the promised soul. However, his tomb was a large solid sepulcher, with a massive heavy slab of stone resting on top, to stop the soul from being removed. Having not accomplished their given mission the Hell Hounds apparently still roam the barren moors. Folklore also states that if you walk around the tomb seven times, then put your finger into the large old keyhole, then it would be bitten off by the devil, who patiently waits for the tomb to crumble so he can get the soul beneath. The tomb is still in the Holy Trinity Churches graveyard in Buckfastleigh.

Jay’s Grave – or Kitty Jay – as she was known, was an orphaned teenager that died late in the 18th Century. She was raped and then shunned when she became pregnant. Kitty hung herself and due to suicide laws at the time, all three parishes refused to bury her on consecrated ground, so she was buried at a crossroad – a traditional practice for suicide victims at the time. Her grave became famous because there are always fresh flowers on it, without fail, non-stop since she was buried. Local folklore claims they are placed by pixies.

During a full moon, a ghostly collection of Roman legionnaires can be spotted at the old Roman hill fort on Hunters Tor, marching without purpose around the area of Lustleigh Cleave.

There are the hairy disembodied hands who pull on the wheel of your car or motorcycle as you drive along the deserted road near Postbridge, known as the B3212. These have supposedly caused numerous accidents since it started in 1910.

There is the famous out-of-the-way village of Princetown, with its ancient prison, which was built to hold prisoners of the Napoleonic Wars in 1806, which has countless horror stories and ghostly happening associated with the brutality once used to keep the prisoners under control.

The most alarming local legend of all states that during the Great Thunderstorm of Sunday the 21st of October 1638, Dartmoor’s town of Widecombe-in-the-moor (the closest settlement to my farmhouse) was said to have been visited by the Devil himself. The local church of St Pancras was packed with three hundred people when it was struck by ball lightning. Four people died, and sixty others were seriously injured, and the church was badly damaged; the roof was almost completely ripped off. Folklore states that the devil made a pact, a Faustian bargain with a local card player named Jan Reynolds. Reynolds received a diabolical gift; he was unbeatable at cards, but it had a catch; he was never to fall asleep in church. On that particular day, he did.

While en route to collect the soul of Reynolds the devil had supposedly travelled past the Tavistock Inn, in the nearby village of Poundsgate, where he stopped for refreshment. The landlady reported a visit by a strange man dressed in black with cloven goat-like feet riding a jet black, sweat-dripping horse. The devil ordered a tankard of ale that hissed as it went down his gullet. Where he rested the mug on the bar, it left a scorch mark. He left old strange coins that turned to dried leaves in the landlady’s hand when she picked them up.

Also, Dartmoor is not just an untamed wilderness of heather and bracken covered hills, with deep wooded gorges and twisting rock-strewn rivers, and dangerous bogs and mires with plentiful ghost and occult stories, for amidst this abundant wealth of natural and mythical beauty are hints of the industries of the past and an abundance of ancient archaeological sites, including an abundance of burial chambers, cromlechs, kistvaens, countless stone circles and menhirs; more than anywhere else in western Europe.

There are also remains of tin, zinc, copper, lead and silver mines and vast open-pit quarries, ruined castles, ancient churches, medieval abbeys and countless bridges.

There is the famous Merrivale Stone Circle (also known as the Plague Stones) which is the largest prehistoric site on Dartmoor; supposedly – according to local folklore – it is the Gateway of the Dead, with its three rows of long-standing stones and a cist and stone hut.

There’s also Spinsters Rock, Scorhill Stone Circle, Grey Wethers Stone Circles and Drizzlecombe, which is Dartmoor’s tallest standing stone at four and a half metres. There are also the seventeen stones, named the Nine Maidens of Dartmoor – why they are called the nine and not seventeen has no explanation. Supposedly, during a Hunter's Moon, (or Blood Moon, the first full moon after the Harvest Moon, which is the closest to the autumnal equinox) these stones have been witnessed to sway back and forth as if dancing.

Occultism abounds in the area, stretching back as far as recorded history. There’re countless tales of witches and covens. One famous local witch was Vixana, who nightly conjured up a mist to confuse lost travellers, so they would stumble into a stretch of bog and slowly get sucked under.

In January 2005, seven dead sheep were found with their necks broken and eyes removed and arranged in the shape of a heptagram – a seven-pointed star symbol, which has for centuries been associated with the dark arts and black magic rituals. Then in November of the same year, it occurred again near Vixen Tor.

Sacrificial examples, such as these, date back to the time of the druids (this being the priestly class in Britain during the Iron Age). The earliest known written description of druids was from the Roman military general Julius Caesar, in his work the Commentarii de Bello Gallico; which was his first-hand account of the Gallic Wars, dated from 50 BC.

Dartmoor teems with reference to the druids. Their presence exists in place names such as the Druid’s Stone, Druid’s Chair, Druid’s Altar, Druid’s Well, Druid Mine, and the Druidical Temple, and not forgetting the village named Drewsteignton; which its original name (Taintona) was first mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086.

As well as numerous stone formations accredited to the druids, there is also what is called Rock Basins; these are cavities cut into the rock to collect rainwater and to be used for sacrificial rituals. One on Mis Tor is referred to as the Devil’s Frying Pan.

Strangely, it also has a negative gravity anomaly, due to Cornubian batholith, which is a group of associated granite intrusions, which underlie the southwestern peninsula of Great Britain; and the main exposed masses of granite are at Dartmoor.

All in all, Dartmoor has more stories related to the devil, the occult, druid sacrifices and bizarre anomalies than any other section of land in Great Britain. I provide all this information to give you an idea of the region I live in, and the tales that inundate the folklore in the area. This may all relate to why the Devil came knocking at my door; it was simply a matter of location, location, location, as the estate agents like to say.

*

I have twelve horror novels under my belt, with a few awards adorning my walls and shelves. Some of these books have stories similar to myths and legends that prevail in this area. Funny, when I think about it, this is my thirteenth book. Does that have some bearing on what took place?

I have a few other manuscripts I’m working on at the moment. But no more horror stories. What happened changed that part of me forever.

Why do I write? Some people ask me. I would like to say it’s because I love to read, and also, I like to see one of my books in the hands of a passerby. To see the look of concentration on their face as they read the words that I have placed on paper.

However, if I was brutally honest, I would say it is for the money. In this day and age, everything always comes down to money. Supposedly, the route of all evil.

I have made plenty of money from my written creations. That’s how I can afford to live in such an out-of-the-way location in a big farmhouse. Some ask: Why do I stick it out, why do I put up with the critics’ sharp tongues when I could retire from writing and simply live off the royalties? However, as any writer worth his salt knows; it's not that simple. Once you have one book in circulation it’s not long before another joins it. A natural high some say. It’s something needing to be done, needing to be written.

And the most asked question: Where do I get my ideas from? My ex-wives, as well as my friends and family, would say I have a very overactive imagination. Even more so now after I was released from his hold on me.

But all in its proper place.

Has not one of the greatest horror writers of our time, Stephen King written almost fifty novels? Each one a masterpiece in its own right. What if he had given up after his fifth novel or tenth novel? This generation would be different, would it not, without the works of his great mind?

Likewise, after only a mere thirteen novels – compared to his fifty – I still can’t steal the laptop away, not just yet. Over the last few years, it has been my sole companion, a good faithful friend.

I don’t use a typewriter as you see in the movies; an author clicking away at an old classic machine. As they finish a page, they pull it out and stack it on a pile of other crisp white sheets. In reality, writing isn’t like that. I make mistakes with my spelling and grammar, just like everyone else (just ask my editor). And with a computer you can go back over, readjusting, correcting and fleshing-out. And with a typewriter, there would be only one copy. Way too risky. As I write I back my books up on multiple external hard drives. Also sending them to myself via email, so if anything happened to all my drives, I still have a copy in the digital world. Because that’s the other important thing with a laptop; the Internet – the writer’s best friend – a world of information right at my fingertips. No more library visits, pouring over old books, or phone calls to collect information. Now it can all be done from the comfort of my desk. God bless Google and Wikipedia.

Maybe it’s because of my passion for writing, or merely because of the location I choose to live, is the reason he decided to pick me. I don’t think I will ever know why he selected me. He never gave a reason. Then again, I don’t think he needed to or would have given me an explanation, even if I had the courage to ask. And to be quite frank, I don’t think I ever thought to ask. That was my reasoning to start with; it all became apparent towards the twisted end.

*

It would have been many days, if not weeks before I would have seen another human being, let alone whatever he claimed to be. That’s one of those small details I told you about.

When I opened my door to the intensive knocking on that cold, dark January evening when most sensible people would be huddled up in the heat and comfort of their homes. Not that anyone could even move about in the snow outside. And it was impossible to get to my out-of-the-way house with all the blizzards blowing, snow piling up.

That’s when I saw him standing on my snow-incrusted doormat. I noticed not one snowflake clinging to his clothing or hair. His black highly polished shoes still glistening from the warm light issuing from my open fire in the room behind me, as clean as if only having just been polished – no snow or mush on them (and no cloven hoof feet). And the fact that besides the freezing cold and drizzling snow, he was wearing no coat of any kind, just a simple black suit jacket that matched his expensive-looking black trousers and waistcoat.

Good evening, he said as if having met him on the sidewalk in town. A perfect gentlemanly voice, not one you would expect to come from someone like him. His eyes locked intently upon mine.

I stood transfixed in the small vestibule, looking at this figure stood under the lintel of my front door. The wind and snow were blowing relentlessly behind him. His face lit up by the reflection of my roaring fire. A vile smile on an otherwise ordinary face. Hair still impeccably groomed, not one single hair out of place from the fierce winds. A dry black umbrella held in one of his hands still folded up with the little popper clipped in place. And most alarming, not one single footprint leading its way to my door. Surely, the snow wouldn’t have covered them that quickly?

May I seek shelter from this stormy weather? He’d asked, his voice flat and emotionless. His dark eyes locked on mine, unflinching. Something about those dark eyes.

Then I simply stood aside, knowing there was nothing else I could do. I could no more of stopped him from entering as I could have waved a hand and abated the storm, and that simple act changed my life. If I had refused him entry, would I be alive today to tell the tale – his tale? But of course, now I know different, things have already run their course, and I am now relating them for the first time.

As he serenely glided past a waft of musk, and ancient spices drifted from him.

I stood next to the open door, the wind howling, snow clinging to my back and trousers, making my slippers wet and cold. All the heat I accumulated rushing out the wide-open door. Doors banged loudly from inside as the wind whipped around the confines of my once sane home.

I would never have a sense of normality again. My life was now forever changed. My fixed natural order in the cosmos had been radically altered. Destiny was looking the other way.

I watched as he gracefully moved across the room. The way in which he moved was more like a predator than a mere man. After a couple of steps, he simply opened his clenched hand and dropped the umbrella, as if it was of no significance – social norms not high on his list. He took a high-backed seat beside the open crackling fire and gently lowered himself down onto it, crossing his long thin legs, showing off his black socks.

Please, take a seat, he simply said. He waved a hand at the empty chair opposite.

I was still in a state of shock. I hadn’t worked out what he was yet, but I knew something was not right. My primaeval instincts telling me something was very wrong. It took all my will power from simply stopping myself from running out the door, plunging into the cold stormy night, taking my chances out there, rather than be anywhere near him, and that smile of his.

Please, he said once again. As he did so this time the door was wrenched from my grasp and slammed shut. I let myself believe, for a few precious seconds, that it was my imagination taking hold, nothing more than the wind pulling it from my hand. That was until the latch clicked, and the bolt locked.

My eyes pried away from the now locked and bolted door, to see him sat motionless, only the wide smile being any movement from his direction. Then his tongue raked over his chapped lips. Like a dead body having just been raised by necromancy, I slowly moved across the room, bumping into a knee-high table in the process, upturning it along with the dead telephone.

Please sit, Mr Cain, he said, in his relaxed modulated voice. I didn't tell him my name. Had I? But then everyone in the area knew I lived here, but they kept at a respectable distance. Until now. My body answered by taking another high-backed wing chair opposite, with its studded buttons in red hard leather. My favourite seat, one I sat in while thinking or simply reading. I never knew why I had another positioned opposite, never having visitors. Freudian psychology would say I was creating an illusion that I wasn’t alone.

The two chairs were framed by the large fireplace. There was a thick wooden fire surround that was almost twelve feet across, and five high. The fire nestled in the middle on the grate, and it had two stone seats to either side; if you wished to sit uncomfortably close. I believed they were also used for drying out food, and herbs were hung to either side. Firewood was also stacked on each side to keep it dry. There was a carbon copy of it in the large kitchen.

May I smoke? he asked, already reaching into the confines of his jacket to remove a packet of unfiltered Marlboros. I knew them well; my chosen brand before I had given them up after losing a brother to lung cancer.

He looked around, his eye skipping all around the room.

I have– I coughed, trying to clear my constricted throat. I have no ashtrays. I managed to squeeze out eventually. It was the first time I had spoken, and for such a mundane reason.

That’s right, he stated matter-of-fact, after the unfortunate sickness with your older brother. He lifted the cigarette to his thinly pressed lips and lit it with a single match he had struck by scraping with his fingernail as you see in the movies. Smoke encompassed his face, shrouding him from view for a fraction of a second. Then two long plumes of smoke issued from his nostrils, now encircling his lap like the witch’s Vixens deadly fog.

What about the ashtray in the cupboard under the stairs? he asked politely as if inquiring about my health.

I dislodged an old memory; yes, there is an ashtray under the stairs in an old cardboard box, right next to the small collection of Christmas decorations I put away a few weeks ago. I had put the ashtray there years before, stowing it away with some of my brother’s belongings. Not wanting to throw it away because it had been his, even though – in a way – it had been the cause of his death.

In fact, it was an ashtray I had bought him on one of my numerous escapades around the world. Thinking back, it was a small hand-carved chunk of stone, ground down by the hands of a Mewalky Indian. Traditional, they said, even though I had never heard of ancient Indians using ashtrays. They simply used long decorative pipes and knocked the ash out onto the ground. Everyone has to adapt when it came to making money. However, before I had a chance to climb to my unsteady feet and retrieve it, he waved the thought aside.

No problem, he had announced, as he tossed the match into the fire, and pushed his hand back into the hidden pocket, removing a thick black leather wallet. He then flicked it with his wrist to open it up; he proceeded to use it as an ashtray.

This will suffice, he simply said, while pulling long and hard upon his cancer stick, pulling it deep into his lungs, before blowing the blue plume into the fire that then disappeared up the wide chimney.

He stared, fixated as if studying every inch, every flaw of my face. Until, what seemed like an eternity later, he continued speaking.

Interesting stuff, he simply stated, even though after his initial viewing of the room, his eyes hadn’t left mine. Smoke curled out of his nostrils, running up his pale elongated face.

It was true; my furniture was unusual. I had collected items from various countries I had visited, not caring if a particular object went with what I already had, but buying it because I simply liked it, regardless. The overall effect of my large front room was that of a museum. Ancient alabaster vases and statues from all over Egypt, of all shapes and sizes. One of my most expensive objects in the room in a small eight-inch-high statue of The Dwarf God Bes, which is over four thousand years old. There are tapestries from all over Europe – my favourite being a copy of The Hunt of the Unicorn: The Unicorn is Found. Traditional kilim woven carpets from Turkey and Pakistan. Antique giare’s from Puglia in Italy. Swords from Scotland, from a Ballhead Claymore to a Six Finger broadsword and a Basket Hilt broadsword. There’s big chunky furniture from Germany and Holland, with hand-carved Segusino Mexican Pine tables and sideboards from rural Taxco, Guanajuato and Cuernavaca from around Mexico City, and a collection of pictures and painting from all over the world. The most expensive item is a small ten by ten-inch pencil drawing of a rose by Picasso, valued at just over forty-five thousand pounds at its last appraisal. There are also numerous trinkets and objects covering almost every surface. I hated starkness it made me itchy. I also hated dusting, which gave it the appearance of an abandoned museum.

Also, the whole house had large thick wooden exposed beams running across the ceilings. The beams in the front room had numerous objects hanging from them or nailed to them, ranging from old horseshoes to a breech-loading Westley Richards rifle, or nicknamed the Monkey Tail, dating back to 1861. There is also a vast collection of books and manuscripts that any museum would be proud to own, perched on a selection of Victorian mahogany 1880 open bookcases, with the rare first editions sat inside the glass doors of an impressive William IV mahogany bookcase from the 1830s.

My ex-wives used to call it a junkyard. Funny thing was though, in the settlements, they all tried to get their sticky hands on it all – none succeeded.

I cleared my throat once again and tried to speak, only creating a croak like noise that seemed to make him smile all the more. He looked like a Cheshire cat sat inside human clothing, and I felt like a mouse that he had caught out in the open.

Now aren’t I the rude one, coming here and not explaining myself? He took another cigarette from the red and white packet resting upon his lap, gave it a tap on the packet, and then lit it from the stub of the last, then simply tossed the old stub into the flames. His eyes never left mine, as if he was waiting for me to make a move and was ready to pounce.

I still hadn’t said much in the way of conversation, my throat seemed to be constricted as if some unseen force had its hands wrapped tightly around it, trying to squeeze the life from me – it felt like I had an elephant sat on my chest.

Would you like a drink of anything, I coughed to clear my throat. Tea, coffee or something stronger? It was an automatic question; born from English etiquette I had picked up. I felt stupid the moment I said it.

He simply stared and didn’t bother to reply.

I had sat there so long without speaking that he had finished yet another cigarette. This time he tossed it directly into the flames, while once again reaching for another. A compulsive chain-smoker if I ever saw one. It almost seemed like he needed the smoke to be able to breathe.

This time he didn’t have the stub to relight the new one, or this was the simplest way he could demonstrate my worse fears. He leaned forward slightly and pushed his hand into the flames, picking up a burning cinder of white-hot wood, which he proceeded to light the cigarette with. My god, his hand. The fingers that were now holding the cigarette were steaming themselves, the flesh having been burnt, the skin curling and blackened, puss running from his discoloured, now twisted fingernails. One finger was even burnt down to the bone – a fourth-degree burn.

He sat back in the seat, repositioning himself more comfortably, seemingly not noticing his blackened, burnt, disfigured fingers. He gave one of his predatory smiles, as he lifted the cigarette to his cracked lips, his twisted black fingers up in front of his face, smoke rising from them, adding to the greyish-blue smoke from the cancer stick.

You know who I am, don’t you? he asked casually as if simply asking if I think the storm will last for very long.

I couldn’t answer I simply nodded, my Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as if it was in white-water-rapids.

It was as if a casting director had picked someone to represent the devil; he ticked all the right boxes – he had found the perfect body.

He studied my eyes again. That awful grin still locked on his face – a patronizing grin, like the Joker from Batman.

Now I noticed something else about him, something alarming. His skin had, during the time he had been sitting there, started to take on a greyish colour. His face around his upturned smile looked like it was cracking. Flakes of skin dropping down onto his once spotless black jacket, now covered in grey flakes and some of his loose greying hairs. Nice brush over by the way. His hair was so thinning you could see the comb lines running through his oily scalp.

He lit another cigarette from the butt of his last. Eyes still locked on mine, watching me studying him. Maybe he didn’t mix much with humanity? Or maybe I was viewed as a mere insect to him?

I have a message for you, he simply stated, once again in his matter-of-fact voice.

So, this was it, time for me to