A Hatful of Shadows

By Richard Ayre

From the author of Minstrel's Bargain and Point of Contact come ten tales of horror, sci-fi and darkness.

A man realises what love can do. And how terrifying that can be.

A ghostly tale set in the underground world of Victorian Britain

A demon on the look out for a new place of residence finds his perfect new home.

A phone app delivers more than anyone bargained for.

A dead man seeks his revenge.

A monster is born.

These stories and more are all here in A Hatful of Shadows. Short, sharp, and very much to the point.

• Language: English
• Publisher: richard ayre
• Release date: Nov 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9780154050397

Richard Ayre

Richard Ayre was born in Northumberland and now lives in Newcastle upon Tyne. At a very early age he discovered rock music, and at about the same time picked up his first James Herbert novel. The combination of these two magnificent things led him to write this novel. Richard has also written the sci-fi chiller Point of Contact, the short story collection A Hatful of shadows, as well as the upcoming sequel to Minstrel's Bargain, Minstrel's Renaissance. When not writing, Richard spends as much of his time as possible tootling around the countryside on his motorcycle, Tanya.

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A Hatful of Shadows

Richard Ayre

Copyright © 2016 Richard Ayre

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious.  Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Also by Richard Ayre

Minstrel’s Bargain

Point of Contact

Thanks as usual to my family and friends. Plus of course Cath-Always

A special dedication to the bump currently cooking in my daughter Emily. Miles will be my first grandchild. When I write anything for you Miles, I promise it won’t be spooky. Maybe something about a rabbit. (Or a zombie rabbit. Don’t tell your mam)

This book came about over a lot of years. Some of the stories here were written decades ago and were lost to the vagaries of time and house moves. Some are new. Some are old but have been re-written.

I decided to do this for a number of reasons. One, because I was bored with Cath watching Nashville. Two, because it got me away from writing the sequel to Minstrel’s Bargain (writers block) and three, because I like writing short stories.

Short stories are fun. I like to get into the characters quickly and build a story around them. In this way they grow organically, with little planning. This makes them write themselves. Sort of. The idea is there at the start, but the writing process takes over and they sometimes go off on a tangent I had not at first envisioned. A good example of this is A Dead man’s revenge, which started out very differently from what it eventually became.

There is a mixture here. Mostly horror of the supernatural kind, but also a snippet of science fiction, as well as a tale about problems that happen every day, and affect thousands of people. Problems such as depression. A very real horror if ever there was one.

I have included a little bit of information about when each story was constructed and why it came about at the end of each tale. You may find this interesting or you may not give a toss. Each one is pure fiction, even Villain of the piece, which is probably the most personal story I have ever penned but is not anything I have ever contemplated in any serious form.

I hope you enjoy these little stories. I enjoyed writing them. And remember, if any of them really frighten you, just tell yourself that there is no such thing as the supernatural.

Yeah. Tell yourself that.....

Table Of Contents

Fifteen Minutes

The Faceless Man.

Home at last

The Door

The villain of the piece.

No Triple X

Communication

A dead man’s revenge

Toy Soldiers

Soulbringer

Biography

Fifteen Minutes

Fifteen minutes. A quarter of an hour. 900 seconds. Whichever way you look at it, it’s not a lot of time is it? What can you do in fifteen minutes? Cook a meal? Not really. Not unless the meal is some plastic, cellophane topped corner shop pap you bought as an afterthought when you went in for a six pack and a cheeky copy of Penthouse.

Take the dog for a walk? Right. Maisie loves a fifteen minute walk doesn’t she? Just get her warmed up why don’t ya’? She really enjoys it when you get out her leash and waggle it in front of her like it’s Christmas, and then you’re both back in the house after a dismal sojourn round the block, sat in front of X Factor before she even has a chance to do a poop and scoop at the local park.

No, fifteen minutes, in the grand scheme of things, is not long. It’s the break teachers have mid-morning when they sit around the table in the staff room and complain about how hard their lives are. (I kept him back after class and I said to him, your behaviour is just not acceptable Peter. There is a fine line between banter and bad taste. You can’t call Sanjeet an ‘Injun’, however well-intentioned you meant it.) It’s the time it takes to read a short story. It’s the time it takes for the woman you love, the woman you have given up everything for, to tell you that she has met someone else and you suddenly realise your entire future has been thrown onto the bonfire to be scattered and blown away in fragments of charred, glowing embers.

However (and I know this from experience) fifteen minutes is a hell of a long time when you’re dead. I know. This sounds very strange. But love can do that to a person. Please just listen. I’ll try to explain. But I haven’t much time left.

When I was on my death bed I thought my life had been worth something. I was a millionaire. Actually, without blowing my own trumpet too much, I was a billionaire. I had everything. A yacht the size of a cross channel ferry, several houses; one in Mayfair in London, another in Montmartre, Paris, and another couple of nice des res in various parts of the world. Then there was my favourite, Minstrel’s Bargain, a sprawling, gleaming, glass fronted, architect designed 3 story affair set on a hill overlooking the sea on Grand Cayman. I had everything a man could want. I had cars, I had designer suits, I had wine cellars stocked with the most expensive hooch you could ask for. And I had Annie.

Yes. I had Annie.

When I first met Annie I was fifty six and she was twenty three. I was in Trafalgar Square. I had just finished some business (more ne’er do wells shaking with fear and more Elizabeth’s in my bank account.) I was feeling very satisfied as I strolled the bright, sunny hotspots. It was mid-July and the place was rammed. Tourists sat slurping ice creams with their feet in the fountains, cooling off after visiting the must see’s. Everyone was smiling and chatting. The traffic roared and honked around the square and the Londoner’s hustled and bustled about the edges. They looked dull and grey in their everyday work clothes compared to the gaudy vacation ensembles of the tourists who yakked and preened like parakeets amongst pigeons. It really was a beautiful day. The sun was shining and my shadow was short under my Tom Ford shoes.

I literally bumped into Annie. I was looking up at Nelson on his column and wondering idly what he must think of the London he had helped save when she slammed into me. She wasn’t a tourist this one, she was definitely a local. She had a phone to her ear and held a Styrofoam coffee in her free hand. She hadn’t been looking where she was going either and we collided head on. I looked down in surprise as her coffee sprayed all over my tan Armani suit, showering us both in cappuccino. I