NaNoWriMo - Chapter 1, Untitled Black Comedy Supernatural Book

There’s something hypnotic about watching a body hanging from a tree. Horrifying, but hypnotic. Swaying. The rope creaking. A dark silhouette against the dawn sky. The tree, a hunched twisted Cornish coastal survivor, looks like it can barely take the weight.

I can hear gulls screeching.

This was the second time Edward Quintrell had been hung. This time I was going to burn the fucker as well. There’s only so much supernatural bullshit a man can take.

Behind me the cottage is still burning. Time to cut down the corpse and throw it on the bonfire.

As I cut the rope and the body crumples to the ground like a dropped towel I start laughing. I’m not sure if it is a healthy laugh or just hysteria. I do know this was not how my holiday was meant to go.

I have no intention of treating Quintrell’s body with respect so I drag it towards the burning building along the floor. I’ve got no one to help me carry him anyway. Everyone else is either dead or in hospital.

By the time I get him near enough to the fire I’m sweating from the struggle. I take Quintrell’s sword and hack his head off. When you’re dealing with the corpse of a man who was supposed to have died four hundred years ago there’s no point in taking any chances. I throw the head into the fire. Then I slam a stake into his heart. I don’t know if Quintrell is a vampire. But I’m not taking any chances.

Then I roll the rest of the body into the fire. I watch it start to burn.

This, I suppose, is what victory feels like.

As the corpse burns I suspect I’ll never enjoy a BBQ ever again.

I turn around at the sound of footsteps. The old man is standing behind me. The grey beard loon. Or what we had thought was a loon. He thrusts a flask at me.

“’ave some tea lad. You deserve it after that.”

I laugh and pour myself a cup.

“I’m never coming here on holiday again.” I say.

He laughs his gurgling laugh.

“I suppose I should call the police.”

“I suppose you should.”

“How do explain all this…” I say, sweeping my arm to take in the burning cottage, the wrecked car, the bodies. “You know, two weeks ago I’d never hurt a fly. Quintrell was the ninth person I’ve killed. If you count Quintrell.”

“Oh, I count Quintrell. Twice dead now. Maybe more.”

“Hopefully the last.”

“I think so. Hung, beheaded, staked and burned. If the bugger comes back after that he probably deserves it.”

I laugh.

“You look like shit.” The old man says to me.

“I’m sure I do. I need a shower.”

I look the old man up and down.

“What happens to you now?”

“Oh, I’ll wait. And watch. As I always have.”

I nod. And we both stand silently for a while.

I start walking down the hill. This isn’t the best place to make a call and the nearest village is a good few miles away. The old man has gone. I can sense others around me. Then there is a gust of cold wind and they’re gone.

It’s over.