#AScareADay - October Reading Challenge Days 21-24

Have a read of the stories for these days and join in with your own thoughts - here are mine, along with media recs, and creative responses! Go over to cmrosens.com for all my #AScareADay posts, and to find all the links mentioned in this episode.

Intro/Outro Music Credits: "Danse Macabre - Busy Strings" Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 Licensehttp://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Hello and welcome back to Eldritch Girl. And

now we are catching up with ourselves. So you

are going to hear the next few days worth of

audio. And in fact, my Ko -fi members can jump

ahead and listen to all of the audio so far as

sneak previews the rest of the week. So they

are actually ahead in the game because when I

recorded this. Actually, these days hadn't come

out yet as posts. So if you do want to be ahead

of the game in audio stakes, you can join my

Ko -fi membership and you can join at the lowest

tier and still get these episodes in advance.

So where are we? We are on... Day 21. And day

21 of A Scare a Day is Two in One by Flann O

'Brien. Okay, so this was first published in

1954. You can read it linked... on my post there's

also a link to the romancing the gothics website

so you can see the entire challenge list there

i really love this story unsurprisingly it's

giving together vibes the movie that came out

this year uh but it's not that but it's kind

of well My husband really loves Flann O 'Brien

and has been wanting me to read At Swim Two Birds

and The Third Policeman for a while now. This

story was published in between those two. So

At Swim Two Birds was published in 1939. This

story was published in 1954 and The Third Policeman

came out in 1967. This is kind of, I don't know,

in between, and it gives me a good idea of what

Flannery Bryan's writing is like, I suppose.

So it does whet my appetite for his novels, definitely.

I absolutely love the idea of being stuck in

a dead man's skin, but not personally. I like

the fictional conceit of it. And there's just

something about the body as costume. that I really

connect with and that horror of being trapped

in a role that causes elision between the self

and the persona. This really reminded me actually

of some thoughts I had while reading a book called

Body Gothic by Xavier Aldana Reyes, which I've

reviewed on my website and I've done like a little

chapter by chapter breakdown, but in a single

post. So not the same as I did for Welsh Gothic

by Jane Aron. But Reyes says the aim of splatterpunk

and of body gothic more generally is to, quote,

end quote. And I think this is definitely something

you can see happening in this short story, where

there is a physical loss of identity from a violent

traumatic action, in this case the act of murder.

And being on the inside of one's body, looking

out when the skin people see on the outside does

not match what is on the inside, is also both

a really queer and a very dysmorphic experience.

So I think that's something that also speaks

to me too. In terms of body dysmorphia, I've

already shared Seaskins on day five, which was

in response to Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem The

Kraken. I have also explored something like this

in my novel Thirteenth, which was republished

by Canelo Horror in 2024 and is out now. And

the flash fic piece The Lonely Girl Dreams of

the Dead, which has been published by Black Hare

Press in their anthology Alone. That was out

this September. So I thought I would do another

piece about body as costume but I thought I would

continue from my Necromancer story that I wrote

for day 11 when the challenge story was An Itinerant

House by Emma Frances Dawson. So this piece is

a little bit of body as costume and I thought

I'd write it from the first person perspective

of Isabeau. For four centuries I have lain in

my tomb, a prisoner of my mouldering bones. I

have withered in the silence, my body prepared

as I instructed, waiting for my servants to follow

the instructions in my painting. I had no way

to reckon time or to know what was happening

in the world beyond my sleep and my ever -cycling

dreams. I relive my life over and over, all the

years I had of it from cradle to grave. I recall

fantasies and live those, lingering in scenes

that last forever, at moments that went by in

no time at all. It will take skill to wake me,

and more to clothe me. It will take one who has

experience with the soil, one who understands

the ways of sap and seed, of root and leaf. It

will take one who knows the growing, one who

feels the striving plant as it breaks the surface

of its burial ground, as the seed dies and bursts

into life, as the roots spread and suck, as the

plant seeks the light. It will take one who knows

the layers of time are as tangible as the rocks

under their feet, who can hear the sound of the

centuries and the creaking of the forest in the

pulse of the heartwood. first a layer of soil

on my bones from the year i died my servants

must awaken it moisten it enrich it they must

perform the first rite a rite of such passion

that it touches me in my sleep and i begin at

last to stir the seed must crack Then come the

next layers of soil, slowly, slowly, each enriched

by my servants, each layer accompanied by the

rights of the sowing, of the growing, of the

pruning. I will absorb the memories of the soil,

the messages of the earth, passed through webs

of roots and fungi, footprints and scents, and

countless insect signals. I will learn what happened

in the world, the mundane things of small lives

and small triumphs, and the things that broke

their small world apart. I will learn of the

wider world, the ebb and flow of the powers within

it. I will listen to the tales the soil will

tell. I will dream, closer and closer to the

surface of waking, and with the final layer,

I will wake. I will wake with a body that is

not mine. That is made of all the time and all

the depth and all the powers of the world from

the moment I died to the moment I rise. It is

not a body, I will know. When I look at myself,

I will not see myself. I do not remember myself.

I will see a skin moulded onto me, a body formed

over the frame I have inhabited for four hundred

years. It will be what binds my servants to me.

Flesh to flesh. When someone cuts me, they will

bleed. When someone cuts them, I will feel it,

but I contain so much within me that it will

barely leave a scratch. Yet I will not forsake

them. How can I when they are adhered to my very

bone? And I will keep them safe, and when they

fall, I will raise them. For now, I sleep on.

There you go, that's Isabeau and that is the

next bit of my Necromancer story as yet untitled.

I have got another two pieces to go with this

and it will be concluded by the end of the month.

So that's Isabeau for now. Day 22. I love this

story. It was The Midnight Meat Train by Clive

Barker, which you can read in Volume 2 of the

Books of Blood. It was published first in 1984.

And it is well worth a read. I went down a rabbit

hole after reading this again. And I've actually

posted a bonus short story on a subway theme,

which is South Kentish Town, 1951, by John Betjeman.

That has an abrupt, unfinished sort of ending.

And in this one, it's more the absence of anyone

and anything, of being trapped in the underground

on a sort of phantom platform, getting off at

the wrong stop, which is a defunct train station

that nobody uses anymore. And the doors opened

by accident at South Kentish Town, which is not

used. Instead of Kentish Town, which is the next

stop and somebody gets off at the wrong stop

and then is just stuck there because trains don't

stop there anymore and he can't get out. And

this idea of being trapped in the underground

with a howl of trains punctuating the heavy silence

and nobody coming to get you, that is where the

horror lies rather than in Midnight Meat Train,

where the horror is in the last train on the

New York subway and... There's a serial killer

and butchery that takes place on the train, hence

the name, and also an underground race of beings

that exist. and kind of are behind the scenes

of New York. And this story is genuinely one

of my favourites from Barker. I think it's up

there with In the Hills, The Cities and his novella

The Hellbound Heart, which of course is what

Hellraiser was based on. I don't know why I love

this one so much, but I do. And I also enjoyed

the film adaptation The Midnight Meat Train 2008,

which was directed by Kitamura and stars Vinnie

Jones, who is... far and away the best thing

in it. Kitamura also directed another of my favourite

slashes, No One Lives, so maybe I'm a bit biased.

Kaufman, the main character in this story, is

not my favourite character in any of Barker's

fiction. I find him really annoying and this

I think is intentional. So that works for me

very well. And in the film, he's played by Bradley

Cooper, who has that indefinable, mildly annoying

quality down. So that, I don't know if that's

on purpose, but that worked from my perspective.

I think this story was partly inspired by H .P.

Lovecraft's The Lurking Fear, which came out

in 1923. I don't know if it was, but that's what

it... reminds me of very much and that has its

own direct film adaptation which I find pretty

entertaining a very low budget 1994 version called

Lurking Fear and if it wasn't inspired by the

story and I'm misremembering it still gives me

those vibes something old and twisted that bears

some semblance to humanity but is not human living

beneath us and I like the parallels between those

two stories anyway. I also do love the idea of

New York as a gothic mansion or haunted house

in which anything can happen. I also love the

caveat emptor, that buyer beware element of the

story from the first paragraph. How much the

protagonist wanted to move to New York, thinking

it would be some sort of heaven or paradise for

him. And then the city gets... described like

a bad boyfriend that you move across the country

to be with only to discover that he ain't all

that I thought that's very that's very Barker

and I just liked it I also see a lot of the classic

70s and 80s exploitation film influences in the

story you know the things in the subway genre

of that so I'm thinking particularly of Deathline

which came out in 1972 That was directed by Gary

Sherman, stars Donald Pleasance as Inspector

Calhoun and Christopher Lee as Stratton Villiers

of MI5. And I liked that in the Midnight Meat

Train, the top brass are not to be trusted. And

I felt that gave the story a distinctly US -ian

flavour of conspiracy. Whereas in Deathline,

if I recall correctly, because it's been a while

since I've seen this one, you get a bit of British

class struggle encapsulated by Calhoun, who's

quite working class, and Stratton Villiers, who

is definitely not, in their dynamics and interactions.

And also the way that Calhoun interacts with

the other characters, and especially the middle

class young white kids that he deals with. Calhoun

is also white, but he's kind of, well, from the

name as well, he's dealing with a lot of English.

middle -class English kids and he's like what

what the hell am I doing here like what is this

who are you like they're always like from a different

planet Donald Pleasance plays that brilliantly

and very subtly and then of course what he ends

up dealing with are these sort of cannibals but

things that used to be human that now live in

the London underground and the tagline and short

blurb for this film is Beneath modern London

lives a tribe of once humans, neither men nor

women. They are the raw meat of the human race.

There's something pretty grisly going on under

London in the tube tunnels between Holborn and

Russell Square. That is so specific. When a top

civil servant becomes the latest to disappear

down there, Scotland Yard start to take the matter

seriously. Helping them are a young couple who

get nearer to the horrors underground that they

would wish. Oh my god, it's such a good film,

my friends. I think this echoes the plot and

title of The Midnight Meat Train quite well,

and because it came out so many years before

this one was... published I wonder if that did

have a direct influence on Barker I haven't read

any interviews by Barker actually where he mentions

this story so he could well have said that it

did and I just don't know but that's what I feel

and the other classic for New York is of course

Chud or C -H -U -D with the dots 1984 which came

out the same year that Barker's story was published

but uses the same urban legend of things in the

sewers that I think Barker also borrowed from

but reset in the subway instead which for a Brit

is natural to do considering our versions of

something in the sewers is something in the London

Underground. and it just made me think of more

like 21st century versions of this where the

antagonist dwells beneath the city in the tunnel

systems and could be like a human monster for

example a serial killer or some kind of humanoid

monster Or an actual monster, like a creature

type monster. Or with gothic or horror or gothic

horror elements. So something like Control 2003,

which is a surrealist thriller set in the subway

system of Budapest, Hungary. That one's a serial

killer. Creep, 2004, set on the London Underground.

Marabito in 2004, which is set in the subway

system of Tokyo. End of the Line, 2007, which

is set in the subway system of Montreal, I believe.

There's Stag Night, which is set in the system

of New York. That is 2007 as well. There's a

lot of, you'll notice, like the noughts seem

to be peak, oh my God, there's something coming

up to get us kind of territory. Catacombs, 2007

as well, set in the catacombs of Paris, France.

The Tunnel, 2011, set in the tunnels beneath

Sydney, Australia. And As Above So Below, 2014,

which is another catacombs of Paris one. Honourable

mentions go to Mimic 1997 which misses out on

being the 21st century by three years but I'll

add it here anyway I guess and also maybe Split

Second 1992 because that that is something underground

isn't it? In a flooded London. I quite like that

one. I haven't included Bottom Feeder which is

also 2007 here as while that one is set in tunnels

I haven't seen it so I don't know if the tunnels

are under a city. or if they're under something

else. And I was trying to think of just specifically

tunnels under cities. But yeah, 2007 specifically

seems to be the year of something is coming up

to get us. And also not a horror film. Well,

I think it has a lot of horror elements, but

it's more an action fantasy film, was Urchin.

And that is set in the tunnels beneath Manhattan.

But it's from the perspective of those living

there. And the blurb on Letterboxd reads like

this. There's a paradise beneath New York City.

Can you find it? In a tunnel deep under Manhattan,

the old man rules the citizens of Scum City.

He swears to lead them to a paradise within the

hollow earth once he finds five noble souls.

But until then, his followers must steal and

deal to support him. A terminally ill hunchback

named Goliath, crazed by his approaching death,

decides to find the five noble souls and present

them to the old man, by beheading New Yorkers

he deems worthy of the honour. Meanwhile, another

scum city dweller, known as The Kid, tries to

do the old man's bidding, tangling with deadly

gangsters and eccentric drug dealers, even though

The Kid is only nine, and his main weapon is

a water pistol filled with acid. As both Goliath

and the kid pursue paths they believe will lead

to paradise, they rob, kill and inevitably confront

each other in a grand showdown. How this is not

under horror in genre, like, I can see why it's

like mainly action fantasy, but oh my god, like,

what a blurb. I haven't seen this film. I don't

think it's streaming in the UK. I don't know

where to get it. But that... I would want to

watch that, for sure. I've honestly never been

afraid of things in the subways or tunnels, really.

Like, when I'm down using the tube, I'm not afraid

of it. It just pisses me off. But apart from,

you know, the tide of rats that spill out once

everyone is gone, which does genuinely happen.

But I do enjoy train journeys. I like subway

horror. and it's genuinely eerie on the tube

at night or even in the day if you get to a platform

there's like hardly anyone there that is quite

disconcerting but anyway if you've made it this

far thank you for listening to my subway rambles

you might have noticed I quite like trains my

creative response today is kind of based on the

rabbit hole that this story sent me down regarding

the London Underground and its many ghosts. So

not New York City and New York subway, which

I've never been to. But I was watching the video

on the Elephant and Castle hauntings and Covent

Garden's most famous ghost. And there's also

a Channel 4 documentary that came out in 2005

called Ghosts on the Underground, which is narrated

by Paul McGann. And I've linked the YouTube.

video for that in my post on my website and in

my ko -fi for this day's scare a day so if you

go to day 22 you'll be able to find it and follow

the link okay but this is my London underground

ghost story I guess that I thought I would so

we're straying very far away from the themes

of Barker's story and it's only linked by setting

in a completely different city but never mind

I just thought I would write something fun about

The circle line, but like the old circle line

when it was a circle. It's a spiral now, but

don't worry about that. So here is my story.

The circle. Bethany sat quietly as the train

screamed through the darkness outside. The circle

line was treacherous. Many a tourist got on on

the wrong direction and wasted 45 minutes going

to a stop they could have reached in 10 if they

had only been on the other platform. The carriage

wasn't full, but there was an anxious man in

a pale blue jumper much too big for him, glancing

agitatedly at the map above Bethany's head. She

averted her eyes in case of inadvertent contact,

and wondered if that was what he had done, and

his mistake was just dawning on him. next to

her two seats away was an older black lady with

a carrier -bag at her feet and a potted plant

on her lap and opposite her was a bored -looking

young woman with large shiny red headphones like

ear -muffs and a bright green coat who had never

once looked up from her phone no matter how many

stops had gone by it was as if all she wanted

to do was ride the circle line and bethany had

no idea how long it had been since she got on

Further down the carriage was a group of about

six or seven people clustered by the door, ignoring

the empty seats. None of them were speaking to

each other. Some had backpacks, and others had

small -wheeled cases. Bethany folded her arms

as they pulled into the next station. Only two

people got off, the agitated man in the blue

jumper and the lady with her carrier bag and

potted plant. A young man in a suit got on, top

shirt button undone, looking miserable. One of

the clustered passengers said something to someone,

but the screaming metal and howling air stole

away the sound. Bethany saw their lips moving,

but no words carried the few feet to where she

was sitting. She glanced back to the young man

in the suit, but he wasn't there. Weird. He must

have moved through the connecting door into the

next carriage along. This bothered Bethany, as

she could have sworn there had been no movement

in her peripheral vision, and she had not heard

the slam of the door, but they had not stopped

again yet, and that was the only explanation

for his sudden disappearance. She settled back

and waited for the next stop. Nobody got off,

but one person got on. They came and took the

seat opposite her, baggy blue jumper flapping

over a far too thin frame, as they swung themselves

around the pole and flopped into the seat. Bethany

started. It was the same blue jumper. Not the

same man, surely. He had gotten off at the stop

before. Had she dozed off and they had gone all

the way round and picked him up again? Or could

he have gone on one stop on another train, round

to the platform and picked this one up again?

That was impossible. She looked up and his face

was the same, but this time a ghastly blotched

pale colour, washed out by the glare of the lights.

He had the same shock of sandy hair, unkempt

and unwashed. She looked down again, her heart

racing. It was impossible. But it was equally

impossible that she could have fallen asleep

for a whole trip around the line and not known

it. Bethany made an instinctive, fear -spiked

grab for her bag and checked it with prickles

of anxiety bursting all over her. If she had

been asleep, no one had robbed her. Her purse,

phone keys, all were there with squash tissues

that were now structurally integral to the bag's

lining, old lip glosses and lip balms she didn't

know were in there, an assortment of hair clips,

a bobble and some random tiny screws, a button,

a blue plastic pen lid but no actual pen, and

two sanitary pads in their purple wrappings.

Right at the bottom, as integral to the bag's

structure as the tissues, were three copper coins,

the discarded card label from an item of clothing

and a wad of thin paper receipts from an assortment

of shops. Nothing was disturbed. Bethany clutched

her bag tighter on her lap, more alert. Blue

Jumper was agitated, just as before, glancing

constantly at the map above her head. There was

something so unreal about his reappearance that

she decided to follow the suited man and head

to another carriage. The train rocked and shuddered

beneath her feet as they tore around a gentle

curve, and she made her unsteady way along the

aisle to the connecting door, bag firmly gripped

in one hand. The next carriage along had no sign

of the suited man, but there were some people

here, a handful of them, all seated with plenty

of space between each other. Bethany took a seat

too, leaving two seats free between herself and

her nearest neighbour, a hijabi lady with her

head bowed over a magazine. The train lurched

to a screeching halt at the platform, still three

stops from Bethany's, and a quiver of green caught

her eye from right at the other end of the carriage.

A black lady sat there, potted plant on her lap,

a carrier bag at her feet. This was easier to

explain. The lady had got off at the wrong stop,

instantly realised her mistake after walking

the length of the carriage, and got back on via

the nearest set of doors. As the train pulled

off, with Bethany now facing the platform, she

saw the man in the blue jumper staring at her

through the window, standing a little too close

to the train. The accidental eye contact made

her stomach flip over, but he kept staring, then

took a single step backwards. The train pulled

off. Bethany looked to her neighbour, but the

woman hadn't been looking. She was flipping the

glossy pages of her magazine with an unbothered

expression and Bethany didn't know what to say.

She noted the thin white wires of earbuds going

from the woman's bag to the head covering where

they disappeared at ear level and decided against

asking her anything. She hugged her bag instead,

not knowing what to do. Three stops. She counted

them anxiously and it seemed like the train was

taking an age to get to each one. Bethany got

to her feet with some relief, but the stop wasn't

hers. Had she, like the thin man in the blue

jumper, gone the wrong way around the line? She

was now twelve stops away, if they were heading

in the direction she thought they were. Blinking

heavily, Bethany overcame her social awkwardness

and waved to attract her neighbour's attention.

The woman took an earbud out, turned to her and

smiled. Hi, where are we? Bethany asked, knowing

she sounded like a tourist. Do you know which

direction we're going in? Her neighbour nodded.

East. Bethany had been certain she had got the

westbound train. Where are you getting off? she

asked. Next stop. The woman frowned slightly.

Are you OK? Do you need help getting somewhere?

I might get off with you and get a taxi, Bethany

said, suddenly craving fresh air and the silence

of the trains. She followed the woman to the

doors, and when they careered into the station,

Bethany couldn't wait to get off. The air of

the platform, as unsavoury and warm as it was,

made her sigh in relief. They were still deep

underground, but the solidity of the platform

was better than the spiralling track of the train.

She lost her neighbour in the crowd leaving the

platform, and glanced back into the carriage

she had left. There... With his back to the window

stood the man in the blue jumper. Bethany hurried

through the people pressing for the exit and

nearly ran along the brightly lit tunnels to

the escalator. She needed to be out, out of the

electric -lit dark, the unnatural glaring brightness,

the howls of the trains and the press of strangers.

Which of these strangers were even real people?

And which were strange copies of people, uncannily

appearing where they should not be? How many

of these passengers were passengers at all, and

how many were echoes of passengers, going around

and around the tunnels and trains, filling the

seats and never really leaving? Bethany clutched

her bag and the rail of the escalator, the rubber

unpleasantly sticky. Not long now, and there

would be daylight and fresh air. She closed her

eyes, dizzy. When she opened them again, she

had reached the top. At last! Bethany got off

the escalator, turned to the exit. and stepped

out on the platform where she had first got on

the circle line. The train pulled in, causing

a rush and a suck of air to blast her full in

the face as she hugged her bag for comfort. It

was the westbound train. Automatically, the doors

slid open, and automatically, Bethany got in

and sat down in the row of seats facing the platform.

A thin, pale man in a blue jumper was three seats

down, and an older black lady with her potted

plant on her lap was still waiting on a bench

on the platform, sitting next to a girl absorbed

in her phone, wearing red headphones and a bright

green coat. They were clearly waiting for the

next train. A young man in a suit ran for the

doors and just made it on. Bethany dropped her

eyes, not wanting to make unnecessary eye contact

with her fellow passengers. She would be home

soon. Not many stops to go. The train screamed

in the darkness. There we go. That's my circle

line horror. Yeah. Let's move on to day 23. Itsy

Bitsy by John Linkfist. So this is kind of Nordic

noir, I guess. I think that's what I know Lindqvist

best for. This is published in 2011. So we're

now up to modern day kind of stories. And this

title actually evoked the spider nursery rhyme

before I started reading it. And I guess the

futility of climbing into the bushes every day

with your camera to get a shot you can't take

is definitely evocative of the itsy bitsy spiders,

Sisyphean drainpipe climb, plus the water as

a spider's nemesis. And that's genuinely what

I thought this story was about, because it's

about a paparazzi guy who's trying to take the

perfect shot of a celebrity couple and he's waiting

for the shot and they just don't appear. And

then they do appear by the pool and they kiss

and he gets loads of photos and then his photos

are empty and he has to go back to the pool and

then weird stuff happens to him and something

kind of lures him into the pool. And like, you

know, and then as I read it, I realised. that

it's actually meant to be evoking the title of

the song Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka

Dot Bikini, which is a main feature of the story,

like the bikini that the celebrity woman wears.

And then I just felt really silly. But I reckon

there's room for both interpretations. So, yeah,

the Sisyphean drainpipe climb of the spider.

That works too. Let's go with that. I really

enjoyed this modern take on Nordic shape -shifting

water spirits, which I think is what's going

on here. as much as it is about the psychological

descent of an obsessed and desperate photographer

looking for his money shot, kind of reminded

me of Rusalka or The Mermaid, Lake of the Dead,

which is a Russian horror film that came out

in 2018. It's the same director who did Queen

of Spades in 2015, which is meant to be based

on the Gogol story, but isn't at all. Like it's

more the Russian take on Bloody Mary. He also

did Baba Yaga, Terror of the Dark Forest in 2020.

So if you've seen either of those films, you'll

know what you're getting into with The Mermaid.

Anyway, this naturally sent me down a fun little

rabbit hole about Nordic merfolk. And I didn't

know much about them, except, I guess, Hans Christian

Andersen's tragic pining gay man allegory. But

I learned some cool bits and pieces about the

Narkun, the Havstra. I don't know if I've said

those correctly. In Wales, we have mythical figures

connected to the sea like Gwen Hiddoo and mermaids

who appear in local folk tales. I've linked in

my post for this. one from Pembrokeshire, the

Morganids also known as the Morgan, Morgan and

the Mary Morgans who are common to us and our

cousins in Brittany and our Cornish cousins call

them Morvoran. I thought I'd do a short piece

with hardshell merfolk again for this one then

just the sea creature theme. Or the water theme.

I love those little guys. If you're wondering

what I'm talking about, you can read a piece

on them on my Ko -fi. I've linked it in the post.

So there's like a description of them feeding.

And then there's one also I wrote where someone's

trapped in their cave and turned into a living

egg sack for their young. And both of those were

written for Monstrous May prompts. Monstrous

May is... a series of prompts all through May

that is hosted by Johannes T. Evans, who you

will know from Queer Monster Hour on this podcast.

So, yeah, I thought I'd write a hard -shell merfolk

one. This is called The Last Lobster Pot. Big

Ben had been minding the pots for a long time

out in the Solent. It was rough work on bad nights,

but the payoff was worth it. Nobody checked lobster

pots for anything but lobsters and nobody thought

much of it when boats came and went at odd times

of the night. By day Big Ben ran a sandwich bar

on the strand. By night he took his boat out

to the pots and picked up the packages in the

pots. Kilos of snow wrapped tight in their waterproof

bags and occasionally a few actual crustaceans.

This was a good night for it, clear and calm

with a good moon to see by. He took out his boat,

the Green Jenny, and headed for the boys. Big

Ben had never liked the sea. He had never wanted

to be a lobster man like his uncles, and he didn't

enjoy sailing. This was a means to an end, like

most work, and he had never expressed his dislike

of it to another living soul. He kept it to himself.

A sullen lump of distaste lodged firmly in his

gullet whenever the hard -shelled things swivelled

their stork eyes at him, their tails like woodlouse

armour, the crawling insects of the seabed. Tonight

he picked up the drop without much bother and

checked the other pots for their contents. The

snow went into the false bottom of the crate

with a bit of MDF and tarpaulin on top, and the

lobsters went in on top of that, so it looked

like lobster all the way down. It was coming

up to three in the morning when he brought the

last pot to the surface. It was hard work bringing

it up. He thought perhaps it had snagged on something

or something heavy had gotten entangled with

the line. Big Ben heaved, sweat standing out

on his brow, until the pot finally came up and

he saw the biggest lobster he had ever seen.

It was so big it had smashed through the wicker

sides and was wearing the pot around its midsection

like a strange folk costume. Ben turned the pot

around, and two human eyes looked back at him

from either side of the lobster's head. Behind

the glaze of the protective, transparent rostrum,

the pupils widened all the way into twin black

holes and a thin circle of blue around each one.

The orbs were otherwise white, not black, and

crazed with pale blue blood vessels. He dropped

the pot on the deck and it smashed apart. The

creature unfolded itself. Ben wasn't great with

animals, but it was only the size of a smallish

dog, nothing he couldn't handle. Its carapace

was the stomach -churning, blotched grey of spoiled

salmon. Its antennules sprouted from a hooded

face, pinched and pointed, but horribly human,

even with the eyes bulging on either side. It

had claws instead of hands, as a lobster does,

but then he saw the other legs were ended with

weird, splayed, flexible, jointed things. that

looked uncomfortably like spindly six -fingered

hands. Big Ben grabbed an oar to smack the thing

back into the sea, but it reared up, balancing

on its tail. It had a full plate of armour on

its underside, and this was a feverish pink,

oozing with an unhealthy secretion that stank

like a fishmonger's wares in the sun. Sea lice

scuttled away into crevices on its body. Ben

brandished the oar, palms sweating and about

to throw up. The lump of distaste he had for

the sea and all the crawling things beneath it

had turned into a churning witch's brew of revulsion

and fear crawling up his throat. It was ridiculous,

he thought, to be menaced by something this size.

The boat gave a violent shudder that threw him

off balance and the creature snapped its claws

at him as he hit the deck hard. Pain lanced through

his shoulder. The boat rocked from side to side,

and as he thrashed about for something to right

himself, the sound of the waves was drowned out

by a chittering and clicking. The sound of large

bodies dropping to the deck and scuttling across

it made Ben struggle to his feet, but there were

hundreds of them now. The boat rocked again,

nearly capsizing, and Ben was flung against the

rails and smacked his head. Dazed and pained,

he struggled to keep his footing. Something ran

up his leg. It was as big as a cat but twice

as heavy. He flung it over the side and his hands

came away smeared with something sticky and vile

-smelling. The deck was heaving with shapes and

Ben couldn't see where one body stopped and another

began. Something snipped through his Achilles

tendon and he went down screaming. His scream

was cut short as something burrowed into his

open mouth. It tasted like burial at sea. Nothing

was found of Big Ben except his boat Green Jenny

and half a dozen lobster shells picked completely

clean. Authorities found the cocaine haul in

the false bottom of the crate and concluded that

this was a deal gone bad. An environmental expert

was called upon for their opinion about the effect

of drug smuggling on the local marine ecosystem

and the county press ran a quote as the headline.

Cocaine in the water is a problem our lobsters

just don't need. it's a little nod to the eels

headline cocaine and the dems so there we go

shall i do today's as well let's do today's as

well so we have now caught up with ourselves

this is a scarer day day 24 this one messed me

up man like this is sweet subtleties by lisa

l hannett Published first in 2012. It's free

to read online. Genuinely really great. I love

this one. But I had to read it a few times and

it's just worse each time. Like genuinely just

messed me up. I really liked it. It's one of

my favourites from the whole challenge so far.

It's kind of Pygmalion but from the statue's

point of view. If the statue was made of confectionery

and people could fuck it. It speaks to October

3rd, E .T. Hoffman's The Sandman. with regards

to Olympia and Nathaniel's relationship in that.

And the whole story also reminded me very strongly

of the song The Doll People by Sofia Azella and

Susan Palumbo's short story Her Voice Unmasked,

which can be read in her collection Skin Thief.

And I've linked the song and Susan's interview

and transcript in the post on my website. but

this is also a story of obsession and a refusal

to let go a constant recreation of a wife now

dead and there are loads of stories like this

but this one really got me because um sorry for

spoilers but like he made her entirely edible

and then allowed people to eat her There are

a lot of Vore vibes in this. I think that sets

it apart from other stories I can think of, like

The Perfect Wife by J .P. Delaney, films like

Archive, Wifelike, Stepford Wives. It's just

really disturbing. And I loved how it all falls

apart when her family want to see her because

there's one thing of creating this showgirl wife,

this, you know, cabaret wife and the inherent

eroticism of a wife made of dessert who, you

know, literally drops candy cherries out of her

vag. But also, like, that is never going to work

when you... parade her in front of her actual

parents and her sister from the confectionery

robots point of view like the horror of knowing

that you as the confectionery wife are replaceable

and one in a long line of wives and you're about

to be replaced because you're not a good enough

replica and your existence then repulses your

audience is like a real kicker for me there's

something very conveyor belt and capitalist consumerist

about this added the fact she literally has a

shelf life which is very you know the substance

i guess like that that film uh going into that

territory as well with those sorts of vibes i

just Yeah, just this idea of a woman with tuberculosis

replaced by a perfect yet equally perishable

version that can be replaced with a new version

when she comes to the end of her use -by. Like

a confectionery version of cosmetic surgery.

There are parts of this that parallel surgical

horror. And that just made me so uncomfortable.

I really loved this and I think you should read

it. I don't honestly think that any description

I give can do justice to what this story is about.

I genuinely think you have to read it to get

the full impact of it. I had no idea what I was

going to write for this or what I was going to

post for this in my creative response using it

as a prompt. I think, honestly, the best thing

I've got for this is a short story that I've

published in my collection, The Sussex Fretzell

Massacre and Other Stories, which you can get

now from any e -book platform, I think, pretty

much. So this is from Ricky's childhood. It's

from Ricky's point of view. It riffs on the ideas

of control, usefulness and puppetry. I thought

I'd post this also because of the cake in it

and the idea of consumption and eating. Yeah,

those sort of low -key cannibal vibes that you

get in Sweet Subtleties, which are just actual

cannibal vibes here. So this is an extract from

Gerald. He couldn't even think of her name anymore

without remembering how she'd tasted. He filled

the oil lamp for his father, remembering Mrs

Antram and her kind eyes, the lines around her

mouth, her grey sheep's curls and the slippery

ridges of her brain, a similar shade of grey

threaded with blood vessels hidden underneath.

He remembered the creamy, jelly -like texture

that held its shape in his mouth until he chewed,

the raw animal aftertaste on his tongue but reminding

him of eggs. Mrs. Antram had taught him the words

for all the parts of the oil lamp, and now they

nestled in his head rather than hers. His father

nodded, made him wash his hands, and said it

was time for dinner. Ricky wasn't allowed to

eat too much dinner. everything his mother cooked

was dry and plain boiled mercilessly to steam

in the pans but his father ate stoically without

complaint and ricky had to too at least today

there was something there usually was when dad

got mum a new girl she should be dead by now

and he didn't know her name either there was

even a slice of victoria sponge cake for dessert

but he wasn't supposed to have any To him it

smelled impossibly sweet, the edge of forbidden

fructose driving every other thought from his

head. The dead girl got a slice of cake taken

to her on a small china plate. Ricky didn't dare

look over his shoulder as his mother hummed a

little excited tune on her way down to the cellar.

He focused on the sticky table edge and the dark

stain taunted him with shiny jam -thick glaze

and the forbidden image of moist, light flesh,

sugary and risen to perfection, bleeding raspberries

and clots of fresh cream. Maybe he could have

what the ants left when it was stale and crumbling

to biscuit dust on the plate. Maybe the insects

would fill him with cake he wouldn't ever taste,

like Mrs Antram had filled him with words he

didn't know. Maybe the dead girl would taste

all the sweeter for rotting. He wouldn't be allowed

to find out. He wondered what her name was, or

at least what name his mother was using for her,

but he wasn't supposed to ask. There wasn't any

meat left in the outhouse. He'd cleaned up too

thoroughly. His stomach gurgled and all he could

think about was cake. It clogged his farsight

as surely as if he'd had a taste, pulling his

focus away. His concentration was always worse

as the days got lighter. He could read livers

and the slippery parts of an animal easily in

the dark, colder months, when the sharp blade

of winter opened him up to the secret steaming

out of the guts in the frost -bitten air. But

now everything was hazy with the flourishing

of spring, everything thick and fertile and vital,

and he was just as cold and dark inside, and

nothing matched, nothing fitted, he didn't fit,

and he couldn't see the future, only wished he

could crawl out of his own skin. There was something

under his skin, he knew. Something waiting. Something

strong. Something he had grown to love. Like

everything he loved, he couldn't touch it. He

kept it jealously, his nameless secret, not wanting

anyone else to give it a name or explain it to

him, because that would feel like they were putting

their grown -up fingers on what should only belong

to him. He clung to his secrets, hoarding them

like stolen sweets. One day the big secret inside

him would emerge, and then he would be whole,

complete, and every season would feel right,

and he would be able to see whatever he wanted.

The voice in his head told him so, but it didn't

speak to him often. That was a secret too, and

so was this, his taxidermy practice, something

his father could be proud of him for. Ricky wasn't

sure which he was more excited about, the hope

of an approving nod, or the prospect of his completed

companion. ricky had taken to his father's hobby

with intense interest learning how to make other

creatures as hollow as he was and fill them back

up and how to thread needles that stabbed through

his own flesh just as easily as their skins like

everything else he learned the hard way the dog's

fore limbs were ready to be attached to the body

his masterpiece The rest of the dog was a bit

useless with all the meat scraped off, so he

had stuffed the bones and other bits he wasn't

sure how to get rid of into the skin of the donkey

that made up the main mass of the stuffed chimera.

The donkey had been a trusting old thing. It

let him get right up to it, let him pat it and

bury his fingers in the scraggy mane, as if it

thought he was going to take it for a ride along

the beach. Ricky knew at once this was the one.

The other donkeys in the pen had shown their

yellow teeth, brayed at him, snorted. Not this

one. This one was friendly, and that was exactly

what he wanted. Ricky had read enough to know

that this was what friendliness looked like.

He decided he wouldn't need to read books like

that anymore, once he had a friend of his own.

He could read other things, real things, factual

things, with diagrams and big colour pictures.

He didn't need books about other children and

all the adventures they went on without him.

They were silly, anyway. Nobody ever died in

them. He'd realised some time ago that if he

was going to make a friend, like in the books,

he'd have to do it himself. He had managed to

lead the donkey out of the stall and rode him

all the way home, getting used to the smell of

him, the soft feel of the hide under his hands

and cheek. The donkey fitted in the outhouse

pretty well, and Ricky had tied it up with the

knots his father used on the girls. He'd ripped

through the tough throat with his best, sharpest

knife, all his weight behind the first thrust

to break the hide, and it had nearly crushed

him against the wall as it had tried to shake

him off and fell to the ground. his father had

whipped him bloody with his belt for it but let

him keep it as butchery practice and something

ricky could stuff by himself hacking the donkey's

head off had been hard work but every time he

saw it he felt sick it was a writhing kind of

sickness deep in his belly the cold and heavy

kind ricky hated it he couldn't understand why

it made him feel that way now when the donkey's

expressive face had been so welcoming to start

with He got rid of the head and felt a little

better. A deer skull with two majestic antlers

would be a good replacement. It was his favourite

thing after the smell of the donkey hide, now

properly cleaned and treated. He sewed on the

dog limbs with clumsy stitches, struggling to

see and having to stop to wipe his eyes more

than once. It didn't have a name yet. That was

worrying him. He needed to give it a name or

else it wasn't a real friend, was it? But you

didn't name your friends in books. They told

you what their names were, or someone else introduced

you. His chest fluttered tight. What if it didn't

want to be his friend when it was finished? What

if it thought he'd done something bad? Ricky

couldn't finish sewing it up. I never, he told

it, and his voice came out in a tiny little croak.

I never. He didn't know what he was denying.

he never really did people said he did things

wrong a lot but no one ever explained why he'd

concluded that adults just made things up in

their heads the way they thought things should

be and then forgot to tell him he couldn't understand

how his cousins seemed to play along like they

had been taken aside and someone had explained

the rules of some game ricky had never learned

how to play he wiped his nose on the back of

his hand and sniffed with one limb left to sew

up The creature was now very real and nearly

ready. But Ricky didn't know if it would tell

him its name. He couldn't bear the silence the

not -knowing. No names came to mind, Ricky's

imagination drew a blank. He ran out of the outhouse

and snuck back into the cottage before his mother

came back from giving the girl some cake. Aw,

there we go. That's Ricky Porter's childhood.

You can find that in The Sussex Fretzel Massacre

and other stories. So there is a novella which

is called The Sussex Fretzel Massacre, which

you can get just on its own. But if you can see

the title says and other stories, that is the

novella and a load of short stories which are

all Ricky Porter related. So you can get that

all together from any e -book shop. You can also

get it from my Ko -fi. I think you can get it

from my itch as well and from my website. So

any way you want to support me, you can do that.

I'm going to leave it there. We'll come back

on Monday and we'll have some more A Scarer Day

posts for you. Bye for now. Thank you.