The Winner
The winning entry is... The Endless Game by Anthony Cowin. Huge congratulations Tony! I loved this atmospheric story - a chilling urban horror that dabbles in steam punk. My skin prickled with every step of Jago's journey.
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| Anthony Cowin |
The Mammoth Books are the bibles of horror resources as well as revealing who's been up to what in the horror fiction and film industry. And Volume 22 of course contains a collection of outstanding fiction from some of the best authors in the horror business today - many of whom have signed the winner's copy.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror Volume 22 is available to buy from Amazon and all good bookshops now.
My congratulations to the three runners-up too. Their stories will be posted here on 23rd, 24th and 25th October.
In the meantime, here is the winning entry. Do take the time to give your feedback, and I hope you come back to read the runner-up stories too.
THE ENDLESS GAME by Anthony Cowin
Jago worked at the reservoir as payback for crimes he couldn’t remember committing. He toiled amongst low men who appeared like living photographs in the sparks as iron struck iron in the darkness.
The old man shared a rollup with him. It was icy inside the Victorian brick structure and Jago was grateful for the warmth. The low men stood behind them panting, hands on knees, fingertips wet with water.
“They say this place is haunted.”
Jago flicked the dog end through the air into the black pools beyond. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“There’s more to this world than football and girls lad.”
“Not to me old man. Not to me.”
“Your last day isn’t it?” Jago nodded. “Come on, I’ll treat you to a pint.”
The old man staggered home with pale ale sloshing inside his belly. Jago walked through the pools of orange sodium along High Park Street back to the reservoir. “Stupid old git,” he said as sandstone gargoyles followed his footsteps from the Cathedral behind. Local kids kicked a ball along the flat grass roof while teenage couples kissed against the high brick water tower. Jago lifted his collar and slipped into the shadows.
He clicked his torch and entered. Angular shadows flitted about the corroding supports like girls dancing around a Maypole. Oxidised dust fell around him. He pointed up. Of course, the kids.
“More to life than birds and footy,” Jago laughed.
He waded across to the water pumps at the back of the derelict building. He planned to grab the hidden cash and jump the next train out of Lime Street, but it was snagged inside the pipe. He tried wrestling it out when something stirred in the water below.
“Okay soft lad, remember there’s no such things as ghosts,” The bag slipped from the steel tube and splashed into the hole. “Shit.”
His torch beam sailed across the ripples searching for his loot. It caught a pair of white eyes floating beneath the black water. He jumped back as a shrivelled hand broke through and grabbed at him. The torch fell. Blooms of light faded inside the water as it plunged past the translucent woman crawling up the bricks and out of the pit.
He screamed at the exit hammering his fists against the steel doors. A cold breath crept along his neck and he froze. He turned to see them. Translucent creatures filled the place.
“There’s more to life Jago,” the old man whispered. “A hell of a lot more to death too.”
The old man shared a rollup with him. It was icy inside the Victorian brick structure and Jago was grateful for the warmth. The low men stood behind them panting, hands on knees, fingertips wet with water.
“They say this place is haunted.”
Jago flicked the dog end through the air into the black pools beyond. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“There’s more to this world than football and girls lad.”
“Not to me old man. Not to me.”
“Your last day isn’t it?” Jago nodded. “Come on, I’ll treat you to a pint.”
The old man staggered home with pale ale sloshing inside his belly. Jago walked through the pools of orange sodium along High Park Street back to the reservoir. “Stupid old git,” he said as sandstone gargoyles followed his footsteps from the Cathedral behind. Local kids kicked a ball along the flat grass roof while teenage couples kissed against the high brick water tower. Jago lifted his collar and slipped into the shadows.
He clicked his torch and entered. Angular shadows flitted about the corroding supports like girls dancing around a Maypole. Oxidised dust fell around him. He pointed up. Of course, the kids.
“More to life than birds and footy,” Jago laughed.
He waded across to the water pumps at the back of the derelict building. He planned to grab the hidden cash and jump the next train out of Lime Street, but it was snagged inside the pipe. He tried wrestling it out when something stirred in the water below.
“Okay soft lad, remember there’s no such things as ghosts,” The bag slipped from the steel tube and splashed into the hole. “Shit.”
His torch beam sailed across the ripples searching for his loot. It caught a pair of white eyes floating beneath the black water. He jumped back as a shrivelled hand broke through and grabbed at him. The torch fell. Blooms of light faded inside the water as it plunged past the translucent woman crawling up the bricks and out of the pit.
He screamed at the exit hammering his fists against the steel doors. A cold breath crept along his neck and he froze. He turned to see them. Translucent creatures filled the place.
“There’s more to life Jago,” the old man whispered. “A hell of a lot more to death too.”
Hundreds of eyes opened at once casting a lattice of thin light across the dark reservoir. He recognised the old man now, recognised them all.
Every night The Lurkers circle in the shallow pools around Jago. They lure him toward the dark pit but he escapes. They don’t mind, it’s all part of the game. They’ll drag him down eventually. They have all the time in the world after all. Because time in perdition is an endless game.
Every night The Lurkers circle in the shallow pools around Jago. They lure him toward the dark pit but he escapes. They don’t mind, it’s all part of the game. They’ll drag him down eventually. They have all the time in the world after all. Because time in perdition is an endless game.
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Find Anthony on Twitter as @TonyCowin and Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=665014244.
For more information and news or to simply drop a line go to Anthony’s website at http://anthonycowin.blogspot.com/
