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    Single White Male: An Exercise in Lovecraftian Realisation
    Single White Male: An Exercise in Lovecraftian Realisation
    Single White Male: An Exercise in Lovecraftian Realisation
    Ebook116 pages1 hour

    Single White Male: An Exercise in Lovecraftian Realisation

    By Julian M. Miles

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Fear the Tide.
    It washes everything away, or it brings lost things back: secrets, crimes, lies.
    Brannon's memory is like the tide; he can't control it, and he can't hold on to it.
    Detective Higgin has a problem that is turning into a nightmare, and Brannon is a part of it - or the cause.
    Under the waxing moon, something new is hunting.
    Out by the Tide Mills, something old has surfaced.
    Before the moon wanes, there will be madness, bloodshed, and revelations.
    Only the truth will survive.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJulian M. Miles
    Release dateAug 17, 2016
    ISBN9781370863044
    Single White Male: An Exercise in Lovecraftian Realisation
    Author

    Julian M. Miles

    Julian’s first loves were science fantasy and magic; the blending of ancient and futuristic. This led him to a love of speculative fiction, initially as a reader, then as a reader and writer.He started writing at school, extended into writing role-playing game scenarios, and thence into bardic storytelling. In 2011 he published his first books, in 2012 he released more (along with the smallest complete role-playing system in the world).With over 30 books published in digital and physical formats, he has no intention of stopping this writing lark anytime soon, and he'd be delighted if you'd care to join him for a book or two.

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      Book preview

      Single White Male - Julian M. Miles

      Single White Male

      An Exercise in Lovecraftian Realisation

      A novella by Julian M. Miles

      Copyright 2016 Julian M. Miles

      Smashwords Edition

      ***

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

      This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      *****

      Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird.

      He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.

      - Friedrich Nietzsche, 1844-1900

      *****

      Contents

      0000

      About the Author

      Connect with Julian Miles

      Other Books by Julian Miles

      *****

      0000

      The town around the harbour is silent, as are the houses behind him. Another sleepy seaport, another summer night. He smiles. As duties go, he’s had worse. Reaching into his kitbag, he pulls out his sight. There’s scant chance of seeing the candidate, but he needs to get his bearings.

      Something passes, close and quick. The gust of wind in its wake makes bushes thrash and cats hiss. A scream dwindles into the distance. The sight tumbles down the chalk face to be lost in the brambles below.

      A fisherman sits at ease, his rod braced against his boot in a relaxed, one-handed grip. In his other hand: an open bottle of beer. He closes his eyes, tips his head back and takes a long swig.

      To his left, things splash into the water.

      Ned’s been fishing the bay since he was a kid. He doesn’t look for what fell, he doesn’t look for what dropped them. He lowers his head and puts the beer down. With a sigh, he reels in his line. Best call it a night.

      High on the hill, a man walks into view, muttering to himself while leaning hard on a crooked walking stick. He looks about, then smiles and heads for the kitbag. Grunting with effort, he swings it onto his shoulder. With a look to the sky and a tug of his forelock, he starts the long walk back.

      Down on Riverside, a man in grey stops and turns without warning, the bulk of his brightly coloured rucksack forcing a jogger into a stumbling dodge.

      While the jogger swears, recovers, and passes from sight, the man remains still, head turning, searching the sky for whatever it was he glimpsed from the corner of his eye.

      38...

      The lift smells like a putrid urinal.

      It’s broken.

      My flat is on the second floor.

      There was a note in the letter reminding Americans it’s what they would call the third floor.

      The stairwell smells like the lift.

      The bent louvre windows seem to be better than intact panes at keeping out any breath of air.

      Fifteen steps per floor.

      As the safety door is missing, it’s thirty-three uninterrupted steps to stand on my landing.

      Flat number eight is in front of me.

      Fifty-fifty I turn the right way.

      I go left.

      Number nine.

      Sigh.

      The number on my door hangs upside-down.

      A shudder of familiarity.

      Something wrong with it?

      No - it’s just done continental style, with a line through the middle of the vertical stroke.

      Keys.

      Three of them.

      Two deadlocks and a mortice.

      Security is either tight or necessary.

      I suspect the latter.

      The deadlocks squeal like nails on a blackboard, while the mortice grinds like teeth during a fit.

      Why am I so sure about that?

      No matter.

      Must get oil.

      My hallway is short: four doorways, two on each side, with barely any gap between them.

      The carpet tiles are new: speckled in three shades of grey.

      The walls are somewhere between magnolia and coffee crème, with white boards top and bottom.

      The white on the ceiling has the faintest hint of yellow.

      Matt paint throughout.

      First on the left, utilities cupboard: a dim bulb illuminates a trio of meters and a smelly mop in a green plastic bucket.

      First on the right, toilet: under the light of the oversized fluorescent ring, it’s all so white it hurts my eyes.

      Everything within is brand new.

      The small window has been painted over.

      Second on the left, bedroom: small and windowless.

      The ceiling is nicotine-stained and the dangling light has no shade.

      It’s a long-life bulb: one of those that takes forever to get beyond an insignificant glow.

      There’s a single bed with a brown duvet and no pillow.

      A battered bedside table sports a dented angle-poise lamp.

      When turned on, the bulb is at least a hundred watts.

      Wait until my eyesight returns.

      Second on the right, kitchen.

      It’s bigger than the bedroom.

      No, wait.

      Reach back and open the bedroom door; it’s longer than the bedroom, but narrower.

      The sink is barely wider than my hand.

      .../The one in the caravan was bigger.

      What?

      No matter.

      The fridge looks like something from a room in a cheap hotel chain.

      At the end of the kitchen, there’s a shelf made by slapping a sawn-off plank across the gap between the two rows of cupboards.

      A microwave oven shares the shelf with a portable double hob.

      That crude installation places the top of the microwave a few inches below the sill of the narrow, wall-to-wall window.

      Step out of my hall and enter my lounge.

      Uplighters hang from the ceiling at the corners of the room.

      Ahead of me are sliding French doors that open out onto the balcony.

      The balcony is eighteen inches deep and its outer wall has half-bricks spaced neatly to form crenellations.

      To my right, the bathroom: as blindingly white as the toilet, boasting a proper tub.

      I rap it with my knuckles: it’s metal.

      Same size fluorescent light as the toilet, but in a bigger space.

      Not quite as overpowering.

      The interior of the single cabinet is spotless.

      I close the door, looking away.

      Stop that.

      Look back.

      A pale-faced Caucasian male, with a hint of freckles and shockingly blue eyes.

      A tight, dark crew-cut is shaved to a stubble at the sides, and the scar that drops from the corner of my left eye - disfiguring the cheek and pulling my lips into a lopsided thin grin - has not become less stark.

      With a blink, I realise why the number on the front door seemed familiar: apart from the line across, it’s near enough the same shape.

      The cable box may be old, but it has a circuit board in plastic wrap sticking out of

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