Darren Horton jumped out of the car as his dad switched off the engine and ran to the front door of their holiday cottage. ‘It looks fantastic!’ he said excitedly. ‘I didn’t know we were staying in a haunted mansion!’
‘It’s not quite a haunted mansion,’ said his dad as he got the luggage out of the boot. ‘It’s impressive though isn’t it?’
‘A 14th century, timber-framed coaching house,’ Darren’s mum read the description of their accommodation from the brochure, ‘with traditional thatch roof, inglenook fireplace and four-poster beds.’
‘Let’s go in. Have a look round,’ said Darren, bouncing up and down. ‘Come on! Who’s got the keys?’
‘They’re under a plant pot apparently,’ said his mum, referring again to the brochure and booking information on her lap. Darren lifted up a trough of geraniums at his feet and felt underneath. ‘Urghh, a slug!’ he howled, wiping the slime on his trousers. ‘Wait a minute. Yes, they’re here. Shall I try them in the door?’
His dad, bent almost double under the weight of two smart, leather suitcases, nodded frantically. Darren unlocked the house and the Horton’s went inside. Exploring the crooked old building, they chased down corridors and up staircases, taking in the wonderful character and charm of the seven hundred year old property that was theirs for the week.
‘What’s in here?’ Darren asked as they returned to the first reception room. He opened a sort of bureau against the far wall and nosed about. ‘Hey. A Guestbook.’ he said retrieving a black, slightly water-damaged volume from within. ‘Cool!’
‘Read it later,’ demanded his dad, taking it off him. ‘I think we should unpack first don’t you?’
Darren snatched it back quickly and read the first entry. ‘Had a wonderful holiday,’ it said. ‘Weather lovely. Lucy, our labrador, thought the deserted beach was fantastic.’ It was signed The Whitaker Family and dated 28^th May, 2002. Beneath it, in black ballpoint pen, was the legacy of another satisfied family of holidaymakers. ‘A beautiful spot! Very clean and well presented. Saw seals and a barn owl on Sunday when we walked to the…’
‘I said,’ Peter Horton put the Guestbook out of Darren’s reach. ‘We’d unpack first. Now come on, give me a hand.’ Darren did as he was told and helped his dad bring in the rest of their things from the car. It didn’t take them long. They’d soon turned the twelve slightly impersonal rooms into a veritable home from home.
‘Now we can kick back and relax,’ said Peter Horton dragging the last box of groceries over the threshold. ‘Look at that view Darren,’ he said as they stood together in the doorway. ‘Magnificent isn’t it?’
Darren had to admit there was a sort of stark beauty about the north Norfolk coast. The sweeping gravel drive led onto a single-track lane, which snaked into the distance beyond a stand of tall poplars. In places, a narrow band of dunes was all that separated it from the vast, grey-green expanse of the North Sea.
‘And that sea air,’ his dad puffed out his chest and flared his nostrils, ‘delicious.’ There was a gust of wind and the windows of the Olde Coachhouse rattled in their frames. Darren grimaced and turned away. He strongly suspected the place was haunted. It was eerie, all alone down here, on the far side of a small spinney, miles from the next house.
The elements tested the mossy thatch again and the driftwood fence creaked in the ever-stiffening sea breeze. ‘Let’s go in,’ he said to his dad.
Back in the living room, he read the next entry in the Guestbook. ‘Would recommend the food at the Swan Inn,’ it said. ‘Delicious, large portions served in the cosy restaurant. Martha and Kevin Greatgood, February 2003.’
Darren skipped forward a few pages, scanning the untidy entries for something more interesting. ‘Heavy rain all week,’ complained one visitor with wild, looping handwriting. ‘Played board games and watched T.V. until Thursday when a break in the weather meant we could visit Wexham Cemetery, Francis Thorpe, May 2004.’
‘Odd choice of attraction,’ said Darren out loud. ‘Maybe Wexham Cemetery’s got its own spooky sort of appeal though?’
He trawled the polite paragraphs for a few minutes until his eye settled on another comment made by a visitor also in awe of the grim Norfolk weather.
‘Last night, fierce storms drove a ship onto rocks north of the Gypsy camp,’ it read. ‘Reported sighting the stricken vessel to the local coastguard’ The entry was signed Mr. H. Nelson, 2^nd September 2004.
‘Does it say anything about the ghosts in there?’ Darren’s dad asked, entering the room from the kitchen.
‘No, why are there supposed to be ghosts? How do you know?’
His dad held out a handwritten letter in a plastic pouch. ‘This was next to the kettle,’ he said simply.
Darren read it.
‘Welcome to The Olde Coachhouse,’ it began predictably. ‘We hope you enjoy your stay. Other guests tell us the property is a paradise at any time of year. Let us know if you have any problems and we will do our best to sort them out. For day-to-day matters, please contact Mrs. Patchhorn at Tophill Farm. There is a list of useful telephone numbers overleaf.’
Darren turned the sheet over. So there was.
‘Please remember to tell your friends about the Olde Coachhouse, personal recommendations are very important to us. Well, it only remains for me to wish you a very pleasant holiday. Hopefully, we’ll see you again next year.’
Darren looked up. ‘Where’s the bit about ghosts?’ he sounded disappointed.
‘Read the P.S.s,’ said his dad.
‘P.S. If you’re planning to use a lot of hot water, put the emersion heater on an hour beforehand (switch in the bathroom cabinet.) Also, please keep the garden gate closed as the wind can break it off its hinges if it catches it.‘
‘P.P.S. The Village Stores nearby sell all the essentials, tea, coffee, milk, etc. There’s a local guide for sale too called ‘Around The Bay’ which shows all the best dog-walks and fishing spots in the area.’
‘P.P.P.S. 'The ghosts' that are sometimes seen in the area (and, I should say, in the Coachhouse itself!) are very friendly. Please try not to let their presence disturb you. They are most often seen in the early hours of the morning and just after dusk strolling through the surf or sitting around the fireplace... Like most things, it seems if you don't bother them, they won't bother you.’
Darren swallowed hard. 'Flippin' 'eck!' he said at long last. 'Ghosts! Would you Adam and Eve it?'
'Not really no,' said his mum, bringing three cups of steaming tea into the room. 'Have you asked him Peter, if his Guestbook mentions anything paranormal?’
Darren shook his head. 'A couple from Derby thought the Coachhouse was ‘lovely and quiet, a great place to unwind.’ Some guy from Canada said it was ‘a great base for bird watching.’ It's full of boring stuff like that. Nothing about poltergeists in the pantry or grizzly ghouls in the garage.'
‘Maybe the owners are a bit New Age,’ said Sarah Horton sitting down. ‘I wouldn’t take it seriously Darren.’
But Darren did. He couldn’t help himself. While his mum and dad watched television, he stared at the hearth and bit his lip. It was the last week in October and the sky seemed to darken in a matter of minutes. Before the dregs of Darren’s tea had gone cold, the windows of the room had turned to black holes, looking out into the chill night.
'I'll draw the curtains,' said his mum, anxious not to see her son’s holiday spoiled by the rumour of ghosts. Darren grinned sheepishly; he knew he was being silly. He stood up and went to close the drapes across the big French doors behind the sofa. The harbour lights of nearby Mundesley were the only things he could see beyond the rain-streaked glass.
'What was that?' snapped Sarah Horton, standing over him, helping him jostle the curtain rings along. For a moment, she thought she’d seen a lone figure on the main road. Then it was gone.
'A man?’ said Darren. ‘In the road? Did you see him too Mum?’
Sarah Horton laughed at herself. ‘No. I’m sure it was just the wind in the trees. Forget it.’
Darren went back to his chair and drew up his legs, clasping his empty mug with both hands. There was something in the air, he thought, something not altogether right with the world around him. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was, but it was unnerving.
'We didn’t settle well,’ his dad read aloud from the Guestbook, ‘on our first night. From the living room window, the gnarled old oak on the main road looked like a man in distress. It caught us all out.” Darren's dad sighed, ‘There you go, nothing to be afraid of. Just a dead tree picked out by a car’s headlights.’ He turned the page but before he could read on, there was a knock at the door.
'In this weather?' Sarah Horton coughed. 'Must be important.’ They looked at each other nervously. ‘You go Peter, see what they want.’
Peter Horton flicked on the porch light and unbolted the front door. A filthy salt-drizzle blew into his face as he opened it.
‘Trick or treat!’ sang a four-foot devil in Wellington boots.
‘Oh,’ Peter Horton was speechless for a moment. He looked up and down the lonely road but could see no one else. ‘Where’ve you come from?’ he asked.
‘The village,’ the little devil said earnestly. ‘Not far.’
Peter Horton scratched his head. He’d completely forgotten today was the 31^st of October, Halloween. He dug his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a pound coin. ‘Last house on your route are we?’ he asked the devil, who’s horns were dripping with water and who’s fork was stood in a deep puddle.
‘First,’ replied the little chap simply. He took the money and marched happily away in the direction of the Swan Inn.
Peter Horton shut and bolted the door.
‘Who was it love?’ asked his wife as he sat back down in his armchair.
‘Trick or treaters,’ he said looking at his watch.
‘What, out here?’ Darren’s eyes were like saucers. ‘Rather them than me. Must be a mile between each house.’
‘Mmm,’ his dad looked concerned. ‘Hope he’s alright.’
‘I’d forgotten it was Halloween,’ Darren’s mum adjusted herself, plumping a feather cushion and shoving it roughly behind her back. ‘Should’ve bought a pumpkin shouldn’t we?’
No one answered. Darren looked pensively at the fireplace, the letter on the coffee table and the gently stirring curtains behind the crackly T.V.
‘How many were there?’
‘How many what?’
‘Trick or treaters.’
‘Oh. Just one,’ said his dad. ‘A little red devil in big, black wellies.’
Sarah Horton shuffled about on her cushion. ‘Let’s turn in,’ she said without looking her husband or her son in the eye. ‘An early night’s just what we need.’
Darren opened his mouth to complain but thought better of it. Perhaps it was a good idea, an early night. Silently, the three of them cleaned their teeth over the washbasin in the drafty bathroom and sought out their beds.
But for Darren, going to bed and going to sleep were two very different things. He lay awake, arms folded across his chest, for a long time, filled with dread. Ghostly shapes seemed to swim through the darkness around him, keeping him on edge. A musty smell touched his nostrils. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
The only thing that gave him any comfort was the Guestbook on his bedside table. It, at least, gave no credence to the notion of ghosts in the house. It alone seemed to belong to the 21^st century.
Eventually, he fell asleep but dreamed of a devil in Wellington boots knocking on tombstones in Wexham graveyard asking for money. When he woke, he could still hear the hollow scratching of its pencil as it jotted down the names of those who didn’t pay.
Birds were singing and bright sunlight was searing through the thin nets at the window as he stretched and got up. His shoulders had been rigid with fear all night and ached dully but there seemed nothing to be afraid of now. Silliness and superstition, that was all it had been. He shook himself all over and reached for the Guestbook beside his pillow.
It wasn’t there.
He heard the dry rustling of paper by the window and sat up. There it was, on the wide sill, in danger of being engulfed by a pool of condensation. How had it got there?
He retrieved it and thumbed through the back pages. The sound of the devil’s hollow scribbling still echoed in his ears. To his horror, there was a fresh entry, right at the back, one he’d never seen before. His blood ran cold as he read the date, 31^st October 2005. Yesterday!
Darren snapped the Guestbook shut and ran downstairs. His parents were in the living room staring at the fireplace. Hot embers were snapping and crackling in the small grate while wisps of sweet-smelling wood smoke curled up the chimney.
All three looked at each other in utter disbelief.
‘We… we didn’t light a fire last night,’ said Darren’s dad aghast. He checked all the locks on the windows and doors downstairs.
Darren opened the Guestbook again. ‘Listen to this,’ he said soberly. ‘A lovely holiday. Enjoyed roaring fires in the living room almost every night. Margaret Hunt, October 31^st 2005.’
Sarah Horton refused to accept anything untoward had happened. ‘So they got the date wrong,’ she said. 
Darren shook his head. ‘No Mum, they didn’t. The entry wasn’t there yesterday.’
Peter Horton looked rattled. ‘Are you asking us to believe Darren, that someone broke in here last night, lit a fire in the hearth, crept up to your room, ‘borrowed’ your guestbook and wrote about a pretend holiday inside?’
‘I don’t think anybody broke in,’ Darren replied. ‘I think they were already here.’
‘What?’ Darren’s mum sounded cross. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve got a feeling,’ replied Darren, ‘we’ll find the answers in Wexham churchyard.’
‘We’re not driving out to Wrexham churchyard this morning,’ said his parents together. But they really had very little choice. If they wanted to understand what had happened, they were going to have to trust their son’s instincts and they were telling him to go to Wexham.
As soon as they were dressed, the Hortons drove to the secluded Saxon church on the edge of Wexham village and walked between the graves.
‘What are we looking for Darren?’ asked his mum brusquely.
‘A name,’ Darren replied bending over a lichen-covered tombstone. ‘This name in fact,’ he drew his index finger along the chiselled letters that spelt out ‘Francis Thorpe.’
‘Beloved brother, father and grandfather,’ read the simple epitaph. The dates though were what made Darren’s stomach turn over. ‘1847-1911.’ He read them aloud.
‘What does it mean?’ Darren’s mum looked lost. ‘What does Francis Thorpe have to do with us or the Olde Coachhouse?’
‘He’s signed the Guestbook,’ Darren said in a quavering voice. He sought out the man’s spidery signature on its faintly ruled pages. ‘Here, see.’
‘Gosh, you wouldn’t think it went back that far would you?’ Darren’s dad said, rather naively.
‘It doesn’t Dad,’ Darren scoffed. ‘He made the entry last year.’
‘But that would mean he’d made it…’
‘From beyond the grave…’ Darren finished the sentence for him.
‘You mean,’ stuttered Darren’s mum, ‘the people signing our guestbook are quite literally, holidaymakers from Hell!’
Nodding slowly, Darren elaborated on his suspicions. ‘I think,’ he began, ‘the Guestbook’s full of entries from people who’ve passed on. And I think All Hallow’s Eve is the one day in the year they can ‘break’ through into our world and make those entries! Look,’ he flicked to the back and read the entry before Margaret Hunt’s. ‘This one wasn’t here yesterday either. No wonder the Guestbook doesn’t mention ghosts; it’s all about ghosts! It’s an account of the days they’ve spent at the Olde Coachhouse, enjoying their eternal retirement.’
‘So,’ added his mum, almost choking on her words, ‘you’re saying it’s a book of the dead, by the dead…?’
Darren dropped the Guestbook and crossed himself. That was exactly what he was saying and he suddenly realised he wanted nothing more to do with it. But the book had one more secret it wanted to reveal to him. Lying on the dew-wet grass of the graveyard, a page he’d still not read screamed for his attention.
‘The Johnson family,’ it said, ‘had a wonderful time here in July 2005. David, our ten-year-old boy, loved the dressing up clothes in the trunk under the stairs. He spent most of the holiday disguised as a little red devil with horns and a cape in big black welly boots.’    
Peter Horton’s face paled as he read it too. He knew at once, he’d seen a ghost at the door the night before. Spoken to one in fact. He picked up the book off the ground and threw it in the car. For some reason, he didn’t like the thought of it lying in a churchyard.
When they got back to the Olde Coachhouse, he and Darren went straight to the cupboard under the stairs and rummaged through a loosely packed trunk looking for something resembling a devil’s outfit. A pair of red horns, a plastic trident, a cape and a devil’s mask were near the top. A pair of welly boots in a carrier bag were still covered in thick, sticky mud.
Darren, Peter and Sarah Horton left the Olde Coachhouse that afternoon. They didn’t make an entry in the Guestbook. They were too afraid of what else they might read in its dark pages. Instead, they put it back in the bureau, locked the house, put the keys beneath the geranium pot and drove away.
Darren wondered how many other families had done the same… living or dead! He wondered too, who’d reserved the cottage for the next few weeks. And whether the owners had unwittingly double booked it, again.

Ambush I called him, my Rottweiler puppy. It turned out to be a very apt name. He loved to jump out on people and scare the living daylights out of them. But he very rarely bit anyone; they had to be really stupid or really slow for that to happen.

He was a bit cheeky, I can’t deny that. And as he grew bigger, he did begin to seriously frighten some people. So I took him to dog training classes and sorted him out. He was the instructors’ star pupil, being crowned the ‘Most-Improved Dog’ every week. Soon, I found myself exaggerating his wicked behaviour because, well, because he just wasn't wicked anymore.

Then Dave moved in and I found I no longer had to exaggerate anything. For some reason Ambush and Dave took an instant dislike to each other. Dave was Mum's new boyfriend. They'd been seeing each other for a year or so, almost from the day my dad moved out. Their decision to move in together was a brave one and came quite out of the blue. It was a result of some shift in Dave's circumstances, someone in the flat he shared had died or been arrested or something. Anyway, Dave came to live with my mum and me; and Ambush was having none of it.

On the day he moved in, Ambush ripped his jeans and snatched a biscuit out of his hand. These incidents laid the foundations of a mutual hatred so powerful it made the constant bickering between my mum and me seem trivial.

Dave's retaliation was slow and subtle at first. He would shut Ambush outside in the rain or put something behind the living room door so he couldn't come in and watch T.V. with us. I told him not to be so cruel. Mum told him not to be so childish, but the bitterness between Dave and Ambush grew stronger every day.

It wasn’t just Dave that told Ambush off though. Sometimes my mum got mad with him as well. When he chewed up Dave's shoes, she shut him in the garage. When he ripped the handle of Dave's briefcase, she hit him on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. But generally speaking Mum's anger was directed at Dave. She said he was old enough and ugly enough to rise above the whole thing. She was sure, if he made an effort to win Ambush over, they could be the best of friends. Dave was told to groom Ambush and take him for walks. And to please my mum, he did.

Ambush thought this was hilarious! He relished the opportunity to belittle and embarrass Dave in public. He'd run off in the park or run out in front of traffic and Dave would have to chase after him. It was great fun to watch.

Despite Mum's determination, the two of them remained bitter enemies for more than a year. Then, we put our house on the market and within three months, had moved to a cottage in the country.

Dave loved it. He called it his dream pad. It was, he said, everything he'd ever wanted in a home. And, even better, it was surrounded by open fields. Ambush could wear himself out chasing the crows down by the stream or sniffing for rabbits in the bank by the lane. He didn't need walking much anymore and, for a while, the feud that had given me so much entertainment for so long, subsided. Thankfully, however, Ambush was my dog and so, had been trained to hold a grudge!

After he'd had his fun chasing rabbits and worrying wildfowl, he got back to the serious business of upsetting Dave. And the new house made putting the frighteners on someone a lot easier than the old one. It was dark, really dark in places. There was only one centre light in the hall and on the stairs. It was damp too and made funny noises for no apparent reason. But best of all, it was full of places to hide.

Ambush could conceal himself on the top step of the stairs, behind the laundry basket, under the kitchen table or beneath the hem of the curtain over the drafty front door and frighten the life out of Dave as he tried to get ready for work.

Once, he almost frightened me. From behind the bathroom door, he caught a glimpse of Dave on the landing. He set his back legs like a pair of giant springs and waited. But Dave slipped into the spare room for something and I came out of my room, falling into his path.

As my attention was distracted by a noise outside, Ambush shot out, teeth bared; he could look menacing when he wanted to. His jowls wobbled and his muscles rippled under his skin as he came for me. Of course, as soon as he realised his target had been substituted for his mistress, he calmed down. He was like a pussycat by the time we reached the hell.

Decorating and furnishing the house took up most of Dave's free time. He lavished every spare penny we had on it. It was his pride and joy; while Ambush remained the thorn in his side.  We all thought the relationship between Ambush and Dave was at its very worst during the run up to Christmas. The weather was bad and they were stuck indoors together. But one day in December, it got a hell of a lot worse.

Dave and I had a row. I shouted at him, told him he wasn't right for my mum and didn't love her. I shouldn't have said it, it wasn't even true, they were very well suited, but I was upset. Anyway, Dave pushed me and Ambush saw him do it...

His eyes narrowed instantly and never went back to their old shape. From that moment on, he despised Dave. Dave began to call him Satan. He didn't like being left in the house alone with him. He really thought Ambush would kill him, given half a chance.

I knew it was all show. Behind the powerful jaws and sleek black fur that marked Ambush out as a handsome Rottweiler, was a dog with a heart of gold. But where I saw a loyal friend, Dave saw a monster, a crazed beast, with a score to settle.

Despite his protests, we did eventually leave them alone in the house together. My mum and me went shopping in the January sales. Dave was ill so stayed in bed. He didn't have to do much for Ambush (we'd left his food out and some water), just let him out at lunchtime to stretch his legs. You could see the panic in his eyes as we drove away though…

We had a lovely time browsing the sales racks in the busy shops but we stopped smiling as we turned into the little lane that led down to our muddy drive and saw the ambulance… It was parked out front with its lights on. Dave was being lifted into it, on a stretcher.

He spent the night in hospital. Ambush spent the night in the shed. When we went to visit Dave, he told us exactly what had happened.

‘I was tucked up in bed, watching some rubbish on the tele.,’ he explained, ‘when I heard a noise downstairs. It sounded like something heavy had fallen over so I went to investigate. The front door was ajar. I remember thinking ‘What’s that damn dog done now?’ as I struggled to close it, but Ambush was still shut up in the kitchen. A vase had been smashed on the hall floor. I started to clear it up when… someone came at me with something, from the living room.’

‘Who?’ my mum wanted to know. ‘Who was it Darling?’

Dave shrugged. ‘Ambush was barking in the kitchen, I remember that. Then I was hit, hard, across the back of the head and I fell to the floor. Blood began to trickle down my neck.’

Even I felt sorry for Dave. I elbowed him affectionately.

‘Someone told me to stay down,’ he went on, ‘but I didn’t, I made for the front door. ‘Idiot!’ snapped my attacker. He kicked me in the ribs and dragged a dining chair into the hall, ready to tie me up. Ambush’s barking got louder. He started to scratch and whine at the door but he was trapped. Out of ideas and afraid for my life…’ Dave paused for effect. My mum gasped. ‘I crawled towards the kitchen door and let him through.’

‘Snarling and biting, he leapt straight at me! But he didn't hurt me. He jumped right over me, pouncing on the burglar. With a ferocity I couldn't have imagined, he drove him backwards, forcing him to use the dining chair as a shield. Then, he grabbed me by my belt and dragged me to the back door.’

My mum and me held our breaths.

‘It was locked,’ Dave said solemnly. ‘Ambush charged at it. Ducking his head at the last second, he hit it with his powerful shoulders. The huge sheet of toughened glass shattered. He burst through it, into the pouring rain, and put his front legs and head back inside to pull me after him. I lay there feebly,’ Dave sniffed and rubbed his bloodshot eyes, ‘on the patio. Then do you know what that clever dog did? He fetched my phone! I called for help and within minutes, the ambulance had arrived. I think the police were called too, but the burglar escaped. Where's Ambush now?' Dave lay back in his hospital bed, relieved to have gotten his story off his chest. 'Have you fed him? Is he all right?'

'We shut him in the shed,' I said lamely. 'We thought he'd attacked you.'

'Don’t be daft,’ Dave said, shaking his head. ‘Ambush would never hurt me. I'll make it up to him. I'll spoil him rotten.'

‘But you hate him…’ I said, remembering all the bitterness that had gone before.

‘Ahhh, we were just playing,’ Dave scoffed. The nurse brought him his supper. ‘Forgive and forget eh? Prob’ly saved my life that dog. Can’t wait to see him.’

I was speechless. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine a world in which Dave and Ambush got on. If Dave and Ambush could be friends, anything was possible. Hell, even I might start to like the guy! That thought made me nervous.

When Dave came home, Ambush greeted him cautiously. He circled him several times, as though making sure he was still in one piece, then snorted and sat down at his feet. I put a cup of tea in his hands, feeling the corners of my mouth turn up despite myself and Dave smiled back. Both of us clicked our fingers to attract Ambush’s attention and for a minute, I thought he might actually go to Dave instead of me. But he didn’t, he just barked happily and rolled over.

I looked at Dave again but his gaze had drifted away, toward the television. I noticed however, that his hand had dropped below the arm of his chair, ready to stroke Ambush if he sat up. He’d never done that before.

So there we were… me, my dog and Dave, in the cosy front room of our newly decorated house, surprisingly happy in each others company, the past forgotten. Funny how that can happen sometimes. Ambush had long been an excuse for me to dislike Dave. Now, suddenly, he was something we could share, something we had in common. He had been my shield against change, now he was just my pet dog again.

Ambush, the slobbering black rottweiler. Once a threat to life and limb; finally, a good-natured lap-dog with two masters. He pawed the footstool as the adverts came on… I smiled. ‘I’ve seen fiercer chocolate labs,’ I said. He wagged his stubby tail at me.

‘Leave him alone,’ Dave fussed. ‘He’s all right. Besides, I had a very nasty run-in with a chocolate lab a few years ago. They can be animals you know…’

What’s  worth?  

But for the moment, there were more important things on his mind. ‘Who was the chap in the green cord jacket?’ He asked his host. ‘Bit of an odd choice for a funeral wasn’t it?’

‘My dad,‘ replied Wilfred Oaken. ‘Tighter than a duck’s arse I’m afraid. Only has one smart jacket and one decent pair of trousers the silly old fool. Always liked Marion though, said she was a hell of a find and of course, he was right, she was. I’ll miss her Dan, like I’d miss my right arm.’

Dan Peters grinned lamely, not knowing quite what to say next. Thankfully, Wilfred changed the subject before the silence grew too awkward. ‘Are you gonna have a go or shall we ditch the game?’

‘Sorry, you’re quite right. Just give me a minute will you,’ Dan tried to concentrate. ‘Be easier if we switched that racket off!’ He waved his arm in the direction of the T.V. without taking his eyes off the Scrabble board. ‘Can’t think with Des Lynham in one ear and you in the other.’

The T.V was muted but not switched off. ‘Thanks. There, I’ll have LIAR. Alright?’
‘Is that the best you can get? Are you sure?’ Wilfred lent forwards slightly. ‘Show me your letters.’
Dan frowned and drew the tiles he had left up to his chin. ‘It’ll do for now,’ he said. ‘Get on with your own go.’
‘How many does LIAR get you anyway? Twelve is it?’

Dan had his whisky glass to his lips so gave Wilfred a thumbs up to indicate twelve was the right score. Wilf made a note on his score sheet and held open the letters bag so Dan could grab three fresh tiles.

‘And that sexy little thing with the beautiful blond ringlets, who was she?’ asked Dan swallowing a mouthful of single malt with relish.

‘My niece, Rachel. And she’s only just turned eighteen so keep your hands to yourself!’ Wilfred sighed as he looked at the tiles in his tray. ‘Got Marion’s eyes though hasn’t she? Reminds me of her, thirty, alright forty years ago. What am I gonna do without her Dan?’

‘Play a lot of Scrabble I should imagine,’ Dan grinned at his old friend. ‘You never know, you might get so good at it, you start winning the odd game, every now and then!’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Wilfred said, laying down half a dozen letters against Dan’s LIAR. ‘Double word score under there though,’ he lifted up one of the Bakelite tiles to prove it. ‘Makes it worth fourteen if I’m not mistaken. Puts me back in the lead does that.’

‘Mmm,’ Dan grunted not bothering to check the score. He’d known Wilfred Oaken for nearly forty years. He was a standup sort of guy. He’d no sooner cheat at Scrabble than speed in a built-up area or record off the radio! Instead, he fixed his eyes on his new letters and tried to spell something.

‘I was proud to know you today mate,’ he said as he pawed the E and the A, then put the H in front of them to spell HEAT. ‘You were very dignified in the crematorium. I hope I can hold it together the way you did, get everything organized and entertain folk like that, if anything ever happened to Catherine.’

‘Marion would’ve been disappointed with the buffet I think,’ Wilf reflected. ‘Not enough variety she’d have said but I hope, overall, she’d have been proud of me.’ So as not to show too much emotion in front of Dan, Wilf coughed and nodded at the game board. ‘Come on, let’s keep the momentum going,’ he said.

‘O.K. I’ll have THROAT for twenty-seven.’

‘Oh,’ Wilf frowned. ‘Not much to go off now is there? You should have put it there look, like that.’ He began to push Dan’s tiles over towards a second available ‘R’.

‘Not so fast,’ said Dan shortly. ‘Back in the lead am I? Well sorry but we’ll leave the board the way it is thanks.’

‘Hurm…’ Wilfred grunted and fussed over his letters. He wasn’t all that good at Scrabble, Dan was right and he seemed to have far too many vowels at the minute. ‘Blast! If only Marion were here. She’d have nudged me in the right direction. Who am I kidding? She’d have taken over, ousted me from my seat and finished the game for me but you can bet you’d have finished a very poor second place.’

‘Good at games was she your Marion? Don’t think I ever crossed swords with her, so to speak. Should’ve played bridge with Catherine and her friends at the W.I. some time, she’d have enjoyed that. They let it get very competitive you know?’

‘Marion didn’t like to go out much, especially with folk she didn’t know,’ said Wilf, gazing fondly at a photo of his deceased wife on the mantle piece. ‘Preferred what she called constructive pastimes, like knitting or cooking. Hated to think of people wasting their time on futile pursuits like fishing or golf… Or bridge I expect…’

‘That must have made her hard to live with? Sorry, have you had your go?’

‘Yes, I’ve had TODAY there look. And no, Marion wasn’t that hard to live with,’ Wilf blinked several times quickly. ‘She was just so measured you see. So careful and conscientious about everything she did. And she expected everyone else to be that way too, cautious, prudent, you know? Not her fault really, just the way she was.’

‘Better than being a bit of an old tart eh?’ Dan joked. ‘Least you knew where she was. Catherine ‘d flirt at the door with a Jehovah’s Witness! Anyway, I’d better think about what I‘m doing here hadn’t I? Let me see…’

‘I’ll have DEVIL,’ Dan was quite excited to get rid of five letters at once. ‘D-E-V-I-L, DEVIL for 11 points!’

Wilf shook the bag of letters vigorously. ‘Got a bit of a theme going haven’t we?’ he sniffed. ‘LIAR, THROAT and DEVIL. All a bit macabre aren’t they? See if you can get something a little more upbeat next time like CLOWN or HAPPY.’

‘Can’t,’ Dan shrugged as he retrieved five new tiles from the little green drawstring bag in front of him. ‘Ws and Ys have already gone.’ Wilf puffed out his cheeks and focused on the board. Dan looked absently at the new clutch of letters in his tray.  

‘I’m sure I can make a happy word out of these,’ he said, meeting Wilf’s eyes with some confidence. ‘Maybe something starting MU... Or something ending ED?’

‘TAB,’ said Wilf flatly. ‘I’ll have TAB for,’ he mumbled the score into his fist, then scribbled it down behind his mug of Irish coffee as though embarrassed by it. ‘By the way Dan, if you’re hungry, there’s plenty of grub left over. Let me know if you want anything.’

‘Something nibbley,’ said Dan scrutinizing his tiles with his arms folded across his chest.

Wilf bowed his head, stood up and left the room. After a few minutes, the lavatory flushed. Dan layed down his letters, then Wilf returned with a bowl of pretzils and a big bag of ready salted crisps.

‘CUT, is that what you’re having then, CUT?’

‘No I just put the letters down for a joke,’ Dan said sarcastically. ‘Of course it’s what I’m having you daft old goat! Pass me the pretzils.’

‘But I thought you were going to try for a happy word this time, like CLOWN.’

‘Sorry. Couldn’t see anything but CUT. It’ll do.’

‘Mmmm. CUT.’ Wilf seemed to shiver as he adjusted the scores accordingly. ‘Better luck picking tiles this time Dan,’ he said, a strange look on his face as he held out the letter bag for his friend again. ‘I’ll see if I can shake you down a friendly mix of vowels and consonants,’ he breathed as Dan’s long fingers fished for the two new tiles he needed.

Slotting them into his tray, Dan wondered what could possibly have upset Wilf. He certainly seemed upset. Must be a very difficult day, he thought, the day you bury your wife of thirty-eight years… Dan swapped his tiles around once, then twice…

‘They’ll do,’ he nodded. ‘They’re not bad them. No S’s but then no Q’s or X’s either!’

‘Well you’ll just have to see what you can make wont you,’ Wilf almost growled. He had started drumming his fingers on the tabletop but stopped as soon as he realised he was doing it and put his hand in his pocket. ‘Go on. I’ve had my go.’

‘Already!’ Dan had been momentarily distracted by the television. ‘So you have. Very good. Hold on, I’ll have ermmm.... MURDER. There, just seemed to be screaming at me that did!’

‘MURDER?!’ Wilf nearly choked on his pretzil! ‘Let me see what letters you had!’ He grabbed Dan’s tile tray and stared at it. ‘Why didn’t you have CREAMED instead? Get rid of your C as well that would, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’m saving my C for a triple letter square. Clear off!’ snapped Dan, snatching his tray back from Wilf. ‘You worry about your game, I’ll worry about mine.’

Wilf seemed really agitated now. He was obviously trying to concentrate but seemed to be having great difficulty finding his next word. His hands snapped from the table to his letter tray and back to the table. Then his fingers began to drum like before, only louder, with his elbows bouncing up and down in sympathy. Soon, his feet were thumping the table leg as well and disturbing the gameboard.

‘Give it a rest,’ Dan said watching the News in silence. ‘You’ll spoil the whole game if you’re not careful.’

‘MURDER?’ Wilf muttered under his breath. ‘I’ll give you bloody MURDER. Who plays Scrabble on a Sunday evening and chooses to put down the word MURDER instead of CREAMED? Nobody. And who makes words like LIAR, THROAT, DEVIL and CUT before that? Nobody.’

Dan noticed Marion’s funeral got a small mention on the News. Well she had been quite a famous actress in her day. ‘What?’ he asked, looking back at Wilf. ‘Sorry, I missed what you said. They just showed a shot of the church on the tele. with all the flowers outside.’

‘I said, who spells out MURDER on a Scrabble board on the same day their old friend buries his wife?’

‘Sorry. Sorry Wilf. Didn’t think you’d be so sensitive. It’s only a game of Scrabble. Just one of those things, the way the letters came out the bag.’ He looked at the seven tiles he currently had in front of him.

 ‘Won’t be making another macabre word this time. Be lucky to make a word at all!’

‘You know don’t you?’

‘Know what?’ said Dan, noticing the T.V. had been switched off.

‘Don’t play me Dan. You know.’

‘I don’t know anything. What are you on about Wilf?’

‘Look at your words. The game you’re playing. LIAR, THROAT, DEVIL, CUT, MURDER… Are you trying to tell me something?’

‘No. What? What would I be trying to tell you?’

‘You know. I know you know. But how? Did Marion suspect something? Were the two of you ever together? Lovers were you?’

‘Wilf, calm down. You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing.’

‘Nothing! I don’t think it’s nothing. I think you’re trying to send me a message and frankly Dan, I’m not amused!’

‘Do you want me to leave Wilf? If you need some space I understand, I can go. I’ll get my coat shall I?’ Dan stood up.

‘Sit down!’ demanded Wilf angrily. ‘We haven’t finished the game!’

‘Alright,’ Dan sat back down, a little uncomfortably. ‘If you want me to keep playing, I will. It’s your go though.’

Wilfred’s eyes drilled into Dan’s forehead. ‘I know it’s my go,’ he seethed. ‘And what a go it is going to be. I can send messages with my words too you know! How’s this!’ He set down all seven of his tiles immediately (two Es, an L, an N, a C, an I and an S!) and pushed himself back in his chair. He knew he’d put the game beyond Dan’s reach. At the same time he’d given him fair warning…

Dan read the word and thought at once about conceding the game. But he never conceded at Scrabble. Who knew how many points you could make with your last few goes? No, he’d stay ‘til the bitter end; make it a respectable score if he could. Wilf took the last six tiles from the tile bag and left the table again. Without offering any explanation, he headed for the kitchen.

When he returned, Dan was still struggling to make a word. ‘I don’t think I can go,’ he said at length. ‘You?’

‘No point is there?’ Wilf smirked. ‘I’ve won haven’t I?’

‘Looks that way I must say. Well done old chap. I’ll er… I’ll be off then.’

Wilf shook his head. ‘No you won’t. Can’t let you go Mr. Peters. Can’t let you ruin everything for me.’

‘Take a step back Wilf, think about what you’re saying. You’re talking like a mad man. Nothing’s changed. No one’s marked your card. I’m not gong to ruin anything for you. You’re just tired.’

‘You’re just tired,’ Wilfred Oaken laughed out loud. ‘That’s what Marion used to tell me all the bloody time. ‘You don’t mean it, you’re just tired,’ she’d say when I told her what a manipulative cow she was. ‘You can’t help it, you’re just tired,’ she’d say when I knocked her about a bit. ‘Put that down, you’re tired. Don’t go fishing, you’re tired. Let’s stay in, you’re tired! Well I had enough of being tired Dan. Enough of staying in, farting about, occupying my time with constructive hobbies! Enough!’

‘So you what, you killed her Wilf? Are you confessing the murder of your wife to me now?’

‘I left it years too late, I know I did. Hardly worth winning my freedom at this late stage of my life is it? But something inside me just clicked. Suddenly, I couldn’t take any more of the suffocating old girl so I slit her throat,’ Wilf said it so casually. ‘Not the smartest thing to do actually. Very difficult to make a neatly severed jugular look like an accident but I managed it. All those constructive pastimes of hers gave me the idea. Said she’d been in the garage tinkering with the lawnmower when… Well, her face was a mess… Couldn’t see the cut on her neck by the time I’d finished though.’

‘Wilf I… I had no idea. The words in the game were… nothing, just chance. Forget it, forget I came over. Forget I was ever here.’

‘Don’t bother Dan, my mind’s made up. You’re gonna follow Marion to the grave I’m afraid and there’s nothing you can do or say now to change that. Seventy years it took me to learn that killing is actually quite easy… Easier than bloody Scrabble!’ Wilf jabbed something at the board. Was it a bread knife?

Dan realised he was in real danger at the very last moment! He stepped away from the coffee table, towards the door into the hall but wasn’t prepared for the speed with which Wilf cut him off.

‘Pretty fit for seventy-two aren’t I? I think you’ve let yourself go a bit though. Probably wishing you hadn’t now eh?’

With the speed of a man many years his junior, Wilf lunged and drew the jagged blade of the bread knife across Dan’s throat. Dan fell backwards, the worn bone handle of the knife still sticking out of his neck and collapsed over the wide arm of Wilf’s chair. His head came to rest slightly above and to the right of the Scrabble board.

Sculpted tiles were spaced across its regimental cream, blue, pink and red squares like LEGO bricks he thought. As his arm slumped to the floor and his eyelids flickered and grew heavy, he mouthed the last word Wilf had made ‘S… S… SILENCE,’ it read and ‘STAB.’ Very clever, using all seven tiles at once. Fifty extra points you got for that! And putting the ‘S’ above TAB to make STAB meant he scored for eleven letters in total. Dan was struck by the irony of his situation. A game of Scrabble had killed him. And his last thoughts would be about his opponents score!… What a sorry end.

When he stopped breathing completely, Wilf rounded the table and studied the letters he had left.

He re-arranged them to read…

…and began to clingfilm the buffet leftovers in the kitchen, before anything went off.