TheUnluckySteam

Buying the house proved to be somewhat of a challenge, given that the ‘for sale’ sign was too worn to tell who was doing the selling. Well it would have been, if not for a convenient gust of wind which flew a small flyer directly into Mr Meeks’ face. It was awfully convenient, he thought, as he peeled away the wet paper from his forehead to reveal the number for a local real estate agent. It was the type of convenience that was too suspiciously coincidental to be ignored, and so he called it. Partridge Properties did not own 152 Wicker Lane. At least, not to their knowledge. They hadn’t even heard of Wicker Lane, so w

Number 152 Wicker Lane was a rather peculiar house, in an otherwise remarkably unpeculiar street, in a decidedly unpeculiar London. It was particularly unlike its neighbours, numbers 151 and 153 Wicker Lane, which were lived in by the Dourses and the Joyces, respectively. Now, what made Number 152 Wicker Lane so peculiar wasn't immediately obvious.  Indeed, if passer-bys were to only give it an aside glance, looking away from their smartphones, or whatever it is the kids these days glue their faces to, they could be easily forgiven for seeing a rather ordinary house. To the Dourses and the Joyces however, and indeed every other resident on W

I don't remember dying. I remember the screams though: words, letters, sounds. I used to know their meaning, but now I grasp at them like straws. There was gunshot, a bearded man laughing. I can't put a name to his face, try as I might. There was also a woman, she was the one screaming. Her face is familiar, warm. Why? I remember the feel of a cold hand against my throat. That was why she screamed, I think, and I screamed too. I remember falling to the floor, eyes closing. But dying? There was no black void, no tunnel no light, just- Get up. I hear it again. At first the voice was a whisper, like a bee in buzzing your ear, but now it had vo

21 JUNE, 1888    Grey observed the room quietly from his corner, just another secretive adventurer passing through the churning gates of Timbuktu. All around him swirled other patrons, dancing, mingling, feuding. Across his table, Zéphyrine was upright, stiff like a soldier, armed with pen and paper. She looked at the slight englishman before her, her mouth twinging in subtle disgust at his groomed wild hair and practised fool's grin. His features were roguish too, proudly wearing his weather-worn face, slightly-greying hair only adding to his boyish charm.     "It's unlike you to be this quiet, Brown. Sh