Posts

PJ Greystoke Author, sleepTalker 2, The Room 2. Horror story, psychological thriller. Available now on Amazon

Actually in June. One of the stories ‘The Room’ in the original SleepTalker raised a lot of questions about the stalker. The sequel delves into his rather disturbing backstory. Here is a wee snippet:

The Room 2

Back When Sophie Was Alive

What is it about staring into another person’s eyes that makes them feel like you are a threat, like you – given the chance – would gladly reach into their chest, tear away the paper flesh, pull out their still beating heart and take a bite?

It would taste so good.

She’s scared. I can tell.

I feel the adrenaline rush whenever I’m near. Her pupils enlarge. Her smile, forced to hide the fear.

But I know.

I can tell.

It’s not as though she’s my real mother anyway.

My real mum died.

Dad used to take me hunting when I was younger.

My real dad that is.

We started with rabbits.

Dad had vegetables. Turnips and carrots and well, you know what vegetables are. He had turned our garden into a sort of allotment after mum died.  Got rid of the tree with the swing on it and dug up the whole thing.

He hated the rabbits though. They used to come in and eat what we grew. We stayed awake at night with dads pellet rifle poking through my open bedroom window just waiting for the ‘scruffy little bastards’ to show their stupid faces.

First, he taught me to shoot, then to go down when the gun didn’t finish the job. Twisting the neck was the fastest way.

I still remember the first one. Lying there, bleeding next to a half-eaten carrot. It was desperately trying to get up, frantically waving its front paws as I walked up the garden path toward it. I had a shovel in my hand. Dad told me that the kindest thing would be to cave its head in.

I stood over it and dropped the shovel.

There was something in her eyes. She had stopped struggling and just stared at me. There was a moment of pure understanding. She knew that her life was in my hands. I picked her up, placed my quivering hand around her tiny neck and very slowly started to squeeze. She didn’t even struggle.

It was almost as though she knew that her life’s destiny was to help me realize my own.

We ate her that night. I skinned her and chopped the body parts.

I felt like a God.

I kept the eyes.

***

Sophie was afraid of the dark.

Her father couldn’t bear to see his little angel cry so kept the light on in the hallway at night.

It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. His years of training told him it was wrong. The words ‘Classic Avoidance’ rang out in his mind every time he flicked the switch and kissed his daughter goodnight.

On the rare occasion that he did wake in the early hours, turn the light out and go back to bed he’d hear his daughters’ feet pitter patter across the hallway. The landing light would shine once again, through the crack at the bottom of his bedroom door.

It made him smile.

***

Do you think life has its own heartbeat?

I do.

Like a symphony.

All of the instruments meandering through their lives. Obliviously providing rhythms, melodies and counter melodies.  Some going fast, some slow. Some weak some strong. If you listen carefully enough you can hear a single over riding pulse – a heartbeat.

You probably can’t. It takes a special person to be able to hear that.

A conductor.

To keep the symphony going. To know when instruments should be allowed to sing and when others have reached their full potential and are permitted to die.

***

Sophie was a caring girl, perhaps too caring. She could see the good in anyone. She believed that a person’s natural state was one of peace and love and it was a harsh environment that changed people into the less than desirable creatures that brought destruction and pain upon others.

There’s a guy moved in next door. Same age as my daughter. He’s in some of her classes at school. He’s an orphan, I think. The rest of the kids think he’s some sort of freak but not my Sophie.

She’s made a beeline for him. Anything for the hard luck cases in life.

***

I remember when my mom – My real one – tried to stop me from seeing Dad. She got some sort of sick pleasure from torturing him. All he wanted was to see me, to take me for the weekend.

Dad was gutless. Wasn’t his fault. Just who he was. She said jump and he’d cry.

“You’ve done it now Pete.” She’d say. “You can kiss goodbye to seeing your son this weekend.”

Dad argued but whatever mom said went. And after a few choice words dad went right out the door.

The last time, after mom came back in from smoking a cigarette in the garden, she sat me down and told me what a waste of time Dad was and how he didn’t want to see me.

I was ten – Not stupid.

I smiled and made her a special hot chocolate which she gratefully drank.

I expected her to shout and violently thrash about but she just slept.

She never woke.

***

If you want to read the original story before SleepTalker 2 comes out, you can still buy SleepTalker on Amazon:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/SleepTalker-P-J-Grey…/…/ref=sr_1_1…

Good evening, unless you are not reading this in the wee small hours in which it was written, in which case helooo!

I’ve always been fascinated by psychology and what it is that makes a human being do the things that he / she does. Into The Mind of a Murderer is a short story that does just that and I include a mini snippet of the story for you to see here. I hope you enjoy.

As usual all thought and comments welcome x


Into The Mind of a Murderer

He had closed his mind to the infrequent sufferings of his conscience many years ago. Time had withered what little compassion he had left, empathy and love existing only as faded memories, regarded as pointless fiction upon the rare occasions when his thoughts were permitted to wander to such things.

He picked up the scalpel and walked over to the bed. The nurse would be awake soon and these were the moments he savoured more than most. Moonlight shone in though the skylight and reflected his perfectly sharp razor like grin on the surface of the surgical instrument.

The irony that this implement, designed to preserve life, was perhaps the most efficient tool he had ever used to torture and eventually kill was not lost on him, in fact he considered it often during his quieter moments.

Her eyelids flickered, slowly at first, before her own memories of the past few hours, like a burst damn flooded her thoughts and they snapped open.

Unable to move due to the leather restraints that bound her hands and ankles, she looked frantically left and right as though her eyes were trying to make a frenzied escape of their own. Even though he’d seen it before, this amused him somewhat, giving rise to a low guttural chuckle.

She followed the sinister sneer, slowly and reluctantly till eventually her gaze met his. There was no emotion, apart from an ill concealed show of excitement from him as he studied her shocked and fearful expression.

An icy breath of air from the howling winds outside forced its way into the room and brushed over her body, forcing her to shudder. She had been stripped naked, apart from her feeble undergarments, though modesty was now the least of her concerns.

She knew that this monster in human form was the last person her living eyes would ever see.

Hi there,

Following the recent activities in Paris and the racial hate I was appalled to witness afterward, from people on social media and in person I started to type. What emerged was a poem. Go easy on me, I’m a novelist and a short story writer not a poet but the message is clear: We are all human, regardless of race colour or creed, don’t torture the innocent.

Smile

By P.J. Greystoke

 

The smile can be read in a variety of ways.

A cursory glance from a hostile militant.

A freedom fighter, ready to purge his demons.

A saintly soldier, as he selects his disciples.

 

The mother as she watches her daughters first steps

Outside for the first time,

Braving the new world.

 

The father as he holds his daughters hand

His eyes to the east.

Counting his bless’d.

 

The terrorist’s watery grin, laboured

As he sees the innocence.

His mind must focus on lessons of the past.

The child’s first steps will now be her last.

Well…  Poetry has always been something I have read and admired from afar, but not something I often turn my hand to.

Todays Free Form exercise however, inspired I think from a news story I read where a young lady was repeatedly beaten and made to suffer numerous indecent acts upon her person; an assault which lasted years before he (the assailant) was eventually jailed.

… Anyway I just started to write, please excuse any glaring errors, the words are exactly as they appeared in my mind, as for me that is what free form is all about.

As usual any comments or suggestions are always welcome. x

Don’t Turn Out The Light

Don’t turn out the light
I promise not to look

As the night blankets the sun
And the rain weeps into the vast baron oceans of my mind.
I’ll stand here
Waiting.

As the soft gentle beat of my heart
Signals that there’s someone, something innocent left behind
I’ll stand here
Waiting.

As the drum of distant footsteps
Marches with renewed anger till there’s nothing left to find
I’ll stand here
Waiting.

As a ticking clock with no concept of the day or time
I’ll stand here, waiting, waiting.
Just don’t turn out the light.

Heloooo  and Happy 2015 to you…

I had an idea for a short story today which I thought I’d share with you.

The story isn’t yet complete, there are a few directions it could go  in but i would welcome any comments and suggestions you may have.

Till next time x

Outside

“Let me in!!!”

Ten minutes of banging on the door, the fifteen or twenty times he’d yelled at the upstairs bathroom window that was slightly ajar and the countless missed calls to her mobile had prevailed nothing but an ear piercing silence.

Jack Grundy was too tired even to cry. He turned and slid down to the front step, exhausted. Looking across the street he could see that he wasn’t completely invisible, only to those he wanted to reach it seemed, neighbors curtains twitched, the odd face popped out to see what all the commotion was about before retreating into the comfortable camouflage that their darkened rooms provided.

Dorothy Evans, the street busybody made the excuse of coming out to check her car was locked. Maybe she was hoping Jack would spill his guts and tell her everything complete with spell check and grammar correction so she could relate it to the rest of the neighborhood the following day; this hot off the press Jack says “Fuck off Dot; it’s none of your goddam business!”

She simply smiled sympathetically, paused for a second as though she was trying to find the right words then walked back into her home.

It was 2am and the welcome doormat he’d purchased two years ago, the one upon which he now rested had become somewhat of an ironic note to self.

A patrol car slowly approached, lighting up the houses and the previously hidden neighbors gaping faces as it drew near.

John Hobbs the local PC got out spoke into his radio before clipping it to his belt and taking out a flashlight. He shone it on the house first surveying the area, probably checking for signs of physical disturbance before shining it in Jacks face, forcing him to raise his elbow in front of his eyes to stop him from going blind.

“Can I ask what you are doing here sir?”

Jacks mind processed a multitude of possible responses everything from “Yes I appear to have lost my key” to “Sod off PC Plodd it’s none of your goddam business either.”

In the end he felt honesty was the best answer.

“I live here officer. My wife and I had a kinda disagreement and I guess she’s not feeling like the forgiving type tonight.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Have you been drinking tonight sir?”

Jack looked almost offended “No, why?”

“This house hasn’t been lived in for over two years” he shone the torch on the house “look.”

Jack turned slowly to follow the direction the beam was facing. The door he’d been banging on only moments ago was covered by a huge wooden board, as were most of the windows in the house too. He stepped back not believing the evidence his own eyes presented. “It can’t be… I was just…”

He looked pleadingly at the officer who gently ushered him into the back of his patrol car. Jack offered no resistance.

A pair of sad eyes watched from the upstairs window as the car pulled away.

 

Ok

I was teaching a creative writing class today and was asked where I get my ideas and inspirations.

I was also asked if i stick to one project and see it through to its conclusion forsaking all else.

The answer is…..

I have one method which I stick to and it works for me, that is not to say it will work for everyone.  We can but try…

I have a main project which is my Novel, to this I write 2,000 words every day without fail.

Just like an athlete in training i don’t just jump right in there i warm up first… I do some free form, that is to say I sit down and write the first thing that comes into my mind for 10 – 15 mins.

Often my free form warbling makes no logical sense, but I have called upon it time and again for inspiration when creating a character, an idea for a story or development. Its like having hundreds of seeds each with the potential to grow independently into something amazing.

Just to demonstrate how random these thoughts can be my ten to fifteen minutes of free form follow.

Hope you enjoy, as always all comments welcome x

Very Random Free Form Thoughts

1. Been exercising my body today. Now it’s the turn of the mind, the creativity. To turn the all knowing cogs and prove that there is always an undiscovered treasure, some little gem than can be found by randomly unearthing the rocks in my mind.

2. You know if you don’t take the steering wheel, if you don’t make the decisions you’d rather avoid they get made for you. That’s something I will not let happen.

You know the feeling, a bill arrives. There it is on your doorstep, staring at you, the contents practically burning through the unassuming white or brown envelope into the part of your mind that has its own front door; the one that is locked, the one with the letterbox boarded up.

Welcome to the house of avoidance and acceptance unto the will of others.

3. Time travel cannot be but the sanction of the weak and helpless.

The ultimate escape is also the infinite prison, the one with invisible walls and with a slight colour correction one cannot help but to be mesmerized by the worst time of your life.

4. Helpless hands make infinite work thank you very much.

5. Why don’t you try picking up something that is in more keeping with your sexuality?

6. Want some abs?

You can borrow mine, if you can find them.

I must really value my abdominal muscles. I have hidden them behind layers and layers of fat.
No one will think about looking there.

People should try that with all valuable possessions: jewelery, DVDs, homes and children.
Cover them all with fat and no one will want to touch them.

7. Ahhh that explains obese children.

The parents of these legged beached whales are, far from the current conception, actually very caring people, they are merely ensuring no one will kidnap them… and if they did, well lets face it they would be easy to spot in a park, just look for the eclipse.

I have nothing against fat kids, like any writer that writes about murder death and the mayhem that ensues when one’s mind is moved a little to the left and twisted slowly till all that is decent and holy leaves on a number seven bus I like to swim in the pool of the forbidden expressing the very thoughts others don’t like to admit to.

8. Hahahahaha ohhh I love this life. Don’t you???

9. I gotta say doing this is the best release. Well so is playing guitar. I like that too. And I’m pretty sure I can still rock it with the best of them.

10. When did I become such a believer?

I’ve been perceived as captain cynic but that’s not me. I’ve turned my back on my true self for so long, for fear in part that I wouldn’t be accepted, mainly by myself.

I cry more at the words I love you than anything else but always had a problem when someone said those words to me.

Well that’s not true.

My mom, dad, sisters and especially my children, saying I love you is a daily pre requisite… but from a significant other?

I never thought it possible.

Maybe all people are not the same.

Maybe…

….. and breathe.

How long has it been???  Not wanting to get too personal here I’ll say a while… ages…. too long… probably.

I write this post on the 4th December at my home in sunny south shields. It’s taken a while to adapt to my new writing environment but getting back on track.

The Trouble With Time Travel novel is going well and I am expecting the first draft to be complete this side of Christmas, then again I’m also expecting my Christmas shopping to be carried out by well-meaning pixies, so let us see how that pans out; my hopes are high.

In the meantime, I still start out every writing session with a bit of free form (Sit down and write the first thing that comes into my head, mistakes welcome…) and I thought I’d share today’s little adventure. I think it could be the beginning of something interesting??

As always your thoughts and opinions are welcome TTFN x

Out In A Minute

“Wake up Daisy”
Nothing
No movement.
The usual flaring of her nostrils every time she took in enough oxygen to starve a forest fire… Absent.
“We need you, Daisy please”
No flicker in her eyes.
The stains from the tears that ran through the damns of mascara caked to her face made her look more like an ancient porcelain artifact than a recently deceased mother of four.
“What do we do?”
This question was not directed at Daisy, but more about her.
The question was answered by the other gentleman in the room.
“Well she can’t stay here”
“Oh good, I’ll just ask her to move!”
“You know what I mean”
The other gentleman moved slightly closer and crouched over the body.
“You sure she’s dead?”
The question was met with a sarcastic snigger.
“I could ask her, and while I’m at it, ask if her cup was the one with the poison in. If she answers we’ve got a result!”
The other man nodded standing upright and straightening his tie and the name badge on his lapel:
John Plonkett – Happy to Help
“How long before she’s missed?”
Stanley the junior office assistant stood up shaking his head “Not long John. Let’s see, her four children and two sisters are on the shop floor waiting to pick her up. I’d say five minutes, three with bad behavior.”

The shop Tannoy kicked into action “Daisy Rutherford please report to the customer service desk”.

“I stand corrected, about two minutes”

To be continued…………………………

ImageI started a short story recently, experimenting with the nature in which a protagonist is portrayed. An early version of this story is shared on a previous post.

This is one of those occasions in which i can see the short story becoming a precursor to something much bigger and just as exciting, I’ll let you know once it is finished.

For now I’d be very interested to hear your views on where you think this one is going I have included a section from it below.

I hope you enjoy, as always all comments and thoughts welcome x

 

………………….

The sun beaming through the blinds is enough to give me a migraine, to make me want to close my eyes at least. One of the curtains is jammed, typical. when you’ve had no rest sunlight can be a killer. I’m just going to move into a darkened room and wait there for the solar flex to go annoy someone else.

Sitting alone at the kitchen table, a half drunk mug of cold black coffee before me I have time to reflect on last nights unwanted sleeping episode.

I was driving home from my moms house after picking up my daughter Margaret. I know it’s an old fashioned name but suits her so much more than some of the, shall we say common names that have graced our community in recent months. In our street alone there’s an eclectic mix of all things chav, we have a Chelsea Tracy and even a Shazza, who, whilst they haven’t perfected the fine art of speech, or dressing properly have no problem shouting, smashing car windows, drinking white lightning by the bucket and smoking enough cigarettes to put Alex Higgins to shame.

I remember travelling at a constant sixty miles per hour on the A1, pretty clear road. Margaret was in her child seat behind me. She was playing with her Buzz Lightyear action-figure which repeatedly announced “To Infinity And Beyond” every time it was placed at a horizontal angle.

Ten minutes into the journey and I’d heard all I cared to from Mr Lightyear. “Sweetheart, do you think you could turn Buzz off so we can listen to the music on the radio?” No Response apart from the continued galactic announcement from Buzz. “Baby Girl, Buzz is giving me a bit of a headache just flick the switch on the back of his head ok?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Buzz drop to the floor and on he went, “To Infinity And Beyond” I swear the cocky little toy actually winked at me; now out of reach of my daughter and even closer to my ear I had to pick it up before the announcement transformed to an internal one “Lack of Sanity and Beyond”.

It was a fleeting thought. One quick glance at the road before I turn around to retrieve it, two seconds max.

As I turned to pick up the toy the radio volume increased “We now change the scheduled programming to cater for all you grieving parents out there” Buzz sat up on the seat and started to shake his head whilst Billie Joel started singing say goodbye to my baby over the airwaves.

Buzz turned his head once more then stopped moving; his lifeless gaze now directed at my daughter. Her eyes met his and paused momentarily. The silence seemed to blanket a moment of pure understanding and clarity between them both, a moment I desperately wanted to share but could not.

Margaret lifted her head and smiled; a single red teardrop made its way slowly down her cheek and fell to her lap. As she lifted her hands in my direction, scarlet tears began to free flow. I felt a shudder and a cold spot on the back of my neck, shards of glass were floating past my head in slow motion effortlessly cutting my face as they attempted to pass me and find their way to my baby girl.

My eyes began to throb as if hot needles were being pushed outward from the inside. I clamped them shut too afraid to reopen them and unable to move, very aware that I was the human shield protecting my daughter from whatever danger that had sought her out.

The radio volume increased “Say Goodbye To My Baby” repeated over and over accompanied by an orchestra of smashing glass, crumpled metal and a piercing soprano that was my daughter as she cried out in pain, my eyes were still closed. I pushed my hands to my ears and prayed for this nightmare to end, and it did.

When I re opened my eyes I was facing front, all in the car was as it should be, but outside everything was happening at super speed. Traffic, people and trees became nothing but momentary blurs. I looked at the speedometer which moved rapidly from sixty miles per hour to one hundred and five then back again to sixty fixed in a constant time loop.

There was a voice, a warm comforting sound that eased my pounding heart “I realise you’re concerned.” The voice continued “I’m here to help as much as I can”. In the distance, but moving ever closer the silver haired lady approached. Her high definition image contrasted with the surrounding environment.

I wasn’t even alarmed when she glided through the bonnet of my car like a heavenly apparition to look me in the eyes from above. The smile left her face when she uttered the words “No change”. She rested her right hand on my shoulder and finally said “Wake”.

And here I am, afraid to sleep or venture outside.

ImageWell tonight’s post is more of a question to all writers out there.

I have two genres that tend to excite me into a writing frenzy, comedy and psychological, sometimes supernatural horror.

Like many other writers Dean Koontz and Stephen King to name two of my literary heroes, I tend to write from what I know.

Things / people / situations I have experienced within my life either in the world of fiction or in “the real world” often become my initial inspiration.

Once the inspiration is set a huge element of emotive fiction is added to move a story forward or to clearly define a character I am trying to portray.

The initial inspiration is merely the seed, the starting point and once that seed begins to take form it grows into something else, a completely new living breathing entity.

Now the question….

How do other writers respond when close friends or family notice and object to similarities between fictional characters and situations you have created and themselves?

Maybe you have a character killed off, or you have taken a characteristic from someone you know and made them into a murderer or one of a million other possibilities.

I would be intrigued to hear your views and opinions on this.

Speak soon x

 

ImageLast week I shared some free form that led to the creation of a lead character in my latest novel The trouble with Time Travel. Today a section from the book itself. At this point Arran and Molly two children and friend to the brilliant professor Fidget are playing in a strange device they believe to be a futuristic hover craft, this is the moment they discover they are in fact sitting in a Time Machine…

As always comments and thoughts welcome x

……….

 

But wait, something was different.

The professor was sitting at her desk reading a book. ‘We’re in trouble now’ said Arran. ‘Sorry professor’ he said, ‘It was Mollys fault, I told her I wanted to go to bed but then she hit me with a teddy and so I switched on the light and now we’re in your hovercraft’.

The professor didn’t even look up from her book. ‘see what you’ve done?’ said Arran ‘the professor cant even look at us, I’ve never seen her this angry’.

The basement door opened and in walked John their father. ‘Dad’s here’ shouted Molly ‘shh’ replied Arran, he paused. ‘Wait a minute, he’s ignoring us too’.

John walked across the room, without so much as a glance toward the children and slammed his briefcase down on the professors desk, she put her book down and began speaking with their father.

‘He cant of not noticed us’ said Arran. ‘He’ll notice if we stand right between them’ snapped Molly who refused to spend too long in any situation she didn’t understand, with that she turned round and attempted to get out of the time machine ‘Ouch!’ she yelled as her head started to throb, there was an invisible wall surrounding the whole machine, soundproof and inescapable. ‘I cant get out’ Molly shouted.

Arran wasn’t paying any attention he was much more concerned with what was in the machine itself, ‘Molly look’ said Arran pointing at the dashboard. Directly under the picture was a digital display it read DESTINATION 8 HOURS 32 MINUTES INTO THE PAST HOVER MODE ENGAGED.

‘Oh my goodness’ said Arran it’s a time machine, Professor Fidget has invented a time machine!’ Molly turned to look at the display in disbelief, then turned to face her brother. ‘I mean I’d have preferred a blue police box that was bigger on the inside, but still, a time machine’. MATERIALIZATION IN 20 SECONDS appeared. ‘Twenty seconds?’ shouted Arran ‘Its counting down’

19,18

‘what do we do?’ Molly’s attention was firmly fixed on her father who was now looking right at her from the other side of the room ‘dads stretching out his arms, he’s walking this way. Arran he knows we’re here!’ Arran was still looking at the display.

13, 12

‘Molly do something’ ‘Oh yea. I’m quite the time traveller, I know exactly how these things work’ Molly shouted sarcastically as her father drew closer.

6, 5,

‘Molly now!’ Shouted Arran. Molly began randomly pressing a series of buttons.

4, 3,

‘If we end up landing in Jurassic Park your getting eaten before me!’ snapped molly as she finally came to press the same green button that had transported them there in the first place. The display changed, FLIGHT MODE, the time machine began to vibrate and the laboratory disappeared from view. Almost immediately they found themselves back where they started from.