October's My Life In Horror is a special one, Kit Power has kindly given permission to reprint his contribution to the Jim Mcleod Must Die!  anthology.  Jim Mcleod Must Die! was the brainchild of Phil Sloman, who after hearing that I would love to appear as a recurring character that got killed wherever he appeared, contacted a bunch of authors with the sole purpose of killing me in a story.  He also got my best friend Fiona Fiona Ní Éalaighthe to write the afterword. The book was printed in a limited edition of 1 of 1  by Graeme Reynolds and presented to me with many of the contributing authors present at the launch of Adam Nevill's Lost Girl.  

It was one of the greatest moments of my life.  Thank you to everyone who had a hand in in this I love you all. 

JIM DIES AT THE END. 

“What the actual fuck?”

The old nun stared up at Jim from her prone position on the floor. At least, Jim assumed she was staring at him. The milky cataracts that covered her pupils made it tough to tell for sure. Her face was pointed in the right general direction, at any rate.

She licked her wrinkled lips, giving Jim an unwelcome glimpse of the blackened teeth behind them, then spoke again.

“I said, you need to come with me.”

Jim's mind rebelled at the thought. He felt dread, bone deep, flooding his system, threatening paralysis.

“What, under the fucking bed?”

I am between eight and ten years old. I can be no more precise. I can only be even that precise because I remember the school, and the village the school was in.

Crappy fucking village. Creepy fucking village. Creepy as hell. Every bonfire night, there would be a torchlit procession from the church to the huge pile of wood in the village square. Everyone would be there. The vicar up front, alongside the bigger farmers, the shop and garage owners, the chamber of commerce types, then the regular village folks. Everyone.

In the centre of the bonfire was a stake. Big enough for… well, for a person. It was always empty. Never a Guy. Somehow, that was the worst thing about it, to me. That empty space. It felt threatening. A statement. Yeah, it’s empty… this year....