Our Very Own Horror Story

You know it’s a horror story when somebody is murdered brutally in the prime of life.

You know it’s a really hard-core horror story when the murderer eats the corpse afterwards.

Or were they even dead before the killer began to devour them?  We’re not sure.

And what if it happens twice in the same location?

If this was The Bridge it would take me ten hours to tell this story, but since Saga Noren turned down the case I’ll have to see what I can do in 300 words.

The first incident took place two weeks ago.  I was weeding the pot plants under the bird-feeder.  Nigel and Perran were sitting on the other side of the garden.

“Look Clare.  That little robin’s watching you.”

Then suddenly, almost next to my head, a whoosh and a squawk.  Nigel and Perran both chorused “Sh*t!”.

Out of nowhere, a sparrowhawk had swooped on the robin, thus using the bird-feeder in a manner we never intended.  Although, as Nigel pointed out afterwards, it had at least fed a bird.

The second incident occurred at the front of the house.  An entirely charming pair of pink-beige collared doves had built a nest in the cotoneaster, forcing their way in amongst the thick growth with twigs in their delicate beaks.

I enjoyed their soft cooing and I kept watch as they laid their eggs and began to sit on them.

It was Nigel who saw the black and white cat running away and found the wrecked nest.  I haven’t been able to make myself look.

And this time, no wildlife benefited.

The real horror story is that studies have shown that on average each cat kills thirty-two wild birds and mammals each year. 

So when your beloved moggy passes on, please consider not replacing it.  Wildlife is under enough pressure.

Werewolf

The earliest stories about werewolves are in Latin literature.  When I teach fabula mirabilis in the Cambridge Latin Course, I make it spooky for the children with candles and creepy sound effects.

I also have a happy schooldays memory of the werewolf story from Petronius.  The way I translated it made it sound as if the werewolf was exposing himself.  My lovely teacher, Yvonne Simmons, roared with laughter – “It’s not that kind of story, Clare.”

So you’d think I’d be alright with werewolves.

But I’m not.

They are my pet fear.

So when Ann and Steve invited Nigel and I to go and see An American Werewolf in London, my first impulse was to say “No”.

“Oh come on, Clare.  It’s very tongue in cheek.”

Surely I am now grown up enough to sit through a light-hearted horror movie?

I could do this.  I really could.

“Look,” said Steve, “Great seats – right at the front.”

Turns out that I am now so grown up that I lasted only half an hour – even less than last time.

Luckily the Odyssey has a cool bar and I have a Kindle. 

After an hour of sipping a G & T and reading Naomi Alderman’s The Power, I began to believe that we women would one day gain world dominance.

This is possibly even more improbable than the existence of werewolves but at least it took my mind off them.