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“The 14-year-old could see her standing by the table she used as a stand, an old armchair propped up on it, and the face of concentration on his mother as she tucked her hair behind the ear that was now a part of this island, out there tonight, feeding the ants and other carnivorous creepy-crawlies. Little by little, they were all becoming part of the island, they were the flies and Crab was the spider, chomp, chomp!”

“The rhythmic creak of quiet footsteps came from the other side of the door. Ruth paused before bowing down to peer through the same keyhole her son had looked through. There was nothing in there except an empty room in worse condition than theirs, peeling walls, mould, grime, no bed, no nothing, save for an undeniable draught of melancholy blowing through the keyhole.”

“And for a very brief moment, the boy thought he was the audience at a strange black light theatre play, where the daemonic hand puppets come up out of the ground from screaming Hell far below. If they were the hand puppets of brooding horror, then the 14-year-old could only imagine the demon’s hands up inside them, working their innards.”

“You’ve done something wrong and you know you’ve done something wrong. Sometimes we’re caught, sometimes we’re not. Justice comes in the strangest of forms. It will float to the surface sooner or later and wash up on your doorstep.”