I've been AWOL and I'd like to apologise. I started a course with The Australian Literature Review in February. It's a Novel Manuscript Development Course which will end in July. If I have a decent, completed, manuscript by then it will go straight to the editors of some major Australian Publishing houses for consideration, bypassing the slush piles and the opinionated, overworked interns. So, I've committed to it and have been writing 5000 words a week on my novel Waxy Flexy – a supernatural horror/thriller.

‘Come on, Hargrove,’ he said. ‘You’re just hearing things. Harold Crouch was messed up and crazy.’

Despite the lack of breeze, the air was icy. So it made no sense that Brendan had to wipe sweat from his brow. Slowly his breathing returned to normal and his heart slowed to a point where he could take his hand off his chest. He pushed play again but stayed on his feet. He walked back and forth, past the desk several times as the strange roaring sound filled the void Harold Crouch’s voice had left. He looked back towards the door and felt like he should check that it was open, that he hadn’t locked it. A nervousness persisted and made him feel like he might need to run for his life at any moment.

He picked up his coffee and downed the rest in a few gulps, straightened himself, smirked inwardly in an attempt to convince himself he was being childish and weak, and sat back down in his chair.

For years I thought I felt trapped, you know, with the farm in ruins, the money all gone. But I didn’t know what trapped really meant. When I turned to run… run from the vision of my own dead crying son, I saw Jenny standing at the door, Jas right next to her.  I thought killing myself would end all the bullshit… all the shame, but my family – even dead – were looking at me for what I’d done to them, for how I’d stuffed everything up. So there I was, couldn’t run away... and couldn’t kill myself because I was too scared of what they’d do to me if I was dead as well. I don’t know anyone but me who’d understand that kind of trapped.

'Harold,' Brendan whispered. He reached over and slammed his hand down bringing the tape to a stop. The fogginess had been blown out of him.

'Who needs coffee?' he said, reaching for it anyway and taking a sip. He stared at the Dictaphone for a moment, finished half his coffee and then had a little chat with himself. Just came through a little too loud and a little too suddenly. That's all. He reached out and pushed the play button down, staying upright this time.

I did think it'd be a little less complicated...hehe...I've been reading a bit about life and death and all the rest lately... I mean I've been planning this for weeks. The only thing stopping me from doing it earlier was the fear of what might come afterwards. I mean nobody... nobody can possibly know what's going to happen when they cark it. Rebirth, heaven... what the hell... all seemed made up to me. A million different religions for a million different people. But still, the thought of hell, or worse, scared me good and proper. I was aiming for silence, that's all. I just wanted all this shit to end, for good...

No one could ever account for the death of Timothy Goy – the way he was found, the awfulness of it. Speculation, for years after, led most people – even respected figures such as the police officers who investigated the case – to a circular argument that inevitably ended with the mention of the supernatural. There had to be a logical explanation some of the more skeptical said but even they would fall silent when ghosts, devils, even werewolves and the like were linked to the strange circumstances of Timothy's death.

One of the reasons that nearly everyone in the small town of Limesgrown found it hard to accept the death of Timothy Goy was because of the consistent effort he made to avoid hurting people. Some even said that he was a tad obsessive in his efforts