That's the working title of the story I'm currently writing. It may not go the distance, though. I like the cadence of it and think that it sounds sufficiently sinister for the subject matter, but worry that people will assume it's about zombies when I don't really do zombie fiction.

Mostly my theme is places contaminated by the evil deeds done there in a way that makes the evil contagious enough still to infect people. The sins of the past visited on the present, if you will. It's true of the Wight mansion in The House of Lost Souls, the boat in Dark Echo, the derelict church in Brodmaw Bay, the Waiting Room of that book's title and the Forest of Mourning in The Memory of Trees.

Places have atmospheres. I've experienced them and believe we all have, whether we believe in ghosts or we don't. It's that thing that makes a cat stop dead and then carefully tread a detour around some invisible obstacle.

The story given the title at the top of this blog post is one of my 25, 000 word Jericho Society linked efforts. It is set in a semi-derelict pub a young landlord new to the trade is intent on restoring to its early 20th century pomp. I've joked elsewhere that I've been researching this one for 40 years. Write about what you know, those who profess to be experts are always saying. But I say, where's the fun in that? By all means choose a familiar setting. But then invest that place with what you hardly dare imagine. That's surely the fun part.