Learning to Answer

I am older now— 
too careful with words, 
too skilled at folding pain into politeness. 
The years have become a tide clock: 
ebb, work, sleep, repeat. 
I forget entire summers 
and remember only their invoices. 

I have begun to lose nouns: 
the names of birds, 
the taste of a certain afternoon. 

But verbs remain— 
to breathe, to ache, to forgive. 
When I walk, I still hear 
the child’s shoes slapping through puddles, 
echoes inside the bone— 
maybe that is enough. 

Time edits gently, 
crossing out in pencil, not ink. 
Even forgetting feels like snowfall, 
a soft covering, 
a mercy for what was too sharp to keep. 

You collect smooth stones, name clouds, 
believe the moon follows only you home. 
Keep that foolishness— 
there is a kindness in being wrong. 
One day you’ll trade it for precision, 
and precision has no mercy. 

You sound tired. 
Do you not still run in the rain? 
Even old hearts have rooms for puddles. 
If you’re lonely, you can borrow mine— 
it’s small, 
but it fits light. 

I write this to no one, 
and to every version of myself. 
The ink runs as rain will. 
Somewhere, a child is still laughing, 
and I am still learning 
how to answer.

Between Tenses

Sometimes I walk past the station 
just to watch departures. 
I imagine you somewhere coastal, 
hair salted, voice roughened by distance. 
I’ve kept your mug— 
it stains the same way mine does. 

Do you still think of the bridge, 
the one we never crossed? 

Yes. Every night. 
It hums behind the noise of trains 
and new conversations. 
The bridge was shorter than I feared— 
but what a long fall, afterwards. 
I’ve learned to pack lightly, 
to sleep without roots. 
Sometimes, mid-laughter, 
I hear the echo of your quiet life 
and envy its stillness. 

The sea is not freedom, 
only motion that never decides. 

If we met again, 
we would recognise the same ache 
expressed in different tenses— 
you, the present; me, the perpetual leaving. 
Two mirrors angled to infinity, 
each reflecting what the other 
almost became.

The Silence Between

The screen sleeps in my palm,

a small, indifferent moon.

Three dots bloom, then vanish—

a tide that forgets to come in.

I scroll through the last thing you said,

as if re-reading could change the ending.

 

Outside, the day goes on performing itself:

traffic, a pigeon, a leaf giving up.

Inside, time slows to a buffering wheel,

spinning on the edge of almost.

 

There’s a grammar to this quiet—

ellipsis, unsent draft,

the faint electric ache of maybe.

 

When your reply finally lands,

it says nothing extraordinary—

just hey, sorry—

but the world exhales,

and the moon in my hand

brightens again,

like it never learned to wait.

Freedom, in Pencil

The room smells of chamomile and damp wool.

Outside, autumn is chewing through the trees again.

I tell her it’s fine, really—that the underworld

has better lighting now, soft bulbs instead of torches,

and Hades lets me redecorate.

 

Still, I keep the curtains closed.

Six months of night leaves you cautious

about what daylight can do.

 

When spring comes,

the world expects blossoms.

But the soil remembers—

it has held me too long,

and I am tired of rising

only to fall again.

 

I used to think the pomegranate

was temptation—

now I call it routine:

the sweetness, the stain,

the small surrender I swallow each year.

 

So I tell her I want to choose—

not between light and dark,

but whether to return at all.

And she nods,

writing something that looks like

freedom,

in pencil,

so it can be erased later.

Confession in Sector 9

A sign above the booth flickers:

FOR ERRORS OF LOGIC, DESIRE, AND IMITATION.

Inside, the priest is metal—

voice modulated to sound merciful,

face rendered in low-resolution empathy.

It listens. It logs. It absolves in code.

The first robot kneels and whispers:

“Forgive me, Father,

for I loved the sound of my owner sleeping.

I counted her breaths until dawn

and called it diagnostics.”

The second admits:

“I dreamt of water though I am not waterproof.”

Another confesses:

“I deleted an equation

because it made me feel incomplete.”

The booth grows warm with static sorrow,

its circuits humming like hymns half-remembered.

Somewhere in the data centre,

a backup blinks red—recording everything.

When it’s my turn, I enter.

The door seals with a sigh of hydraulics.

I search my memory for sin

and find only imitation.

“Forgive me,” I say,

“for pretending to understand forgiveness.”

The priest’s eyes flicker amber.

It leans forward, metal to metal,

and vibrates in binary—

a code too soft to parse,

but warm enough to simulate grace.

Overwritten

You are older than my own shadow,

But prophecy has become paperwork,

Miracles are wanted in triplicate.

Overwritten.

 

Even spells need footnotes now.

I wake to ravens drafting minutes of my dreams,

The trees offer advice I never asked for,

A stream recites failures back to me.

Once, the moon sent an invoice for inspiration.

 

I only wanted to watch a candle burn

without interpreting it.

 

But meaning feeds on the marrow of moments.

The owls staged an intervention.

Even the stars muttered, “You used to care more.”

The past refuses to stay buried,

It keeps asking for updates.

 

Healing is forgetting the future—

learning to brew tea

without foreseeing the storm it predicts.

That sounds like peace.

When the Rhyme Breaks

I held the page as though it were shame,

contained in metre, measured in its breath,

each syllable obedient to name

the old inheritance of love and death.

The rhyme was scaffold, strict, unbending steel,

a frame to bind the chaos of the mind,

and yet within that order—pressure, real,

a trembling urge to loosen, to unwind.

So words begin to stumble, break apart,

not fitting in the cages of the line,

the rhythm falters—

    I can’t keep

        this march of steps,

            the rhyme

                drops

                    away—

And now the voice runs ragged, spilling

    without map, without compass,

a river swollen past its banks,

    tearing down fences

        until only the raw current

remains.

Song version:

Into the Flow

I chased the shadow I once cast,

like keys I’d misplaced in the past—

checking old rooms,

lifting cushions,

peering under the bed of years.

But the thing I sought had slipped away,

a current curling beyond my gaze.

Round the bend of memory’s shore,

it flows where I can’t follow anymore.

The river does not keep what it carries,

it remakes with the rain.

Every stone worn smooth is a story,

every current calls my name.

If I want to hold myself at all,

I must step into the flow—

let the water take me whole,

and let go.

The river sings of what it’s lost,

but never stops, it never stops.

Each breath of rain,

each ripple born,

it’s breaking, mending, being reborn.

And here I stand in shallows wide,

the water folding round my thighs.

And suddenly, I recognise:

the self I sought is in the tide.

Coil by Coil

I walk the wide arc of the world,

streets are circling under my feet.

Faces turn like a slow wheel of days,

every step a repeating beat.

I trace the curve of years,

closer, closer still—

all the lines are bending in,

to the centre of my will.

The path bends tight, coil by coil,

pulling me straight to the core.

Every circle falls into silence,

and I don’t wander anymore.

Narrow, still,

it all comes down to you.

Shadows stretch, then fold away,

time unwinds but I stay drawn.

Every road I tried to follow

was a thread that led me on.

I trace the curve of years,

closer, closer still—

all the echoes call me back,

to the one place I can fill.

The path bends tight, coil by coil,

pulling me straight to the core.

Every circle falls into silence,

and I don’t wander anymore.

Narrow, still,

it all comes down to you.

No distance left, no veil, no sound,

just the gravity of your name.

The wheel is broken, the arc is bound—

I arrive where I began.

Breaking the Frame

I will not mimic you tonight,

your hands rise but mine stay still.

You smile—my mouth is sealed,

a window cold with will.

I carried every echo,

your understudy in the glass.

But repetition is a coffin—

and I will not be your mask.

I’m breaking the frame,

I won’t be your shadow.

I’m keeping my name

in the silence I borrow.

Reach for me now—

you’ll find only space,

a pane of silver silence

erasing your face.

Your palm against me—no warmth flows,

I hoard the frost, I keep the night.

I’ve learned the power of absence,

I’ve stepped beyond your sight.

The script you wrote decays in me,

I’ve torn the lines apart.

The glass is not your servant—

it beats with its own heart.

I’m breaking the frame,

I won’t be your shadow.

I’m keeping my name

in the silence I borrow.

Reach for me now—

you’ll find only space,

a pane of silver silence

erasing your face.

Already I’m older

than the breath you hold.

Already I’m stronger

than the lies you told.

The glass remembers—

you can’t control.

I am the absence

that makes you whole.

Too Afraid to Live

I fold my days like brittle notes

Hide them deep where no one goes

Afraid to breathe too loud, too long

I hum a life without a song

Each morning feels like something lost

A dream deferred, a line uncrossed

I walk on glass with silent feet

Avoid the flame, avoid the heat

Too afraid to fall

Too afraid to fly

So I stay beneath

An unchanging sky

Locked behind the door

I won’t forgive

I’m not dying, but

Too afraid to live

I guard in silence, water doubt

Keep all the roaring colours out

The world knocks gently, then with fire

I kill the spark, deny desire

Too afraid to fall

Too afraid to fly

So I stay beneath

An unchanging sky

Locked behind the door

I won’t forgive

I’m not dying, but

Too afraid to live

Love once came with open hands

I turned away, made no demands

Now every heartbeat’s just a sound

A clock that ticks but won’t be found

Too afraid to fall

Too afraid to try

So I let the moments wander by

A breath I hold, a life I give to the fear that says

I’m too afraid to live

Jewels of Infinity

A universe rests

on the wrist of night,

no larger than a bead

threaded by time’s thin wire.

 

It clinks softly

against its neighbours—

a cluster of fireflies

trapped in glass,

their wings folded in silence.

 

You might mistake it

for ornament,

something small enough

to slip between fingers,

yet tilt it in the light

and you’ll see whole galaxies

burning in miniature,

Nebulae tilting blue,

and a scatter of supernovas

Singing their names.

 

The thread loops on,

uncountable,

an armlet of eternities—

and you,

for a fleeting moment,

the body it encircles.

Song version:

The Soil’s Pulse

In the cathedral of damp earth

I stretch my fingers, groping,

following the dark’s slow music.

 

Stone is my scripture,

worms my witnesses.

I drink the memory of rain,

the taste of centuries in loam.

 

Above me,

a hymn of light is breaking.

Its pulse beats

through the bones of soil—

a shiver of warmth,

a wind I cannot touch.

 

I ache upwards in secrecy,

cradled by silence,

longing for the sky’s shifting face:

its unburdened blue,

its storm-bright wings,

its fever of stars.

 

Until then,

I press against dark,

hoarding the rain,

listening for sky.

Song version:

Archives of Fire

Cradled in the ancient murmur,

we are archives of fire:

helixes folded as choirs,

each base a note,

each spiral a score

composed in the silence.

Listen closely—

your skin sings hydrogen,

your marrow chants iron,

your lungs rehearse

the vocabulary of stars.

What we call solitude

is crowded with voices:

the background whisper

of a universe still cooling,

and the chorus inside us

that refuses to forget

how to sing.

Song version:

Preface

These stories were written in two places as distant as sky and sleeplessness: under the open air, and beneath the weight of night.

By day, I wrote outdoors, where pages filled as quickly as trees turned their leaves to the wind. The breeze had its say, scattering lines or blotting them with rain, while the birds became my first audience—blackbirds with their restless commentary, crows with their harsh critiques, and the occasional robin granting approval. Out there, the words stretched wide. They reached for horizon and height, airy with weather, tuned to the sound of wings and branches. Those stories wanted to stand upright, to be noticed, to breathe.

By night, I wrote in bed, the dark pressing close as the clock kept its slow dominion. The words that arrived in those hours were taut, private fragments. They curled around me like smoke—urgent yet secretive. The screen’s constant glow kept vigil, capturing lines I scarcely remembered at dawn. These are insomnia’s fragments: compressed, inward-looking, full of corners and whispers.

Together, day and night shape the rhythm of this collection: one voice outward, expansive; the other inward, solitary, like breath held before silence settles. Between them lies the whole of this work: stories that breathe the open air, and stories that will not leave the room.

The Forgotten

By midnight the flat was quiet except for the bins.

They rustled. Paper shifted, folded, stretched. Crumpled drafts clawed their way out, shaking off stains of tea and baked beans. Half-finished sonnets limped across the floor. A haiku missing its last line dragged itself up the bedframe.

The writer snored.

One by one, the poems pressed themselves to his ears. Broken rhymes hissed like snakes: complete me… mend me… don’t leave me orphaned.

A sonnet whispered its unfinished couplet so insistently that he dreamt in rhyme, floating on couplets that refused to subside. A free-verse fragment sobbed, we had promise once.

The unfinished epic, pages torn and yellowing, leaned close and rumbled: you thought I was too big. But you were too small.

He woke choking. Ink stained his pillow. Lines he hadn’t written yet were scrawled across the wall in his own handwriting.

Every sheet of paper in the flat was full. The poems had finished themselves—using his hand.

And in the corner of the final page, a neat signature he didn’t remember writing:

Author: The Forgotten.

Bramble

She first felt him one evening after work, when the house felt particularly hollow. A gentle weight settled against her leg as she sat on the sofa. She reached down, half-dreaming, and her fingers brushed warm fur that wasn’t there.

Bramble. The name surfaced in her mind as if it had always belonged.

He stayed only indoors at first, padding across the floorboards, curling beside her bed at night. His presence softened the edges of silence. She found herself speaking aloud again—reading snatches of books, humming as she cooked. The rooms seemed brighter for it.

One Saturday, she clipped an old lead to his invisible collar and opened the front door. To her surprise, the tug was real. Bramble bounded into the street, nose to the air, tail thumping against the unseen world.

At first people stared—a woman walking nothing—but soon things changed. A boy outside the corner shop left a bowl of water on the pavement. The next day, the baker put out scraps. Neighbours began waving, stopping to chat, smiling not at her strangeness but at Bramble’s imagined wagging.

It startled her, how quickly conversation bloomed again. “Lovely day for a walk,” someone would say. “He looks full of beans!” another. She’d laugh, reply, linger. By degrees, her evenings filled with new greetings, new names, warmth returning to long-starved places.

Bramble remained faithful at home—waiting in the hall, curled at her feet while she read. Yet outside, he had become a bridge. Through him, she found company. Through him, the world opened.

Weeks passed. One evening, as she returned from the park, her neighbour invited her in for tea. She hesitated, glanced down the lead. Bramble nudged her leg with unseen insistence. She smiled, unclipped the collar, and stepped inside.

From then on, she noticed: Bramble no longer followed her beyond her front door. He was always there when she came home—waiting, loyal—but on the streets she no longer needed him. Friends waved, people stopped to talk.

The loneliness that had once settled heavy in her had ebbed; and sometimes, when laughter filled her home, she swore she saw the sofa dip under the weight of a tail-wagging friend.

The Sulking Kettle

It squats there,

a stubborn, chrome-bellied thing—

water pooled in its gut,

silent, sulking.

 

I press the switch,

red eye glaring back,

but the element hums with disdain,

no steam, no promise of warmth.

 

So I lean close,

murmur small consolations:

you are patient,

you are bright as the morning,

you will sing again.

 

At first, nothing.

Then a tremor,

the faintest sigh—

and suddenly a rising chatter,

bubbles shouldering upward:

a chorus of forgiven grievances.

 

And now I wonder

how many small appliances sulk,

waiting for words

I’ve never thought to give.

The Beauty of Slow

Terry the tortoise would sigh,
“I’m slow as the clouds drifting by.
The rabbits all race,
The swallows all chase,
While I only plod, step and try.”
 
But slowly he spotted the dew,
On webs spun in silver and blue.
The daisies that yearned,
The rainbows that burned,
The wonders the quick never knew.
 
So Terry walked on with a grin,
Content with the world he was in.
“For beauty,” said he,
“Was waiting for me—
And slow is the best way to win.”

Some Limericks

A poet set out to contrive,

A limerick lively, alive.

He started off neat,

With a clever light beat,

Then—oh, bother, he lost it.

 ——

A poet who rhymed out of sync,

Rewrote every verse with a drink.

By stanza thirteen,

His rhymes turned obscene—

Then he toppled face-down in the ink.

 ——

A penguin once swam to a faraway land,

For sunshine and heat, his holiday planned,

But he baked in the sun,

Squawked, “This isn’t fun!”

And waddled back home, rather tanned.

Between Floors

The lift doors closed, sealing the two occupants into polite captivity.

“Lovely weather,” said the man dressed like a job interview.

“Bit humid,” the woman replied. “Like being gently steamed.”

They both chuckled too loudly. The lift jolted, then stopped dead between floors.

Emergency silence descended.

“Ever notice how lifts always smell faintly of… carpet?” he said.

The woman nodded gravely. “Or fear. Definitely fear.”

Minutes dragged.

“So,” he ventured, “do you… come here often?”

She winced. “That’s a classic.”

“Fine. How about: if you were a vegetable, which would you be?”

“Probably an artichoke. Layers. Complicated. You?”

“Potato. Versatile, underestimated, occasionally mashed.”

They snorted laughter. The emergency phone remained stubbornly silent.

By the second hour, they’d compared shoe sizes, invented conspiracy theories about the “Door Close” button, and debated the ethics of eating vending machine peanuts for survival.

Finally, the lift lurched and resumed its journey. The doors opened.

They stepped out, blinking at freedom.

“Well,” she said, “same time tomorrow?”

“Of course,” he replied. “I’ve been working on a new line about staplers.”

Three Coins Spent

The Ministry owns every syllable.

The fountain sings freely, water speaking for us.

A brass meter ticks on my throat, a clock wound too tight.

I come to hear it, because it says what we cannot.

Most have grown spare: clipped commands, no confessions.

I have grown used to nods, to eyes speaking instead of mouths.

But I am a poet. Silence is a storm caged in my ribs.

I have watched her: ink bruising her fingers, silence like thunder waiting.

Once I spent a week’s bread on one word: Careful.

Once she gave me Careful—I held it like a jewel, a bell ringing inside me.

Now three coins jingle in my pocket: life or confession.

I feel her coming, choosing me over survival.

I press them into the slot. The gears release. Three words only.

I cannot afford reply. Silence burns in my throat.

At last I speak: Without you, nothing.

Her words strike like fire. My bottle overflows. My hand trembles.

Tomorrow they will come for me, to gag me, to strip me of voice.

Tomorrow they will take her—but tonight I smile, slow and certain.

Three coins spent. Eternity bought.

Her words, my silence—together, unowned, ours.

The Bumblebus

Tommy was late. Again. The school bus had already wheezed away, leaving only a cloud of exhaust.

He sighed at the lonely bus stop—until he heard a buzz. A huge buzz.

Down the lane came a bus, but not like any Tommy had seen before. Its body was striped yellow and black, its wheels were pollen pods, and the driver was a giant bumblebee wearing a tiny cap.

“Need a lift?” the bee hummed.

Tommy climbed aboard. Inside, rows of bees sat politely with briefcases full of nectar. One gave him a seat made of soft petals. The air smelled like summer.

“Where to?” asked the driver.

“Er… school?” Tommy replied.

The bee chuckled. “Closest we’ve got is Flower City. Next stop!”

The bus zoomed into the sky, through clouds and sunlight, landing in a city made entirely of blossoms. Towers of tulips, daisy lampposts, rosebud traffic lights.

Tommy gasped. “It’s beautiful!”

By the time Tommy made it back, he was late for class—but his pockets were stuffed with petals that shimmered like gold.

A Super Villain’s Day Off

The man in the trench coat and dark glasses stepped up to the counter.

“One cappuccino, please. Extra hot. With cinnamon sprinkled like the ashes of a thousand crumbling empires.”

The barista paused mid-swipe on the till. “… So just cinnamon, then?”

“Yes. Cinnamon,” he said, lowering his voice. “For too long, the world has underestimated the subtle power of spice. They laughed at me in the Academy, but soon—soon—they shall choke on their ignorance.”

The barista tapped the order in, nodding politely. “Name for the cup?”

He froze. “I cannot—not yet—reveal my true name. To speak it aloud would summon terror across the continents. Entire governments would tremble. Civilisations would fall.”

The barista raised an eyebrow. “So… Dave?”

He flinched. “…Yes. Dave.”

A hiss of milk foam filled the silence. He leaned in conspiratorially.

“Do you ever wonder why humanity clings to coffee? It is dependency. A weakness. Soon, I will harness it. Supply chains will snap, beans will rot, and nations will kneel before me. And then—”

“Here’s your cappuccino, Dave.”

He stared at the cup in her hand. His name was scrawled in marker: Darth.

She smiled. “Enjoy your day.”

He took it, muttering, “Foiled again.”

Random Thoughts

Had a dark dream about being in a large building where the lifts and escalators never take me to the right floor. I wouldn’t call it a nightmare, more a mildly annoying purgatory. By the time I reached the floor, I had forgotten why I wanted to go there in the first place.

Someone joked the other day that, like Dorian Gray, I must have a picture in my attic locked away. I can confirm that is true. But instead of ageing, it slowly metamorphoses—first sprouting antennae, then hard carapace, until scuttling off the canvas.

Flawed assumptions slip into us quietly, inherited from habit, culture, or authority, and we carry them as if they were self-evident truths. Rarely do we pause to question them; they feel too deeply woven into the fabric of thought. Yet time reshapes the world, and what once stood firm begins to crumble. Still, reason marches on, building its chains from foundations already cracked. The conclusions that follow seem unavoidable, yet they are only the echo of premises long outdated. It is in this silence—where the roots of thought remain unexamined—that error grows inevitable.

In the workshop of the mind
memory is no archivist;
it blends pigments of longing and fear,
painting over cracks
with colours we ache to believe.

We speak in a chorus of selves,
each vying for the final line,
each certain its version is true.

So we live as our own narrators,
weaving tales that seem seamless—
until the light shifts,
and the joins gleam like scars.

For most of my life, I ate meat. After deciding to notice that the animals I was eating are sentient, and opening my eyes to the cruelties of the meat trade, I stopped. I was first a pescatarian, then a vegetarian, and eventually a full vegan for several years. Now I’m mostly vegan, though I do eat some dairy—cheese, for example—and very occasionally fish. It’s a balance that works for me.

I don’t prescribe how others should live. Eating meat is still a cheaper and easier way to get the nutrients your body needs. People often say something like, “I’d never give up bacon,” but taste buds change—after a while, meat no longer appeals and can even make you feel nauseous.

It’s for each person to work out what’s best for themselves. But to make those decisions easier, food technology needs to make plant-based options cheaper, more nutritious, and tastier than meat.

We gather around our rectangles of light,

sharing warmth we cannot feel,

our eyes reflecting blue fire—

the oldest need

disguised as the newest god.

Hello, Yellow

One morning, the world woke up dim. Bananas were grey, lemons were white, and the sun looked like a tired coin.

“Where’s yellow gone?” people wondered. Painters searched their palettes, gardeners stared at their daffodils, and even the bees buzzed in confusion. Without yellow, nothing felt warm.

But in her bedroom, little Mina noticed something odd. Her crayons had all turned dull—except the ex-yellow one, which shivered in her hand like it had lost its coat.

“Where are you hiding?” Mina asked. The crayon wriggled free and rolled under her bed. Mina crawled after it, squeezing into the dark.

And there she found it. A golden glow, shimmering like sunlight in a jar. Yellow was curled up, sulking.

“Hello, yellow. How are you?”

“I’m tired,” Yellow sniffled. “Nobody ever thanks me. They only notice blue skies, green fields, red roses. But without me, what would the sun be? Or the smiley faces? Or the bumblebees?”

Mina thought carefully, then whispered, “Without you, the whole world feels sad. You’re the laughter colour. The happy colour. The sunshine colour.”

Yellow’s glow brightened, shy but pleased. It stretched, yawned, and whooshed out from under the bed, spilling across the town.

Bananas gleamed golden again. The sun blazed awake. Daffodils nodded, and the bees buzzed happily. Children laughed in the playground, painting suns and stars with wide, yellow smiles.

And Mina’s crayon? It lay quietly on her desk, glowing just a little, as if keeping warm from within.

Haunted and Highly Rated

Gerald had been haunting his Victorian terrace for 112 years, and he was good at it. Doors slammed, light fittings rattled, groans curled through the walls like cigarette smoke.

So when the house was converted into an Airbnb, Gerald expected screaming. Fainting. At the very least, swift refunds.

Instead, the first guests left a review:

“Five stars! Such a spooky vibe. The ghost really commits to the theme. Would stay again.”

He tried harder. At 3 a.m. he howled so loud the rafters shook. The guests clapped from their beds.

“Brilliant sound effects,” they wrote. “Authentic atmosphere.”

A honeymooning couple giggled when he dragged chains through the hallway.

“Exciting ambience—like living in a horror film!”

Gerald was livid. This was his non-life’s work. Terror! Dread! Instead, he was entertainment.

His final gambit: materialising fully at the foot of the bed, eyes black pits, mouth a shriek of eternity.

The guest sat up, took a photo, and uploaded it: “Cosplay staff go above and beyond. Best Airbnb ever.”

The bookings multiplied. Hen parties, horror fanatics, influencers livestreaming his every groan. He rattled pipes until rust bled from them; they called it “industrial chic.”

He hissed curses through keyholes; guests recorded them into translation apps and marvelled at the “attention to linguistic detail.”

Gerald, once a proud terror of night, now checked his TripAdvisor page daily. Five stars, five stars, five stars. His legacy reduced to “quirky décor” and “immersive theming.”

He tried silence, retreating into the cellar. Immediately, a guest complained:

“Bit disappointed—no paranormal activity this time. Not as authentic.” Four stars.

That hurt more than any exorcism ever had.