Ghost stories and strange tales

Grandad’s photo clattered off the back of the mantlepiece as Julie and David watched Strictly Come Dancing. The frame glanced off their boxer,  Alfonso, who woke up with a loud woof and lumbered towards the kitchen in search of biscuits. ‘How on earth did that happen?’ said David. ‘Shh,’ snapped Julie, who was lying sprawled across the sofa in her onesie. ‘The scores are in.’ David got up from his armchair and picked the photograph up from the rug. ‘Lucky the glass didn’t break. Really odd. It’s never done that before.’ ‘It’ll be a vibration from the lorries outside. Move out the way; it's Anton Du Beke.’ ‘Anton Du Lally, more like.’ The Viennese waltz was drowned out by a crash in the upstairs bathroom. This time, even Julie looked up. ‘That can’t be a lorry,’ said David pulling on his slippers.’ I’ll go and have a look.’ He returned a few minutes later. ‘Well, there's a funny thing. The shaving set your Grandad bought me for my fiftieth was lying on the floor,

I really loathe my pointy teeth, They stick out when I smile, Thank god I can’t be photographed, My selfies would be vile. My skin’s a deathly shade of pale, My breath would kill a cat, There’s woodlice living in my cape, My trousers smell of rat. My nails are sharp like razors, My eyes are bloodshot red, I once was drop-dead gorgeous, Now women just drop dead. My jet-black hair is streaked with grey, My six pack’s disappeared, The zombies laugh when I walk past, The werewolves think I’m weird. So please send your donations, Support this poor dead freak, Ten pounds will buy me makeup, (I only wear Clinique).

Stravinsky, Shubert and Tchaikovsky. Jacob's violin honoured their memory in the cold street for an hour. Perfect pitch, not a single note missed, not a semibreve off-key.   Beads of sweat peppered his collar despite the chill. His concentration never wavered; the intensity of sound heightened by a sense of sweet revenge, edging closer with every sweep of his bow.   Catgut, metal, horsehair and wood. Sticky resin irritated his skin, yet on he played until the last strains of the Shubert melody died away. On the final note, the metal e-string snapped and recoiled like a spring. Pain seared through his fingers as the string curled around the violin’s neck. Always the e-string.   In the distance, Big Ben struck seven O’clock. Jacob bent down, inspecting the empty fedora hat at his feet. The commuters of London showed no love for his music, but he played for himself, not for them. His violin returned to its case; Jacob walked the short distance to the Cellar bar he had chosen for h