The second release from Midnight Machinations is a supernatural mystery by C.M. Saunders… The Wretched Bones.
The Regal Retreat is an exclusive resort situated deep in the countryside of East Anglia where the rich and famous go to unwind. However, far from being a place of rest and relaxation, bad things happen there. Its history has been plagued by tragedy and misfortune. Over the years there have been scores of killing sprees, accidents, suicides, and even the occasional sighting of the resident ghost.
In a desperate attempt to save the business, the resort calls in paranormal investigator Ben Shivers. Since the devastating loss of his daughter and the subsequent breakdown of his marriage, he has been traveling Europe in a vintage VW camper van with his sidekick, a rescue cat called Mr. Trimble. He sees the assignment as the perfect opportunity to break the cycle of self-destruction he has been on, but as he delves into the case, he uncovers a history many would rather forget—sordid family secrets, witchcraft, murder, and an ancient curse, all coming together in a perfect storm deep in the heart of the English countryside.
Welcome to the Regal Retreat.
COMING SOON
Now Available…
Walking Shadow by Mickey Lewis
LIGHTS!
A killer is targeting TV and Film extras on various productions throughout the South West of England. The murderer leaves a macabre marker at each crime scene—a VHS video nasty, while the murders themselves mimic the killings depicted in the tapes.
CAMERA!
While the police are drawn into both the seedy world of nasties and the hierarchical system that thrives in the film industry, the killer remains one step ahead.
CUT!
It’s an A–Z kill list, and the cops are in a race to stop the slayings before the murderer can chop their way through the 39 titles on the list of banned films, from Absurd to Zombie Flesh Eaters…
A Stone/Darke Mystery
Excerpt:
Chapter One
Seven Romans in a Horsebox at 4:00 a.m.
Five Brits, one Irish, and one German.
It sounded like the beginning of a joke, but the German had traveled twelve hours just to take the lowly paid job, so it was more like the end of one.
They were cold, they were hungry, and they were dog-tired.
"Fuck this," one of them said. He was skinny, in his early forties, with wild eyes made even more prominent by the early hour, and it was his distinctive curved nose rather than his acting skills that had got him the role in the first place.
"Fuck what?" asked another Roman. Geoff was tall, as cockney as eels buried in pie and mash, and constantly ready to take the piss.
"This," the skinny Roman, Jem, elaborated. "Why the fuck do we do it?"
Nobody answered him. Through the Horsebox entrance they could see the actors' tent lit brightly with multiple storage heaters. They'd seen a young Assistant Director walk past with an urn of steaming hot chocolate ten minutes before and disappear with it into the tent.
At least the heavy rain had stopped. But they were already soaked from an earlier scene in which they'd been expected to stalk through the reeds on the bank of the River Severn, supposedly searching for a Druid Princess. The rain had been remorseless. Jem had collided with the princess in the dark as she broke cover to run, and both of them had ended up on their backsides in the wet reeds. The young actress found it hilarious, but then she had a warm tent to drink hot chocolate in. All the Romans had been offered was water.
"I need a fag," Jimmy said. He was stocky, with a bush of dark hair, and was a notorious camera whore. He always liked to be at the front of every scene. He and Jem didn't speak as a rule, apart from Jem telling him to fuck off earlier when Jimmy suggested where he should position himself in the scene. Jimmy liked to think of himself as an A.D. as well. He had gotten quite aggressive in response, and the two had a stand-off, facing up to each other in wet armor and soaked capes. Not the first time they had clashed on set by any means.
"Think you're something special, don't you?" Jimmy had barked at him.
"Compared to you, yeah."
"You ain't in no fancy play now, mate. What was it called? Epic of Gilgapish?" He laughed at his own joke.
"Gilgamesh," Jem corrected him through clenched teeth. "But you couldn't be expected to know that; just stick to watching Hollyoaks, babes."
Jimmy bristled. "On this series, all you need to be able to do is not fucking walk into the main cast and knock 'em over, mate. Think you can do that? You're a fucking extra, not an actor." Jimmy was yelling now, hand on the hilt of his polyurethane sword in its sheath as though contemplating drawing it. As if what they were doing was real, as if they were genuine legionnaires actually invading Britain. But everything they did was "as if" in this fabricated world of Horseboxes, wet sandals, and plastic swords.
The A.D. interrupted hastily, and the cohort of Romans had all been sent back to their Horsebox while the next scene was set up.
Two hours later, Jimmy got up from the wooden bench he'd been squatting on and moved toward the open door of the Horsebox. The German got up to join him.
"Where d'ya think you're going?" Jimmy snapped, turning to face him. "I don't need you to hold my fag, or my dick."
"No, take him with you," Geoff said quickly. They were all tired of the German's constant wittering. They'd all heard the meticulously told story of his twelve-hour journey to get here the previous day far too many times during the course of the night shoot.
Jorg turned reproachful eyes on Geoff. "I think you don't like me."
"We fuckin' love ya. Just not at four a.m. Go and have a piss with Jimmy."
But Jimmy had already jumped down from the box. Jorg looked undecided for a moment, then followed.
"Fuckin' nutter," Geoff laughed when Jorg had gone. He adopted a ridiculous German accent. "It take me twelff hours to arrive, by ze boat, by ze coach, by ze foot. I am happy to be arrivink."
Jem's smile was very thin. He was bored by the joke and Geoff's xenophobic attitude. And he liked Jorg. The fact the German had traveled so far for a lowly supporting artist job showed commitment and tenacity. Besides, he had his own source of irritation to focus on. "I hope that twat Dixley falls in the river while he's pissing."
Geoff patted Jem's lorica, the leather Roman breastplate that was still damp from the rain. "Ya gotta let it go, mate. Really."
"He's a wanker. You know it. Always telling the other S.A.s what to do. Always putting himself in the best positions. Camera 'ho'."
"The A.D.s know what he's like. They'll kick him off before too long. Don't let it fuckin' eat yer head."
"I think they've got more important things to worry about than keeping an eye on a dick like him. Like making sure the NoMeansNo campaigners don't break onto the set and screw up the shots, for one."
Dougie, the Irish extra, who had been quiet for most of the night, suddenly piped up. "They're not gonna be bothering us at four a.m., man."
"They've been hanging about all day, though," the smallest member of the troop butted in. His face was fox-like with a basin of dark hair. Bazzer was working toward the stunt register and made sure the Horsebox legion was well aware of it. "Said they'd boycott the entire production."
Jem shook his head. "And yet they all went home to their beds when the going got tough."
"They've already made their point, I guess, just by being here." Alec, the Horsebox's generic tubby Roman, added from the furthest reaches of their "green room." He was suffering the most from the lack of food.
"When we weren't filming anything," Geoff barked. "Fuckin' pointless. And then they run off home when it gets a bit cold and dark."
"They don't have Jorg's dedication to the cause, it seems," Jem said.
"I agree with what they're protesting about, though," Alec asserted.
"'Course ya fuckin' do." Geoff put his boot up on the bench opposite, in the spot vacated by Jorg and Jimmy Dixley. "You agree wiv everyfing the social justice warriors tell ya, Tubby. You think that makes you a decent person? It just makes you a fuckin' virtue-signaling sponge."
"Fuck you, Geoff."
"Strong." Geoff looked offended.
"Leave him alone, Geoff," Jem warned. But the cockney was warming to his tune now.
"An' if you'se so fuckin' inspired by the PC Brigade, what the fuck you doin' on this production anyway? You knew they was boycottin' it."
Alec said nothing.
"Or are ya gonna pretend you didn't know anyfing about the notorious rape scene? And the wanton display of boobs 'n' fanny? Not that we get to see much of that, more's the pity. We just get rain, mud, and fuckin' reed beds." He snorted back some phlegm. "But this series has had enough negative publicity; you couldn't have fuckin' missed it, so don't even pretend. The twenty-first century answer to fuckin' Caligula—ain't that what the tabloids are bleatin' about? Sayin' it's takin' standards back to the rough 'n' ready seventies, undoin' all the progress made over the last few years. You knew what you was gettin' yourself into, so don't fuckin' play the snowflake wiv me, mate." He kicked the bench.
Jem got up. He was tired, he was cold, and he was bored of the arguments, the bullshit.
"Where you off to?" Geoff watched him stump toward the entrance. "You wanna hold Dixley's dick, too?"
Jem didn't answer. He jumped down from the Horsebox. A very fine mist of rain was veiling the production unit base, ghosting the moon. The warm glow from the actors' tent drew him like a moth, but he knew better than to enter.
He knew his place.
Contented conversation came from within the large, brightly lit tent. He could smell food and hot chocolate. He'd heard an A.D. telling one of the principal cast earlier that there would be wild boar hot dogs for the actors later.
He wondered what the extras—the supporting artists, to give them their less-demeaning title—would get. Curled sandwiches, if they were lucky, that had already been picked over by the crew.
He headed for the mobile toilet, the "honey wagon." He was so sick of it all.
This was not what he'd signed up for in life.
Seven Romans in a Horsebox. Five Brits, a German, and an Irish.
It really did sound like a joke.
But at 4:00 a.m., nobody was laughing.
***
Jimmy was all too conscious that Jorg was following him.
He was heading for the reed bank that partially masked the River Severn, intending to have a smoke in solitude. He'd had enough of the attitude inside the Horsebox. Mostly, he'd had enough of Jem. Mr. "I'm an actor really, not an extra" was getting right up his nose. Too many like him in this industry, unfortunately, and they made Jimmy see red. They weren't fucking actors. They hadn't been to Drama School. They were chancers, trying to edge their way into acting the easy way. But it never worked like that—not in this country anyway. Proper actors looked down on extras. They were the grunts of the industry, living props, furniture that breathed and stole the crew's sandwiches as soon as they appeared from the caterers. But Jimmy was happy with his lot. He had no aspirations. He knew what he was and what the rest of the industry thought of him, and he didn't give a fuck. It helped pay his rent, and he got to appear in big films and TV shows alongside major stars. He didn't have to pretend he was something special. Not like that twat, Jem: the geezer thought he was a proper actor 'cause he was in some crappy semi-professional play about ten years ago. Big fuckin' deal. From what Jimmy had gathered, The Epic of Gilgamesh had been an absolute flop on its brief run in Bristol. They'd tried to take it to the Edinburgh Fringe and been laughed off the stage, and it certainly hadn't been a comedy. Twats. And the best bit: they'd apparently sacked Jem before they even went to Edinburgh, so he must've been crap, though he'd tried to brush it off as jealousy from one of the other actors who got the director to push him out. Nah, he was probably just shit. Just shit. An extra in a Horsebox: that was Jem's destiny, not the red carpet, for fuck's sake.
He didn't know why Jem got to him so much. Everyone else seemed to get on with the guy, to have a laugh with him. But Jimmy could barely stand being in the same room with him, let alone a cramped Horsebox.
He became aware that Jorg was continuing to follow him as he headed away from the brightly lit unit base with its collection of dining buses, production vehicles and tents, so he quickened his pace along a footpath that skirted the reed bed to lose him. The drizzle was lessening, and the smoke would warm him up. But he wanted to be alone now.
Jorg kept on after him. Jimmy stopped and turned to face the German.
"No offense, mate, but can you just fuck off and leave me in peace for a bit?"
The German paused beside one of the lighting cranes. He stood perfectly still, silhouetted by the flare of illumination above him. He didn't reply, just kept staring at Jimmy. He'd even put his helmet back on. Fucking moron.
"Fucken sie offski, yeah?" Jimmy turned and continued ambling along the path, leaving the silent figure behind. The cast and crew were all inside the tents, having a break and prepping the next scene. Soon they would be out in the reed bed again for the subsequent setup, but for now, Jimmy had the riverbank to himself. The full moon was sharply etched in the sky now that the rain was ebbing, and Jimmy could see the path clearly, and through the gaps in the tall bulrushes and reeds, he could see the vast expanse of the Severn estuary, too, spangled by starlight.
He picked a spot where a gap allowed a broader view across to the dark bulk of Wales and pulled a lighter and a pack of JPS from under his lorica. He placed a ciggie between his lips, spun the lighter wheel, and took his first puff.
Tilting his head back to exhale the smoke, he reveled in the tranquility. Thoughts of Jem slipped away, and a profound sense of calm began to settle on him.
The call of night birds drifted across the estuary. The gentle lap of the tide soothed his fatigue. He took another pull on the JPS.
A tall shadow fell across the reeds in front of him, distorted by the overhanging crane light. He turned, and Jorg was still coming.
For fuck's sake. "Thought I made it plain I wanted to be alone." He threw the stub of his ciggie into the reed bed. Jorg continued marching slowly and implacably toward him, face in shadow beneath the Roman helmet. "Gonna have a piss now; do you wanna see my cock or something?"
The Roman remained silent, clutching a plastic Sainsbury's bag in one hand, and for the first time, Jimmy began to suspect it might not be Jorg after all. It had been difficult to shut the German up in the Horsebox and on the set earlier. Now he wasn't saying a word, just stalking purposefully along the path toward Jimmy.
He stopped when he was ten yards away. Jimmy stared at him, trying to distinguish his features beneath the helmet, but the tall light behind continued to make a silhouette of the Roman.
"Was ist los? Die Katze got sie tongue, mein freund?" His tone was jovial, but he was beginning to feel a thread of unease now. It was the way the Roman legionnaire was just standing there, not moving, not speaking. Another thought struck him. Was it Jem? Coming for a rematch? For fuck's sake. But he could handle the jumped-up prick.
"That you, Mister Gilgapish? Come to defend your honor as a top-flight actor while dressed up as the cheap extra that you really are?"
The figure moved again, taking a few more steps nearer, and his free hand moved to the hilt of his sword. What the actual fuck??
The rasp of steel on steel was all too clear in the stillness. That certainly didn't sound like one of the fake polyurethane swords the rest of the supporting artists had been given. Only the actors and stuntmen had access to the real deal.
The sword was clear of its scabbard now, glinting in the light from above. The figure moved forward again.
"You think you're scaring me, Whateley?" Jimmy's own scabbard was empty; the armorer had even taken the fakes away from the S.A.s, so little were they trusted. So how did Jem manage to get hold of a real one?
The figure remained silent. It held out the plastic bag and dropped it at the side of the path. Took another step closer. Jimmy still couldn't discern the features properly, and his nerves were beginning to stretch.
The sword was held out in front of the shadowy Roman, like a challenge.
Of course, it might not be Jem. Was it one of the actors fucking around, trying to freak him? Maybe they'd heard Jem boasting about being an actor and got that twat and Jimmy mixed up and wanted to give Jem a scare.
It was beginning to work. There was something menacing about the silent, remorseless figure in the Roman helmet, lorica, cape, and sandals.
"Who the fuck are you?" The first trickle of fear seeped through Jimmy's body.
The figure continued to advance. Five yards away, darkness masking the face, light gleaming from the helmet, along the length of outstretched blade.
Then suddenly the Roman started to run, coming at Jimmy in a mad rush.
The blade was pulled back, and before Jimmy even understood what was happening, it was slamming forward again, tearing through his legionnaire focale scarf and into Jimmy's throat, exposed above the leather lorica.
A night bird crooned across the water.
Jimmy lay gurgling on the path. The shadow of the Roman knelt over him. The plastic bag had been retrieved and the figure was shaking something from it with its free hand as Jimmy's blood ran black under the arc light, dampening his lorica and tunic more than the rain had ever done, pooling on the grass of the path. A square plastic object dropped from the bag. The Roman let the empty bag drift to the path, picked up the object it had released, and held it toward Jimmy's face.
Jimmy's vision was swimming in and out of focus now. He stared at the box his killer was presenting him with as agony shook him to the core, concentrating on it as if understanding what it was would alleviate his pain. He'd seen boxes like it before, of course, years ago. Obsolete now, the only place you'd find them would be charity shops or car trunk sales… His thoughts swirled, as unfocused as his vision, struggling to make sense of this offering while his life bubbled away from his throat.
The Roman placed the VHS box on Jimmy's lorica, the body beneath jerking and twitching, and the blade in his other hand rose again, some of its gleam dimmed by blood.
The legionnaire brought the sword down with a brutal stab, plunging it deep into Jimmy's right eye socket, and Jimmy's career as an extra was well and truly wrapped.
We’re now on Bluesky
Since Twitter (now called X) seems to be a little temperamental these days, we’ve joined Bluesky, which will hopefully be a bit more stable. You can follow us there at: @grinningskullpress.bsky.social
Nice! I’ll be starting mickey’s in the next day or two