• I’d like to tell you, if I may, of a tale.
    ‘Tis true enough, but it is up to you if you believe it or not.
    It is the story of a young boy who turns to theft rather than go home empty handed.

    ‘Johnny!’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Can you go out and get some meat for dinner? Just a fox or rabbit will do.’
    ‘Sure. The rifle still in the shed?’
    ‘Yes. Be careful!’
    She watches him go out the door. She sees him go out to the shed empty-handed, then come back out again a few moments later come out with a long, slender gun in his hands. He waves to his mother, who waves back.
    A minute later and he is out of sight. All evening she thinks of him, until the time when he will stroll back through the door with dinner in his hands.

    Johnny strolls out to where he knows he will be able to shoot some game. He settles down to wait.
    And waits.
    And waits.
    Hungry now, noting the darkness of the sky, hearing the rumble of his empty stomach, smelling the scent of the rain still laying fresh upon the deep emerald grass.
    There has been nothing for 2 hours now. But he can’t go home empty handed, else his mother and him will go hungry. If only dad hadn’t walked out all those years ago, he wouldn’t have to go out every other night.
    He sighs, giving up. He decides to take the longer route home – more time to think of excuses.
    On his way, he passes a graveyard. He looks in, at all the tombstones sticking up in neat rows, oldest to newest.
    An idea creeps sneakily into his mind.
    ‘No,’ he tells himself. ‘That’s stupid and weird and cannibalistic.’
    But, unable to think of anything else, he walks under the wrought iron gateway. Moving over to a grave on the far left side of the yard, he digs with his hands.
    After an age, he comes to a solid stop in the ground. He shoots several holes in the lid, yanks it up.
    The unforgiving smell of rotten death leaps out at him, making him retch. Gasping for breath, the pulls out his pocket knife and hacks open the mass of dead flesh, pulling at the first decent sized-lump he touches.
    Stashing it unhygenically into his rucksack, he flees, leaving Miss Veronica Wretching’s final resting place in complete shambles.

    And so, scared stiff and perfectly ashamed of the atrocity he had just committed, he hurries home to his mother.
    She knows nothing of the graveyard events, nothing of the lack of game in their shooting place.
    She cooks dinner, and they continue the night uneventfully.
    At around 10, Johnny decides he is tired enough to make it worth going to bed. He hopes his dreams will not be haunted by half-rotten zombies.
    He brushes his teeth, humming a jaunty tune to himself.
    Climbs into bed, his eyelids already drooping.
    He is lightly dozing when he hears, ‘Johnny... I’m in the front yard... I want my liver back.’
    His eyes snap open, but he hears nothing but the rustle of wind through the trees, a dog barking in the nearby.
    Thinking he had imagined the soft rasping voice, he settles down again.

    A few minutes later, he hears, ‘Johnny... I’m on the porch... I want my liver back.’
    He becomes decidedly uneasy now.
    It might have been just his imagination, but he could have sworn he could smell the cooked liver from three and a half hours ago.
    ‘Johnny... I’m in the front room... I want my liver back.’
    There was no mistaking the voice. I was only slightly louder than before, but it was the same rasp, the image of the decomposing corpse burned inside his eyelids.
    ‘Johnny. I’m on the first stair. Give me my liver’
    He was wide awake now. He fancied he could hear a faint death rattle coming from down the stairwell. Summoning up the courage, he jumps out of bed, crosses the room, looks down to the ground floor.
    Nothing.
    He turns, stepping back into his room.
    The stair creaks quietly.
    Whipping around, but there is no one there.
    The horrible smell of death floats up to him.
    He jumps back into his room, slamming the door behind him.

    Mrs. Willows wakes up, annoyed. She has a meeting tomorrow, she doesn’t need to be woken up in the middle of the night.
    Grabbing her nightgown and throwing it over herself, she crosses the landing and raps smarlty on the door.

    Johnny starts around, wondering if the nock on his door was real or not.
    It came again.
    ‘Johnny what in hell’s name do you think you’re up to? I have a very important meeting tomorrow – I’m not going in with flipping panda eyes!’
    Relieved, Johnny opens the door to see his mother’s annoyed face glaring back at him.
    ‘Sorry mum, I guess I’m so tired I forgot my own strength! It won’t happen again, go back to sleep.’
    ‘Okay... But one more peep-!’
    She leaves it open. Johnny gets the message.
    His mother storms back to her room. Not another peep will be heard from her, not for several hours at least.
    Johnny was just closing his door when- ‘Johnny. I’m halfway up the stairs and I want my liver back. Now.’
    Johnny looks down the stairs, petrified. He sees nothing hiding in the shadows.
    Which is exactly what scares him the most.
    He locks his bedroom door, climbs back into bed. He scrunches up his eyes trying to block out every noise, listening only to the pounding of the blood in his ears.
    ‘Johnny. I am right outside your bedroom door. There is nothing going to save you. I want my liver back’
    ‘I didn’t take anything, I didn’t take anything’ He whispers frantically, over and over, praying this was all just a bad nightmare.
    But even the real dreams don’t bring the harsh, unforgiving smell of rotten flesh with them.
    He feels the blanket tugged violently away from him, hears the tear of the cotton covers, but cannot find the source.
    The stench of death is overpowering now. He leans over his bed, and throws the contents of his stomach onto the floor.
    Shaking, he props himself up, on to find himself staring into the decayed face of his worst nightmares.
    ‘GIVE ME MY LIVER!’ The rasp was now a scream, unlike anything ever heard on earth.

    6.00 Thursday morning. The neighbourhood is awoken by Mrs. Willows horrified scream as she opens her son’s room to find his dead, mangled body, ripped open at the abdomen.
    There was a message scrawled across the bed head.
    It read:
    “Ta. V.W.”